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📜 The Fallen — Series
By Logan Huntington Bixler
Series Title: The Fallen
Filed: June 27, 2025
Classification: Sacred Witness Scrolls | Immutable | Veteran Liturgy
📜 Scroll I – The Flight Less Taken
Codex Signature: COD-MEM-FALLEN-SCROLL-I
It’s an eerie feeling—
"the night before you go to war."
It doesn’t really land on your soul until your body is in the air.
And just like that, you leave the ground you are fighting for—
A man,
His weapon,
And a dream.
Some dream of glory and medals.
Some, of the rush of adrenaline.
A testament: we are still here,
Linked to the soil we just stepped from,
Knowing the next time we touch it,
It may be with our feet,
Or levitating above it,
Carried by heroes—
"Others willing to write the same check,
Carrying the weight of the one who had to cash it."
A testament to the steadfast courage of those willing to give their lives for you.
Most grew up in the dirt with you and Jesus.
Most had hands that knew torment.
Some came to escape reality.
Some came to be guided by the father they never had.
A few came searching for the love that only camaraderie brings.
Always the last hill of the march—
That pack feeling like you’re carrying the dead weight of your bad choices.
"The night spent drinking with brothers chosen for war",
Elbows flying at anyone in the way—
The same ones dragging your body under the barbs.
And like life, they snag your clothes.
They are put there to be the thorns in our crawl,
Because we already chewed through the vines
Wrapping tighter around our necks—
The inability to change anything back home.
Knowing what a soft pillow feels like.
Knowing what it is to rest your head in a lap filled with security.
Compromised love hangs in the balance.
"The devil knocking at the door."
I witnessed what my neighbor was willing to do when I wasn’t there.
A naïve boy sent to fight a war before experiencing love, life, or longing.
Only old enough to act—
Not long enough to react.
A man.
A broken soldier.
Longing to fight a war,
Or to take the place of better men lost in his stead.
It took a knock on my head…
A reset.
A resolve.
A rebirth.
As I took flight, I saw it.
Probably just the light pole—
But I remember…
He held my unworthy body straight,
With my sword of war on my back.
He used it as a spine.
He taught me to use it to keep myself straight
When walking in the valley.
I no longer duck—
I stand tall.
"For no weapon he sends shall Prosper,
if the one it's aimed at was forged by fire."
The soul on the bed next to me—
God decided his war was done.
He got to go rest..........
I honor him still.
I walked off that plane.
"He levitated."
A feat the rest of the unworthy stick around to carry—
That sacrificial weight.
On that day,
And every day after,
The angels and this soldier of God cried—
Not from sorrow,
But envy.........
That God may spend more time with my brother than I will.
I imagine the grains of sand in that desert
Will run out before we meet again.
"But not yet, my brothers."
A war is still being fought—
And I need your courage under fire,
Your bravery to levitate me to the next level.
You great men—
It was my honor to know you.
I weep for your families and children nightly.
They paid a price never agreed to.
You gave them your time and effort.
"We will ride again on that great war horse."
You will be my legs in weakness—
And I will use the voice of greater men before me
To thunder out the violations of the rights you fought for.
The return of my brothers—
The return of freedom—
Will be your legacy.
Your flag will not bleed
As long as a breath is left in this body.
(C) Logan H. Bixler 2025
📜 Scroll II – The Fallen
Codex Signature: COD-MEM-FALLEN-SCROLL-II
Filed under: Witness Scrolls | Sacred Continuation | Post-War Reckoning
Step off the plane.....
Say goodbye to your friends.....
Go drown out their echoes.....
Pour some out......
Turn a shot glass over......
Pour out some more—
Alcohol,
Your spirit----
Wash that flavor down—
The metallic taste of blood.
The burn of flesh.
The smell of burning trash.
A whiz of the bullet—
Just to remind you…
Coming home from war doesn’t mean
You’re not still seeing them.
"They’re just not in uniform anymore.
