Dissected Threads
Thread 1 :Becoming the barbaric King :A Poem of Prophecy, Guilt and 2 kings 8:13
Tag: literature
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Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
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In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
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As I sit here, pen in hand, my thoughts drift to the electric pulse of the club, a place where the world blurs into a haze of lights and rhythm. It’s a space where I find myself searching, chasing something fleeting—a spark, a connection, a moment of lust that feels like it could ignite my
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Dissected Tread I was bored one day and i was amazed by @jid feature on a track called fried rice by @bas and I thought let me write something over @jid flow just for fun. #LATA Treads : Inspired By :
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Dissected Tread Tread One : Inspired By :
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I blaze through the streets, my heart pounding, seeking those I once called my best friends—friends who betrayed me, their masks peeling away to reveal fragments of lust, loafing, guilt, and shame. Their deception trapped me in a “happy illusion,” but now, with wrath born from the abyss of my heart, I confront the wreckage
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Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
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In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
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As I sit here, pen in hand, my thoughts drift to the electric pulse of the club, a place where the world blurs into a haze of lights and rhythm. It’s a space where I find myself searching, chasing something fleeting—a spark, a connection, a moment of lust that feels like it could ignite my
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Dissected Tread I was bored one day and i was amazed by @jid feature on a track called fried rice by @bas and I thought let me write something over @jid flow just for fun. #LATA Treads : Inspired By :
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Dissected Tread Tread One : Inspired By :
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I blaze through the streets, my heart pounding, seeking those I once called my best friends—friends who betrayed me, their masks peeling away to reveal fragments of lust, loafing, guilt, and shame. Their deception trapped me in a “happy illusion,” but now, with wrath born from the abyss of my heart, I confront the wreckage
The Hypocrisy…(Poem)
Description
In this poem, I’m reflecting on my own journey with a mix of confidence and self-awareness. I start by admitting that I’ve got a clear grasp of who I am—plenty of understanding about myself—and I’m upfront about the fact that I don’t see myself as the best-looking guy you’d spot wandering around in the daylight. I’m no head-turner, and I’m fine with that. But then the tone shifts as I dive into what’s changed. Those women who used to laugh at me, who’d poke fun at my expense, they’re the same ones now falling for my words. It’s like my poetry and creativity have flipped the script—they can’t resist the pull of what I craft.
I’ve got this knack now for drawing in these refined, elegant women, the classy types, and it’s become almost a compulsion for me, a kind of restless drive. I lure them in, pulling them into what I call my “poisonous chamber”—this intense, intoxicating space where my poems come alive, fuelled by raw passion. It’s not just about seduction for the sake of it; it’s the act of creating, of pouring myself into those lines, that hooks them. The poem’s got this edge of triumph, like I’ve turned the tables, and what once held me back is now the very thing that gives me power.
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Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
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In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
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As I sit here, pen in hand, my thoughts drift to the electric pulse of the club, a place where the world blurs into a haze of lights and rhythm. It’s a space where I find myself searching, chasing something fleeting—a spark, a connection, a moment of lust that feels like it could ignite my
-
Dissected Tread I was bored one day and i was amazed by @jid feature on a track called fried rice by @bas and I thought let me write something over @jid flow just for fun. #LATA Treads : Inspired By :
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Dissected Tread Tread One : Inspired By :
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I blaze through the streets, my heart pounding, seeking those I once called my best friends—friends who betrayed me, their masks peeling away to reveal fragments of lust, loafing, guilt, and shame. Their deception trapped me in a “happy illusion,” but now, with wrath born from the abyss of my heart, I confront the wreckage
Fiend…(Poem)
Description
I find myself drawn to this blazing force within me—my “fiery fire”—a restless, burning energy that I crave to awaken fully. It’s as if I’m seeking to dissolve the frost encasing my heart, a coldness I’ve carried too long, tucked away in a place I call the “void less dark.” That phrase feels right to me—a shadow not pitch-black, but muted, a half-lit emptiness where I’ve lingered, neither lost nor found. Philosophers like Heraclitus might see this fire as my life’s constant flux, a heat that promises to reshape me if I let it.
But there’s a tension I can’t ignore. This fire I tend, this soul I ignite—it’s fleeting. A bonfire roars only as long as I feed it, and my cold heart, my void, they hover close, ready to reclaim me. I wonder if this is what Sartre meant by crafting meaning in the face of nothing—a refusal to let the dark win. Or maybe it’s Nietzsche’s voice I hear, urging me to embrace this cycle of melting and burning, to affirm myself again and again. I’m caught in that dance, desiring my own renewal, holding my soul’s light steady against the shadows I know too well.
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Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
-
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
-
As I sit here, pen in hand, my thoughts drift to the electric pulse of the club, a place where the world blurs into a haze of lights and rhythm. It’s a space where I find myself searching, chasing something fleeting—a spark, a connection, a moment of lust that feels like it could ignite my
-
Dissected Tread I was bored one day and i was amazed by @jid feature on a track called fried rice by @bas and I thought let me write something over @jid flow just for fun. #LATA Treads : Inspired By :
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Dissected Tread Tread One : Inspired By :
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I blaze through the streets, my heart pounding, seeking those I once called my best friends—friends who betrayed me, their masks peeling away to reveal fragments of lust, loafing, guilt, and shame. Their deception trapped me in a “happy illusion,” but now, with wrath born from the abyss of my heart, I confront the wreckage
Ignite…(Poem)
Description
I find myself drawn to this blazing force within me—my “fiery fire”—a restless, burning energy that I crave to awaken fully. It’s as if I’m seeking to dissolve the frost encasing my heart, a coldness I’ve carried too long, tucked away in a place I call the “void less dark.” That phrase feels right to me—a shadow not pitch-black, but muted, a half-lit emptiness where I’ve lingered, neither lost nor found. Philosophers like Heraclitus might see this fire as my life’s constant flux, a heat that promises to reshape me if I let it.
