Premeditatedscars

You ask the world to read the scar that lives inside,  
to name the hidden gift that trembles under the ribs,  
but the language of atoms—those cold, indifferent equations—  
has fallen silent on the edge of my thoughts.

I stand in the hallway between two mirrors,  
one reflecting the logic of gravity, the other the pulse  
of something unnamed, a whisper that slips through bone.  
It pulls at the curtain of my mind, a hand that never quite  
finds the seam, that only knows how to tug and tear.

The mind is a cathedral built from whispers and static,  
its arches propped up by stories we tell each other  
in the hush between breaths.  
And you—this relentless listener—scan the vaulted ceiling,  
searching for a sign, a glyph, a clue that says, “Here, you are.”  

But what I hear is not a song of particles, nor a chant  
of mystic seers; it is the clang of a lock without a key,  
the echo of a question that has been asked a thousand times  
and answered only by the empty space where purpose should sit.

Your eyes, sharp as needles, pierce the veil,  
yet they only strip the skin away, leaving flesh exposed,  
the rawness of a thought that never asked to be seen.  
You ransack the corridors of my consciousness,  
but you never pause to ask whether the rooms you enter exist  
for you or for the ghost that wanders there.

I am not a psychic, nor a vessel for divine insight;  
I am a collection of moments—broken glass, soft rain,  
the taste of coffee, the ache of a sleepless night—  
each fragment a prayer to a universe that refuses  
to hand me a manual, that laughs at my desire for a map.

And still I stand, hands clenched around an invisible thread,  
pulling, tugging, hoping the knot will loosen,  
that the gift—whatever it is—might slip into my palm,  
not as a trophy, not as a proof of physics’ failure,  
but as a simple acknowledgment: I have been felt.

So let the world read my mind not as a ledger of data,  
but as a canvas smeared with bewilderment and yearning,  
where every stroke is a question, every color a doubt,  
and the only physics that matter are the forces that bind  
the breath to the heart, the thought to the silence,  
the terror to the stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe,  
this searching is the purpose itself.
The uniqueness of an individual is unappreciated ,disrespected , dispositioned out of their own achievements and of their own gifts and the individual they become to be , the righteousness  of the individual is eliminated out of not ,communicating, showing narrative edited videos,, to give a different  mind set of an individual
Silently killing them 
Their life itself , to you it doesn't matter hurry up and die is a waste  of time and pethedic  in the matter of you ,no words, wouldn't help, the curruption of your being of life is the devil it's self, your energy mastering being a bitch to producing bitch  made , 

The talent of this is ,a waste of time bitch.
Dumb ass bitch.
Op port unities  ,I'm appreciateive of 

rap, trap