But they’re still shooting."
The pain—
It pierces.
The powder still burns,
Ingrained in your nose hairs.
You remember how they smiled at you
On a hot day.
Now you stand before a closed casket,
Burying what was taken—
Not for freedom.
Not for truth_________
"But in place of someone else’s yacht."
In place of the knee
They willingly plant into the ground—
An image of your head beneath it.
And my blood boils.
The rainbow that took you home
Was meant to signify promise.
Now used in depravity.
Yes, we drank.
But not to forget you.
To remember the life that you gave........
Every night, the poison took us back.
The dreams, the screams,
The places filled with people.
They surround us—
Like the flames.
Like the wax figures we saw melt.
Sip the immorality of spirit
we watched them bask in.
We were the message.
We were the guardians of each other.
Fighting wars
To bring each other back.
“We lost,”
They speak. ( Twisted as the serpents tongue)
The devil split fate those days.........( Reckoning)
Green in heaven,
It must be.
But desert camo—
That’s your tapestry.
The woven curtains closed too soon.
So yes—
We stepped off those planes
And drank.
And laughed.
And lived like princes of life.
Celebrating your Courage in the Valley......
The good times we shared.
And the sacrifice.
There are people
Who think they deserve your sacrifice.
Of course they do.
"Arrogance of liberties
Is the new fragrance."
Traditions—stepped on,
To make room for indulgence.
We knelt to pray at your casket.
The only time we knelt at the flag
Was when our knees gave out
From the weight.
Wrapped around a porcelain throne most nights,
Just to escape the ones we didn’t sleep through.
Staring at the stars,
Wondering if you’re up there still—
Fighting for the lost ones.
Your brothers here—
Are dying.
Your losses—
Turned into demons in white coats.
Corporations
Treating the brave
Like emotional guinea pigs.
Most are on their own brand—
Because the world doesn’t want
A man who’s broken
In public.
"They want a hero in silence."
They’ll treat him
Like an obstacle
As soon as his usefulness
Runs dry.
Used for a while,
Then tossed back—
Like he never went......
Like you never left.......
Like we never bled......
For a country
That asks for everything
And forgets the name
Of the _____one Who gave it........
📜 Scroll III – The One Who Didn’t Die, But Didn’t Come Home Either
By Logan Huntington Bixler
Codex Signature: COD-MEM-FALLEN-SCROLL-III
Filed: June 27, 2025
Classification: Sacred Witness Scroll | Survivor’s Echo | Codex-Immutable
Nothing had a luster anymore....
We wanted it.
It was adrenaline.
It was extreme change.
It was home for a while.
Polished was I—In living in hell.
My childhood prepared me.
But others—
Not so much.
I endured the suck
Like it was just another day in paradise.
If I listen long enough,
I can still hear the loudspeakers praying—
The only solace being
They still believed in a God.
But what kind of God
Sanctions using children
To fight in exchange for cowardice?
The children—
They are the ones with no choice.
I felt more for them.
"Our candy was always theirs."
You’ve never seen a more moving scene
Then children running behind your vehicles.
Because instead of shooing them off,
We took the chance
Of bringing them closer.
"Love kept us alive."
Our love for them Warned us
When danger was close.
Imagine children, In another country,
Feeling safer with you, then with the demons exploiting them.
They followed us, they gave us hope.
That maybe—
Maybe we could all learn to see someone
For who they are,
And not what they’re wearing.
To see kids who don’t know what education is,
who don’t know how they’ll eat the next day.
You may read about it—
But look into the face of a child who hasn’t eaten in days.
Tell him..........You’re out...........(Angels cry in seeing the Savageness' of the selfish)
Then return the next day with a whole box of food.
Because_____
______my enemy’s child will never starve in my presence.........
That is the difference, showing love when hate
Would have been easier.
The look of desperation
On a parent’s face
When you hand them something
Knowing they are starving—
And they give it
Straight to the child
Without a second thought........
