Psycho Like No (a poem)

Sunday, February 23, 2025

On Faith, and a Fractured Self

Some stories aren’t told straight. They glitch, loop, distort—half-memory, half-manifesto. This is one of them.

At its core, this poem is about identity in collision—between belief and rebellion, trauma and transformation, justice and the relentless machinery of modern life. It’s about being forged in fire, trained by the echoes of childhood and the weight of systems bigger than ourselves.

But it’s also about perception. How much of what we become is shaped by the stories we inherit? How much is reaction? How much is a choice?

I wrote this as a reflection, a provocation, maybe even an unraveling.
Take it as you will.

Psycho—like no

Other mothers.
Vengeance, the proffer, a mad proofer—
A thousand points of light,
All intersecting in prisms,
Blinding, each in its own right.
A bazillion trigger pulls,
A kazillion synaptic explosions.
I feel you, son.
I’ll protect ya.

My mom, my dad—
I’m the pretty boy psycho.
Barked at from the other room,
I was so sensitive,
A proclivity for explosive reactions—
Repressed data points
In a fragmented memory.

Upstairs, Bible open,
Reading Revelations at eleven.
I’m scared.
Why would God allow all this?
Parents screaming in the background—
A soundtrack.
Delusional.
All of us.

Resent the bullies,
I got a chip—
Programming to go berserk
On all wolves.
I’m a sheepdog,
Ferocious.
Apostolic.
I’m sent, anointed—
But not accepted by them.

Sent.
Commissioned.
This is religious-level violence—
A spirit of vengeance,
Fueled by righteous, justice-seeking code,
Executed on a quantum core.
This is the best solution.

I’m no prophet.
Donate here.
Get the inside.
Peddling the mystery of my pathos—
Subscribe for more.

Monetize mania.
Who isn’t?
We got trillions
In the rocket business.

Making it about me,
For them.

And other mythos.
Scale the snake oil,
Grab the headlines,
And squeeze every drop
For the citizen’s soul.