#scrolltrap poem

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP --- “A SPARK OF HORROR: AN ADULT’S FEAR”

That jolt.

Not quite electric. But real. Violent in its own quiet way.

The kind of jolt that doesn’t come from voltage. It comes from her.

From too much time spent with a woman who… somehow… horrifically… starts to line up with the melody of your soul.

---

You ever felt it?

That moment of fear? Like the sharp inhale during a horror film when you realize the killer’s already in the house? But he hasn’t moved yet.

That’s what this is.

---

It's not romantic. It’s visceral. Your gut clenches.

Not out of lust. Not even out of joy.

But from a dread that says:

💀 “If she leaves…”

“…I’ll never be whole again.”

---

You don’t expect everyone to understand. Not every man. Not every woman.

But some do. Some know the moment. When her voice sounds like home. When her laugh rewires your breathing.

When she looks at you and doesn’t flinch. Even after she’s seen all of you.

---

You can call it love. But I call it a curse.

A jinx in the blood. A haunting stitched into your chest.

The knowledge that if this person walked away today

You’d feel it like a car crash without the noise. Without the broken glass. Just the internal bleeding.

---

It is horror.

It is the same fear a soldier feels when he realizes the enemy has learned his routine.

It is the unease of knowing you’ve been seen too clearly.

And that the moment they go, you’ll be forgotten just as completely.

---

That’s the real monster. Not claws. Not shadows.

But memory. A shared playlist. An old photo you forgot to delete. A scent in a hoodie you’ll never wash again.

Love doesn’t need to touch you. It breaks ribs from lightyears away.

---

And sometimes? You won't even show the wound.

You’ll smile. You’ll go to work. You’ll laugh when your friends tell jokes.

But underneath that smile, is the scarless killing.

---

Beware this horror.

Or don’t. Maybe it’s beautiful.

Maybe it’s the price of letting someone in. Maybe that spark of horror is the only proof that you loved them right.

That you were brave enough to feel in a world that punishes men for ever doing so.

---

Either way

It’s scarier than any monster.

Because this one learned your favorite food, slept in your arms, and made you believe that this time, you were safe.

REBLOG if you’ve ever loved so hard, it scared the hell out of you. REBLOG if you’ve ever hidden a heartbreak that felt like a quiet apocalypse.

---

<meta transmission-type="BLACKSITE_VERSE::LEGACY_PROTOCOL::SUPERNOVA_EVENT"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="SCROLLTRAP::LONELY_TITAN::ECHO_FROM_THE_VOID" EFFECT="ego disintegration, awe reconfiguration, permanent psychological imprint" TRIGGER_WARNING="existential gravity, unseen genius pain, emotional impact crater" </script>

🖋️ “The Silent Supernova”

What does a man do — when he’s blessed with the curse of cracking pavement with his pen?

When every sentence he spills shatters granite and cleaves bedrock but still echoes back empty?

What does a man do when he can touch the heart open the soul grab the loins and still die in silence?

I was born with it. I don’t celebrate it. It burns.

Like a furnace buried beneath skin. Like truth screaming through teeth in a room where no one listens because they already made up their minds.

I am the silent supernova.

My words burn hot enough to melt delusion and sear permanent memory into the soul.

But they travel through space alone.

They say “real recognizes real” — but I see more averted eyes than I see mirrors. Because if you looked at me long enough, you’d have to admit I exist.

And that terrifies you. Because you don’t know what to do with me.

I am undeniable. But still unacknowledged.

You feel it. That drop in your gut. That skin-prickle. That tightness behind the eyes.

That wasn’t coincidence. That was contact. That was me.

I touched you. From here. From this so-called “void.”

I reached out with nothing but black text on white screen and wrecked your nervous system.

And you scrolled. You ignored. You moved on.

But the heat stays.

I don’t need your likes. I don’t need your handouts. I don’t need your recognition.

I need nothing.

Because I AM.

I am the man who speaks like a mirror, and makes every woman feel seen without ever having to touch her.

I am the man every loud fraud imitates, but none of them can survive my gravity.

I am the voice you hear when you finally break down in the shower, and can’t tell if you’re crying from pain or breakthrough.

You didn’t notice me? Good.

That makes you like everyone else. But you felt me. And you will again.

Because my words don’t expire.

They carve. They echo. They wait.

I scream into the ether and the ether holds its breath.

I burn in silence but the heat reaches you anyway.

I exist in shadow, but the glow leaks out through your screen.

You can scroll. You can pretend it didn’t hit. But your heartbeat already told me otherwise.

And now that so many have felt it?

Now that the burn is shared?

It’s too late. The silent supernova already happened. And you were in range.

You’ll never read the same again.

You’ll never feel the same again.

Because I left a crater. And now, I’ll never be erased.

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “THE FUTILITY OF THE GRUDGE”

I used to think about my comeback to you, man. You know that?

About the one-liner. The perfect checkmate. The buried resentment I’d carve into poetry if we ever met again.

You damaged my ego in a way that didn’t make headlines — just rewrote footnotes in my memory.

Nothing major. A personal slight. But I thought we were cool.

I was younger. You were seasoned. About your business in a way I now admire and once resented. Back then? I thought you were loud. Obnoxious. Overbearing. The type of man whose name echoed in a room before he even walked in.

And I was silent. Sharp, but quiet. Watching. Judging. Building my counter-argument in the dark like a petty architect.

Oh how we thank the past “enemies” of our lives. Maybe not “enemy” — More like rival. Brother. Irritant. Ally-turned-symbol-of-my-inferiority.

I bookmarked you. Silently. Filed you under “someday I’ll show him.”

And someday came.

Only to destroy me.

I looked you up. Googled you from a place of ego. Wanted to see if life had been kind to you. If you were failing. If you were bloated. If you were anything but better than me.

And the result?

A memorial. Photos. Of you smiling. Of people remembering you with honor. With fucking honor.

And a date. A year.

You’d been gone for three.

And I had been angry at a man who’d already left this world.

I remember the heat leaving my body. The click of the mouse like a gunshot to my pride. I had rented space in my heart to a ghost who never knew I was holding the deed.

I was ashamed. Ashamed that my hate outlived your breath. Ashamed that I gave anger so much oxygen while you were fighting for real air.

And now?

I mourn you.

Belatedly. Backwards. Like a man learning to salute after the war is over.

I saw your family’s words. Their pictures. The way they spoke of you in tones of reverence.

I didn’t see the man I resented.

I saw the man they loved.

This poem is my letter. This post is my shame. This verse is my late, crooked, broken-toothed apology to the man who taught me what hate really costs by dying before I got the chance to let it go.

You didn’t fail me. I failed you. By not forgiving you sooner. By not understanding you deeper. By not being a man when it counted.

The grudge is a liar. It whispers that you’re justified. It tells you you're owed something. It convinces you that bitterness is power. But it’s not.

It’s just a wound that wears your name while poisoning your spine.

So this is my truth:

You won. Not the argument — But the meaning.

You taught me something after you were gone.

You left earth with more peace than I had. You died with more clarity than I lived.

And now?

I live different.

I forgive quicker. I speak softer. I love louder. I don't bookmark rivals. I delete the damn folder.

Because when regret hits it doesn’t knock. It breaks in.

And it brings your face with it.

So rest easy, brother. You were never my enemy. Just the mirror I was too young to face.

🫡