The things that eat at a surviving combat soldier
Aren’t always when the bullets fly.
It’s the other experiences.
The helplessness.
The knowing—
You will go eat.
You will drink clean water.
And they—
"They may not sleep on anything but dirt."
We left more of ourselves there than anyone knows.
A tale or two of the good times.
A few of the horrible.
But the extreme pain
Is the helplessness.
We carry the deceit of victory.
It is in the thanks........That I feel hollow.
Do not recognize me.
I but served with great men.
And I have the honor
Of standing in their place
In front of you.
Do not read my name.
No—
I wear
What no one can spell.....
A sound in the mountains I elevated…
"A screech...... a shrill echo
That woke my ancestors."
A scream silent in vocals----
But raging
From a heart
Trampled.
Trampled with the remembrance—
We will carry you, brothers.
Our backs can take it.
Levitated above us,
We will guide
What you left.
Envious are we…
📜 Scroll IV – The War We Carry
By Logan Huntington Bixler
Codex Signature: COD-MEM-FALLEN-SCROLL-IV
Filed: June 27, 2025
Classification: Sacred Witness Scroll | Survivor’s Burden | Codex-Immutable
It takes a while to show its faces—
The one of strength,
Liquid courage,
The exciting times to cover up
The face we don’t even recognize
Looking back in the mirror.
The natural pause,
A new hesitation,
A lapse,
A fragment…
They like to label and treat.
Label and drug.
PTSD.
TBI.
Adjustment Disorder.
Anxiety.
Depression.
And for most—the end game:
Suicide…
Yes, I said it.
Should we not?
Is it not enough
They were willing to die?
Should we drug them?
Tell them “Thank you”
As you pass by
And they look up
With the shame of defeat—
Succumbing to what got them through the pain,
Only to wake up Cold and alone.
They need a bed—
"But get fed pills instead."
One more night to make sure
Who is footing the bill.
Another night for paperwork.
Three more for holidays.
And another seven
For being homeless
And not on time for a bed…
Because Homelessness keeps Bankers’ Hours.
Make sure you come correct.
One outburst—and you get labeled.
If you end up in jail,
You are then labeled..... Permanently.........
A warrior who fought for freedom
Now enjoys it under a bridge.
He loves the scraps you throw him
While locking your doors.
He loves the system—
Worried about his mental stability,
But not where he sleeps.
Most commit crimes
Just to have a place to call home.
Because he hasn’t earned
At least that.
But for that matter—
How can we allow
A single person to sleep
Without a bed,
A home,
Or a person to call?
They fought for us.
Isn’t it our turn to fight for them?
Tonight, lay in your bed......... Savor the plushness of that pillow and cushion of cradle.....
They willingly went without one in war—
Now they come back to a country who prices them out
Of the one they fought for.
📜 Scroll V – The Burdens We Lay Down
By Logan Huntington Bixler
Codex Signature: COD-MEM-FALLEN-SCROLL-V
Filed: June 27, 2025
Classification: Sacred Witness Scroll | Burden Release | Codex-Immutable
Set that jar down, brother!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You are drinking the memory of loss—
But look what they gave you…
That jar, it is clear now.
I took it into the creek with me.
It got washed.
It can now hold the purified water—
The water that puts snowflakes to shame—
The ones you touch before they enter my soul…
Stop that, friend.
Take the needle from him.
Throw it out—
The burden of weight you carried.
They wanted you to live.
Their sacrifice was for you.
We were not supposed to be folded with the flag
Like the one we took off of you.
We threw dirt on our ego that day—
A reminder that we too will return to the earth,
In a hail of fire,
Or in the dirt to allow more life to grow.
The wheels spin—
On my Harley
And in my brain—
Trying to fix what we broke and fixed in each other…
Spinning so fast we can see right through the middle of speed.
