Dead Man’s Eyes
They said you could see the truth in a dead man’s eyes, that final flicker before the light goes out—
not some poetic last look, but the raw, unfiltered moment where life slips through cracked pupils like smoke through broken glass,
leaving behind nothing but the cold reflection of everything that’s been lost, everything that never mattered.
You stare too long, and they don’t just stare back—
they drag you in,
pulling you through that hollow space where the soul used to live,
showing you the rot behind the skin,
the lies stitched into the corners of every smile that never reached the heart.
The dead don’t blink,
don’t flinch,
don’t turn away from the ugliness you pretend doesn’t exist.
They hold it there,
like a mirror you can’t shatter,
forcing you to see yourself
through the lens of what’s inevitable.
And maybe that’s why you can’t look away.
Since there’s something in those glassy, unblinking orbs—
a silent accusation,
a reminder that you’re not as far from that same emptiness
as you want to believe.
You see the lines on their face,
the stories carved into their skin like forgotten graffiti on a crumbling wall,
but it’s the eyes that tell you everything—
not about them,
but about you.
Since when you look into a dead man’s eyes,
you’re not searching for answers.
You’re searching for proof
that you’re still here,
that the pulse beneath your skin
means something more than borrowed time,
that the breath you just took
isn’t the last one you’ll waste on wondering
what comes next.
But the dead don’t offer comfort.
They don’t promise meaning.
They just stare,
silent and unchanging,
until you realize—
the only thing separating you from them
is a heartbeat.
And that’s not enough.
If you drop scissors, don’t pick them up
If You Drop Scissors, Don’t Pick Them Up
They hit the floor with a sharp, metallic clang,
blades snapping apart like jaws mid-bite,
an echo that slices through the room
louder than it should beat,
louder than you want it to beat.
The rule is simple:
Don’t pick them up.
Leave them there,
open-mouthed and waiting,
since something about metal hitting the ground
calls for more than just caution.
It’s not just about the risk of a slip,
or the sting of skin meeting steel—
it’s about what you awaken
when you disturb the balance,
when you invite sharp things
to taste more than air.
Blades remember.
They crave the tension of flesh
against their cold precision,
the memory of cutting through
more than just fabric.
You think it’s just superstition,
just one of those warnings whispered by grandmothers
with furrowed brows and tired hands,
but when you bend down,
you feel it—
that prickle at the back of your neck,
like the scissors aren’t the only thing watching.
Maybe it’s not the blades you should fear,
but what they open—
doors to accidents waiting to happen,
to words you can’t unsay,
to ties you didn’t mean to sever.
So you leave them there,
glinting under the light,
a silent dare on the floor.
Let someone else risk it.
Let the sharp edges lie.
Since sometimes,
what’s broken or dropped
untouched,
unmended,
and waiting.
I’m Absolutely Thrilled
Oh yeah,
just ecunchanging.
Wake up to the same ceiling,
same cracked plaster smile
mocking me from above.
The coffee’s cold,
but that’s just how I like it—
a bitter punch in the throat
to remind me
that life’s one long joke
with no punchline.
They said you could see the truth in a dead man’s eyes, that final flicker before the light goes out—
not some poetic last look, but the raw, unfiltered moment where life slips through cracked pupils like smoke through broken glass,
leaving behind nothing but the cold reflection of everything that’s been lost, everything that never mattered.
You stare too long, and they don’t just stare back—
they drag you in,
pulling you through that hollow space where the soul used to live,
showing you the rot behind the skin,
the lies stitched into the corners of every smile that never reached the heart.
The dead don’t blink,
don’t flinch,
don’t turn away from the ugliness you pretend doesn’t exist.
They hold it there,
like a mirror you can’t shatter,
forcing you to see yourself
through the lens of what’s inevitable.
And maybe that’s why you can’t look away.
Since there’s something in those glassy, unblinking orbs—
a silent accusation,
a reminder that you’re not as far from that same emptiness
as you want to believe.
You see the lines on their face,
the stories carved into their skin like forgotten graffiti on a crumbling wall,
but it’s the eyes that tell you everything—
not about them,
but about you.
Since when you look into a dead man’s eyes,
you’re not searching for answers.
You’re searching for proof
that you’re still here,
that the pulse beneath your skin
means something more than borrowed time,
that the breath you just took
isn’t the last one you’ll waste on wondering
what comes next.
But the dead don’t offer comfort.
They don’t promise meaning.
They just stare,
silent and unchanging,
until you realize—
the only thing separating you from them
is a heartbeat.
And that’s not enough.
If you drop scissors, don’t pick them up
If You Drop Scissors, Don’t Pick Them Up
They hit the floor with a sharp, metallic clang,
blades snapping apart like jaws mid-bite,
an echo that slices through the room
louder than it should beat,
louder than you want it to beat.
The rule is simple:
Don’t pick them up.
Leave them there,
open-mouthed and waiting,
since something about metal hitting the ground
calls for more than just caution.
It’s not just about the risk of a slip,
or the sting of skin meeting steel—
it’s about what you awaken
when you disturb the balance,
when you invite sharp things
to taste more than air.
Blades remember.
They crave the tension of flesh
against their cold precision,
the memory of cutting through
more than just fabric.
You think it’s just superstition,
just one of those warnings whispered by grandmothers
with furrowed brows and tired hands,
but when you bend down,
you feel it—
that prickle at the back of your neck,
like the scissors aren’t the only thing watching.
Maybe it’s not the blades you should fear,
but what they open—
doors to accidents waiting to happen,
to words you can’t unsay,
to ties you didn’t mean to sever.
So you leave them there,
glinting under the light,
a silent dare on the floor.
Let someone else risk it.
Let the sharp edges lie.
Since sometimes,
what’s broken or dropped
untouched,
unmended,
and waiting.
I’m Absolutely Thrilled
Oh yeah,
just ecunchanging.
Wake up to the same ceiling,
same cracked plaster smile
mocking me from above.
The coffee’s cold,
but that’s just how I like it—
a bitter punch in the throat
to remind me
that life’s one long joke
with no punchline.