But there’s a tension I can’t ignore. This fire I tend, this soul I ignite—it’s fleeting. A bonfire roars only as long as I feed it, and my cold heart, my void, they hover close, ready to reclaim me. I wonder if this is what Sartre meant by crafting meaning in the face of nothing—a refusal to let the dark win. Or maybe it’s Nietzsche’s voice I hear, urging me to embrace this cycle of melting and burning, to affirm myself again and again. I’m caught in that dance, desiring my own renewal, holding my soul’s light steady against the shadows I know too well.
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-
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
-
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
-
As I sit here, pen in hand, my thoughts drift to the electric pulse of the club, a place where the world blurs into a haze of lights and rhythm. It’s a space where I find myself searching, chasing something fleeting—a spark, a connection, a moment of lust that feels like it could ignite my
-
Dissected Tread I was bored one day and i was amazed by @jid feature on a track called fried rice by @bas and I thought let me write something over @jid flow just for fun. #LATA Treads : Inspired By :
-
Dissected Tread Tread One : Inspired By :
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I blaze through the streets, my heart pounding, seeking those I once called my best friends—friends who betrayed me, their masks peeling away to reveal fragments of lust, loafing, guilt, and shame. Their deception trapped me in a “happy illusion,” but now, with wrath born from the abyss of my heart, I confront the wreckage
The Fifth Tread from “Deceptive Art Of War : Israel – Palestine (Poem)”:
is “A Flood of Fiery Lies”“Deceptive information flooding my timeline looks like a flooded fiery hell.” Open my phone, and it’s ablaze—a torrent of deceptive information Israel-Palestine pours through my timeline, a deluge that scorches and drowns in equal measure. Posts flare up, videos ignite, headlines smolder—each a spark in a fiery hell where truth chokes beneath waves of noise. This isn’t a quiet flood; it’s a crafted inferno, a chaos so loud it consumes us. The Israel-Palestine war feeds this blaze, its every twist and turn stoking the fiery lies that burn across screens, leaving us gasping for something solid to hold.
Scroll, and you’ll see it: a barrage of deceptive information Israel-Palestine—claims of victory, cries of victimhood, stats twisted into weapons. One post screams of atrocities, another counters with defiance, and beneath it all, a thousand comments clash in the heat. It’s not just confusion; it’s a brushstroke in the deceptive art, each lie painting over the last until the canvas is a mess of flames. My timeline isn’t a window to the world—it’s a furnace, scorching us with half-truths and hyperbole, a flooded fiery hell where clarity sinks and chaos rises. We’re not enlightened by this flood; we’re engulfed.
Scripture saw this coming, sharp and unflinching: “But evil men and impostors will grow worse and worse, deceiving and being deceived” (2 Timothy 3:13). Paul’s warning to Timothy isn’t a whisper—it’s a shout across centuries, a prophecy of fiery lies that multiply unchecked. The deceptive information Israel-Palestine fits this mold: impostors—pundits, bots, powerbrokers—spin tales that deceive us, and in their echo chambers, they deceive themselves. 2 Timothy 3:13 doesn’t just describe—it diagnoses: this flood isn’t random; it’s a crafted inferno, growing worse as the liars drown in their own heat.
Jean Baudrillard’s ghost nods from the sidelines, his hyperreality haunting this mess. He saw a world of simulacra—copies without originals—and my timeline proves it. The Israel-Palestine war dissolves into a flood of images, a fiery hell of narratives with no root in truth—just endless replicas of chaos. A video loops, a quote distorts, a photo morphs; there’s no source to trace, only fiery lies piling higher. Baudrillard might call it a desert of the real, but it’s wetter here—a deluge of deception that burns as it drowns, leaving us clutching at shadows instead of facts.
This isn’t passive—it’s personal. The deceptive information Israel-Palestine hits my screen daily: a friend shares a skewed stat, a stranger peddles a conspiracy, a newsfeed buries context under outrage. It’s a crafted inferno, not an accident—each lie stoked by unseen hands, the painters of power from earlier threads, brushing chaos while we scroll. 2 Timothy 3:13 rings true: the deceivers multiply, and we’re caught in their flood, not wiser but wearier, consumed by the heat of their artifice. The war’s real, the suffering’s real, but the timeline’s a lie—a fiery hell we can’t escape.
The fiery lies don’t just obscure—they overwhelm. They’re a flood we wade through, flames licking at our feet, drowning truth in noise so loud it deafens. 2 Timothy 3:13 doesn’t offer comfort—it demands vigilance, a call to sift through the torrent for what holds. Baudrillard’s hyperreality isn’t a trap we’re doomed to; it’s a mirror, showing us how easily we’re swept away. The deceptive information Israel-Palestine burns because it’s meant to—not to inform, but to incinerate reason, leaving us ash and embers.
So I ask: What do you cling to when the lies rise like flames? The Israel-Palestine war floods our timelines with fiery lies, and 2 Timothy 3:13 warns they’ll worsen—deceivers deceiving, deceived in turn. This hellish deluge consumes us, but it doesn’t have to. Do you swim through the flood, or find a rock to stand on?
LifeandTimelessart 