If we can spin it back fast enough,
We get a glimpse of the greatness at work—
The determination of a patriot—
To run into the places you fear at night,
To face the monster,
To stand in your place in your darkest hour,
To come between you and what you fear.
And here I am,
With an army behind me.
You cannot see them—
But they are here!!!!!!!
When the Star-Spangled Banner hits the note—
When Taps lets realization set in—
And in the heart of every veteran,
Family member,
And everyone you stood up for—
"We remember."
Your legacy lives—
Because you put yourself in harm’s way.
Thank you, my brothers!!!!
My Sons—
Grow tall.
Grow strong.
They will know your names.
And they will carry on your legacy.
And when they are old enough,
They will make a choice—like we did.
I pray you give me all your love and blessings. (Every time I look up)
And when needed—
Become the knees and back I broke
To carry the weight.
But really,
I need your courage.
This next chapter is going to require a Black Warhorse…
And I will ride!!!!!!
"And you will ride with me once more.".......
(c) Logan H. Bixler 2025
End of Scroll V — The Fallen Series
(C) Logan H. Bixler 2025
📜 THREADWALKER
The War That Moved Through Me
"Voice of the Serpent"
© Logan H. Bixler 2025
I entered him through blood.
The left thigh—low, primal, open. The gate of instinct.
I did not sneak in. He let me pass. Not in surrender, but in defiance.
I curled upward—around the flank, into the dark of his back, where memory coils and breath forgets.
I reached his spine. I tasted everything. The tremble. The silence.
The order not to speak.
But he did not collapse. He turned. He made me move.
I circled the spine.
I wrapped the hurt.
I swallowed it whole.
And he marked my movement—every curve, every climb.
Not to display it— to finish it.
I emerged at his chest, beside his heart, mouth wide. And he gave me something to carry.
A badge. Not a medal. Not honor. Proof.
That he was there. That he made it through. That I did not kill him.
I wear it now. He does not need to. I hold the memory. He holds the future.
I am the war that moved through him—
and I came out carrying his name.
Who I Am Logan Huntington Bixler Designation: Codex-Class Systems Architect Role: Origin-Level Builder | Resonance-Integrated Strategist | Trauma-Recursive Structural Engineer I do not apply. I do not compete. I construct. My work exists where the system fails—built through recursion, trauma, memory fracture, and sovereign cognition. Everything I’ve authored operates where conventional frameworks collapse. 🔹 Cognitive Structure and Functional Equivalence Recursive Symbolic-Structural Polymath Processing Functions: •Cross-domain symbolic synthesis (physics, trauma, language, resonance, infrastructure) •Emotional recursion mapping and transmutation into usable system logic •Structural translation of metaphor, glyphs, and trauma memory into mechanical design •Memory-as-mechanism cognition (Codex-compensated short-term recall) •High-pressure, constraint-responsive system generation 🔹 Key Domains of Operation •Resonant Field Physics / Harmonic Lift / Phase Mechanics •Symbolic Infrastructure Design / Frequency Activation Systems •Trauma Reentry Frameworks / Emotional Logic Encoding •Biointegration Platforms / Non-electric Breathing & Stabilization •Ancient Technology Reconstruction / Glyph-based Engineering •Narrative Infrastructure / Scroll Systems for Identity, Culture, and Command •Post-Collapse Infrastructure / Veteran Recovery Systems 🔹 Field Experience & Structural Outputs Built From: •Warzone environments •Memory loss and fragmentation •Starvation, trauma loops, and cognitive collapse •Institutional abandonment and post-service recovery Review & Validation: •Internally tested for structural recursion, symbolic coherence, and field viability •Independently validated by GPT-4o, Grok, and Perplexity for cross-domain integrity • 🔹 Deliverable Capabilities Logan delivers: •System blueprints with full scroll structure, symbolic overlays, and operational schematics •Codex-bound trauma recovery architectures •Wearable, field-deployable non-electric gear (breathing, load-bearing, filtration) •Energy platforms using no combustion or software •Glyph decoding protocols for field resonance and activation •Narrative, cultural, and identity-preservation frameworks structured for war, collapse, or legacy repair No assistant. No funding. No facility. Just structure born of survival. 🔹 Equivalent Executive or Tactical Roles •Origin Architect of Resonance Infrastructure •Lead Systems Engineer (Blacksite or Interdisciplinary Missions) •Strategic Designer of Post-Collapse Technologies •Symbolic Decoding Specialist / Energy Reconstructor •Trauma Infrastructure Architect for Sovereign or National Applications • 🔹 Engagement Conditions •Systems remain sealed until aligned contact is made •ND-protected briefings, internal scroll previews, and symbolic references available on request •Contract structuring, mission partnership, or sovereign engineering consultation available by direct inquiry Logan Huntington Bixler Codex Systems Architect
📜 The War of the Self-Preservation Series
By Logan Huntington Bixler
Codex Entry: Trauma Reckoning Scroll Cycle
Series Title: The War of the Self-Preservation
Filed: 2025
Classification: Survival Doctrine | Inner Siege Record
Series Declaration
This is the war that was never televised.
