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So why the fuck is tge George floyd footage from chavins bodycam just being shown now?! Watch thst shit all you floyd supporting morons.So why the fuck is tge George floyd footage from chavins bodycam just being shown now?! Watch thst shit all you floyd supporting morons.4 Comments 0 Shares 256 Views
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I INDUSTRIALI 🖤 INDUSTRIAL 💀🎧0 Comments 0 Shares 382 Views 40
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CeyODqULYRU0 Comments 0 Shares 182 Views
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DEfinetaly part of the Dead TreeDEfinetaly part of the Dead Tree0 Comments 0 Shares 214 Views
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im gonn get a Belphegor T-Shirtim gonn get a Belphegor T-Shirt0 Comments 0 Shares 117 Views
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The Pulse That Outlives Me
Since I was small,
my hands have itched
for the weight of something new,
the warm breath of an idea
still wet from birth.
While others chased nights
strung with music and lights,
I chased the hum beneath my ribs—
that low, holy vibration
that says: Make. Make. Make.
I am not afraid of death—
only of silence,
of the stillness that comes
when the last word dries,
when the last color fades
from my palette.
Some people fear missing the party.
I fear missing the next
perfect shiver of creation,
the one that seizes my spine
like lightning,
the one that says:
Here. This is yours. Make it real
before it slips away forever.
Even as a child,
I knew my bones would be dust one day.
But a poem—
a song,
a shadow on film,
a brushstroke on canvas—
that could outlive me.
That could keep my voice
whispering in the ears of strangers
long after my name is forgotten.
So I make.
I bleed ink.
I sweat pigment.
I dream in shapes and sounds.
Every piece is a fragment
of the monument I am building
to outlast my pulse.
And when I am gone,
let them find my works
scattered like constellations—
each one a flare I sent into the dark,
each one still burning,
still warm,
still breathing my name.
https://www.blogger.com/u/7/blog/post/edit/7919007891465025240/49843031849199149The Pulse That Outlives Me Since I was small, my hands have itched for the weight of something new, the warm breath of an idea still wet from birth. While others chased nights strung with music and lights, I chased the hum beneath my ribs— that low, holy vibration that says: Make. Make. Make. I am not afraid of death— only of silence, of the stillness that comes when the last word dries, when the last color fades from my palette. Some people fear missing the party. I fear missing the next perfect shiver of creation, the one that seizes my spine like lightning, the one that says: Here. This is yours. Make it real before it slips away forever. Even as a child, I knew my bones would be dust one day. But a poem— a song, a shadow on film, a brushstroke on canvas— that could outlive me. That could keep my voice whispering in the ears of strangers long after my name is forgotten. So I make. I bleed ink. I sweat pigment. I dream in shapes and sounds. Every piece is a fragment of the monument I am building to outlast my pulse. And when I am gone, let them find my works scattered like constellations— each one a flare I sent into the dark, each one still burning, still warm, still breathing my name. https://www.blogger.com/u/7/blog/post/edit/7919007891465025240/49843031849199149BloggerWeblog publishing tool from Google, for sharing text, photos and video.0 Comments 0 Shares 2K Views
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