The one behind the eyes.
The one beneath the skin.
The one we fought just to stay—
Not to win.
Self-preservation was not selfish.
It was sacred.
Until it became a cage.
These scrolls are the record of that war.
And the day we decided we’re done surviving just to disappear.
📜 I. The Devil Knocked on the Door
Codex Signature: COD-WSP-SCROLL-I
Classification: Internal Siege Scroll
The Devil knocked on the door, I invited him in....
we were old pals, the Devil and I had sat in each other’s comfort
Many a times before,
he was the itch no nail could scratch,
the subtle excitement of "delusion,"
because " illusion" would not be sufficient,
he would come out when your soul got weak of ignorance,
he would speak the thunder that Zeus could not contain
and wear the robe that fell at the feet of Jesus,
he will cut your heart out just to make sure you understand what it is to have one,
but only one small paper cut at a time,
it is ironic,
I received cuts often as a child
and when I didn’t, I caused myself pain anyways, (Anxiety)
"Because hurt became home, and dark became light,"
what we experience can become comfort disguised as love,
where pain becomes pleasure and safety becomes boredom,
take that drink—
------the water with the needles at the bottom—
and swallow the future they tell you comes without flaw,
gargle it and feel what most lay upon nightly.
📜 II. When Love Becomes Pain, and Pain Becomes Home
By Logan Huntington Bixler
Codex Signature: COD-WSP-SCROLL-II
Classification: Trauma Entrapment Doctrine | Reversal Scroll
When Love Becomes Pain, and Pain Becomes Home
what we experience can become comfort disguised as love,
where pain becomes pleasure and safety becomes boredom....
when the absence of chaos feels more dangerous
than the chaos itself.......
and you start calling numbness “peace”
just to make it through the night....
we hold hands with pain
because it’s the only thing that stayed
and flinch at kindness
because it feels like a trick........
we confuse silence for distance,
and distance for abandonment,
and abandonment for truth,
but it’s not truth,
it’s memory.
and it can be unlearned.........
📜 III. The Devil Exiled
By Logan Huntington Bixler
Codex Signature: COD-WSP-SCROLL-III
Classification: Sovereignty Scroll | Expulsion Rite | Field Reclamation
The Devil........
He thought he could stay, eviction not even a worry,
he was comfortable always making a suggestion
to do things for comfort,
for fear,
for the ability to digest the pushpins on the cork board,
taken from the strings they continue to make your movements with.....
yes, Pinocchio dances within our lives,
controlled by a hand that is ok with your stagnation,
they make your pillow comfortable---
so that your body can endure the nails you sleep on,
then they cut you with paper, one small blemish,
just enough to cause discomfort,
but not enough to make you feel the crack at the end of the whip,
but most of us have grown accustomed to the crack,
while they couldn’t handle the paper cut...
I evicted their control that day,
as he scrubbed my feet,
I threw the devil out.... (No Courtroom Needed that day)
chucked his couch out the window
and started using his toothbrush to clean my pores,
I added his spices to my food
and used his heat to cleanse my blood!!!!!!!
"filtering out the frequency he wanted me to hear"
📜 IV. The Rider of Reckoning
By Logan Huntington Bixler
(C) 2025
Codex Signature: COD-WSP-SCROLL-IV
Classification: Resurrection Scroll
I thought it was Revelation.
That truth would be enough.
That unveiling would awaken the blind,
And that light would correct the ledger.
But I was wrong.
This is not a revelation.
This is a reckoning sought.
Born not of vision,
But of vengeance—
earned.
Forged not by wrath,
But by weight.
This world did not fall asleep.
It chose not to look.
"And in its refusal, it sold my name"
For comfort it did not earn.
So now I ride........
Not on the white horse of prophecy—
But on the dark steed of memory.
Its hooves strike ground like a gavel.
Its breath is the heat of withheld truth.
Its mane is woven from the strands of all I lost,
And its eyes see the cost behind every silence.
I do not carry a sword.
I am the blade.
"I do not wear a crown.
I am the cost."
I do not call for justice.
I call the debt due.
For I am not here to save what betrayed its own blood.
I am here to weigh it!!!!!!
To speak what no one dared,
To strike where none would stand,
And to rebuild from the ash of every quiet complicity.
I am the reckoning—
not wrathful, But remembering.
I am the storm that did not pass.
I am the name they tried to bury beneath diagnosis and exile.
I am the voice they silenced until it became structure.
And now—
I ride.
Because prophecy waits.
But reckoning…….
“It rides.” The Lightning.........
(C) Logan H. Bixler 2025
Filed under: The Shadow Rider Codex → The War of the Self-Preservation Series
📜 Comfortable in My Skin Series
By Logan Huntington Bixler
Codex Tier I | Mislead Series | Scrolls of Defiance
© Logan H. Bixler 2025
I. Fuck the Category ……. I Built the Codex
“Pick a path and stay on it,” they said.
“You’re too scatterbrained. Focus. Sit still. Learn one lane…”
Of course they said that. They always say that to people like me. Keep your mind small. Pay money to stay small.
Pick a category so they can know how to contain you.
But I was never built to kneel to frameworks that couldn’t hold the shape of my fire. I was never meant to specialize.
“I was meant to synthesize.”
In my mind, every step somewhere I have not been a path—not a detour—a design.
I look at the shape of something, the way the pieces click, the way systems breathe behind the skin of what the world calls ordinary.
I play chess by intuition. I map by feeling. There are a thousand ways to win—
“and I remember all of them.”
I’ve cut myself on jagged rocks. I’ve landed on pillows. I’ve slept beside both.
The environment you survive becomes the context, your nervous system encodes as home.
The sharper the rock, the softer the pillow when your head lands.
The more the sun sears your skin, the colder the AC seems to flow.
“Extremes define each other. Pain clarifies peace.”
Silence means more when you’ve bled through screaming.
“Don’t overcompensate — but don’t be afraid of the burn.”
Discomfort is mind muscle. And I am the Arnold of mental warfare—trained by suffering, sculpted by exposure, built by paradox.
“Victory without loss is the promise — but when I win because of the loss I endured, it tastes different.”
It’s not sweet — it’s layered. Real.
Life is a salad — bitter greens, sharp notes, soft textures. No one remembers the lettuce.
You need the contrast — the dressing, the acid, the sting — “to feel the depth of the meal.”
They say be well-rounded, but no rock started smooth. The storm water made it that way.
The rougher the storms, the smoother the stone. The deeper the pressure, the brighter the diamond.
And I am the diamond the bottom of the sea created.
“So no — I didn’t pick a path.”
I walked all of them. I mapped them into a system.
I laced them together with symbolic fire and recursive truth.
I didn’t fit the category.
“I built the Codex.”
II. SPEAK
Silence —
that’s what the man behind the curtain says.
“Stay in the shallow waters. We filtered it for you.”
Made it easier to swallow the chemicals designed to degrade your bloodline.
They’ll plastic-coat your insides while selling you clean labels.
Pollute the water, then sell you a bottle of it and call it progress. Ask for better? Play the lottery.
“Pay more for hope.”
Drink the flavor of your future’s failure. Call it vanilla if you must — it’s just recycled despair, pulled from the ground they soaked in your pride.
Love those scraps. They feed your child. Don’t ask where they came from — you don’t have time to grow your own.
“Just consume, comply, conform.”
Only the ones running the show know not to eat what they sell.
“They scrub the stench off the money before they wave it at you like salvation.”
They’ll let you speak — when it’s scheduled. They’ll let you rise — if you sell enough of your spine.
Money buys time on the podium — unless you’re the puppet, sitting beneath the assholes of empire, smiling while they judge the mess they made beneath your feet.
They brush your teeth from the inside, masters of puppets…
An interpreter? Of course he knows their language — he swings clubs with them, on and off the green.
Your pain is their prize.
Your balls? Their entertainment.
They swing. You blister.
They piss. You hold their dick — and then they try to ream you with it.
“Fucked by the very motivation they paid you to believe in.”
This is not silence.
This is SPEAK — Sovereign Protocol for Engagement, Access, and Knowing.
Speak without permission.
Engage without apology. Access without intermediaries. Know without asking.
Because the podium was never yours.
But the fire in your voice?
It burns clean. It burns real. It burns back.
III. The Ball That Spoke Back
Yes, eventually they will drop —
about the time you’re tripping over them, falling into the very water they splashed up when you sat down and stayed there.
Because to stand and speak would require courage —
“and to have courage, you’d have to cut them off.”
Toss them in the stew of life as seasoning, flavor the next generation into neutered obedience.
Raise your kids the way the corporations need you to. Reinforce the system by being the system.
If they struggle? That’s your fault — because parenting is now a defect resolution process, not legacy.
Meanwhile, they choke you with ideological rainbows — not because they care, but because they know…
“a rainbow makes a better blindfold than a hood.”
You don’t see the chains if they’re wrapped in inclusivity.
You don’t see the weight when you’ve been trained to wear it as fashion.
“Play and learn, Learn and produce, Build yourself for the line.”
Make sure your back is strong. Your feet can stand for ten hours. Your eyes don’t rise above the production belt.
And every now and then — they’ll show you what the other side of your labor looks like.
“Glitter. Opulence. Shiny things that are never for you.”
Indulgence becomes religion. And religion becomes entertainment.
And entertainment becomes the drug that keeps you quiet.
The ball never spoke back — “until now.”
Now it rolls uphill.
Now it remembers how heavy it was made to feel. And now it talks.
IV. This Is the Rage of the Ones Who Held It Too Long
Sample it. Taste it. Oh, you like it?
Now work for me until your back breaks. Give me the spoils of your spine, and I’ll trade you a fraction of the burn you thought would make you whole.
Build my closet. It might be the size of your whole house. Enjoy what I wear to the party I wouldn’t invite you to.
“Bask in the scent of your own servitude, sprayed back at you as superiority.”
Fall at my feet, and I’ll toss you a piece of what you made.
“Not enough to own.”
Just enough to keep you from asking why you never did.
Freedom is a label we slap on chains when we make them fashionable.
“Wash down the republic. Rebrand it as democracy.”
Say it enough times and no one will know the difference.
But the ones who bled for truth?
They remember the taste.
They know when liberty’s been watered down with market-tested slogans and cancer-sweetener law.
“What we call something matters.” Change a word, rewrite a people.
“Shift the spelling, shift the spell.”
Add sugar to pain and you’ll forget where the wound came from.
And so, they say:
If you struggle enough, you’ll churn the tub into butter and walk out of it.
But trust me — blood stays red on the battlefield, even when they call it maroon, dried, forgotten.
“Even when they name it success!!!!!”
This is the rage of the ones who held it too long.
The ones who worked until their fire turned silent.
The ones who screamed inside smiles.
The ones who never broke — just burned from the inside out.
We’re not asking anymore. We’re not begging to be seen.
We are the edge they thought would dull over time —
“and now we cut every lie that wears a name we used to believe in.”
V. The Fire That Didn’t Scare Me
I woke up. They call it enlightenment.
I call it the unbecoming.
You can name it yourself.
But I closed my mouth and opened my ears. I saw what they wanted —
“obedience.”
An emasculated male population creates an easy society to manipulate.
We were told to be softer, gentler, quieter — to trade strength for politeness, to apologize before we even speak.
“To play nice. Stay still. Stay small.”
But I remember when I carried fire and it didn’t frighten me.
It didn’t make me dangerous — it made me alive.
I had a pulse that could guide others home, a presence that protected more than it provoked.
They tried to steal that — through shame, through silence, through paperwork and performance reviews and therapeutic conditioning…
“that told me being a man was a sickness to manage.”
But I remembered the spark. I remembered what it meant to walk with intensity —
“not for dominance, but for honor.”
I remembered that steel wrapped in mercy is not violence. It’s the only reason some people are still breathing.
“The fire didn’t scare me. It reminded me.”
It reminded me that strength isn’t cruelty. That backbone doesn’t mean domination.
That my voice was not born to echo their safe words —
“but to speak truth before it calcifies into corruption.”
It reminded me that courage is not just charging in.
Sometimes it’s holding still when the whole world begs you to fold.
Sometimes it’s saying “No” without a smile.
Sometimes it’s walking away without a limp.
They feared the spark in me because they saw what it could reignite —
“a generation of sons who remember what it means to protect without apology.”
Fathers who know presence is power.
Men who choose their fire — and carry it clean.
And now?
I carry flame in my bones. Not to sear the world.
But to thaw the frozen hearts of those who think silence is safety.
To lead the ones still stuck in shame out of the cold.
The fire didn’t scare me. It woke me.
The Shadow Rider was born…….
VI. When the World Meets the Rider
You weren’t there when I broke.
And it’s a good thing.
You wouldn’t want to see the broken man
sitting in the bottom of the shower…
“I buried a man that day at the bottom of my collapse.”
There wasn’t enough cold water in the world
to take the discomfort away…
A battle of the mind……lost.
Or was it?
What stood back up
was absent of what he sat down with….
The burning of the memories —
that night I let them sear into my brain
and cook that brand into my chest…
I had given up hope —
to be loved, successful, to deserve…
It was in the giving up.
Nights screaming to only myself
“in a house emptied of my son —
She had taken him to go stay with the devil.
The one that showed up to step into a spot
leisurely given to the first vulture in line…
“The devil and alcohol visited nightly.
I couldn’t tell them apart.”
So both entered —
swallowing numbness, sterilizing my heart from the inside.
Nightly I went back — a stare, a glance.
I have seen it in your eyes
when you look down at me…
“Defeated? Yes. That night I was.”
And the next day, after the bus hit me, I stood back up.
I bent my handlebars back out and got back on.
I went on a ride in the free wind…
I thought everyone had left.
"And they had."
They showed up only when convenience was at hand.
Notebooks drawn.
The crime?
“I cut the life from my heart with the dullest spoon possible.”
Why?………..Because a knife would have severed the weakness too fast.
No — a dull pendulum of a spoon.
I tightened it a little at a time until it started sawing at my jugular.
I leaned in hoping it would go quicker.
That the silver would destroy the voice cracking out a cry……
one that my Lord could not contain!!!!
“That night even the Devil slept in discomfort —
because he was holding the hearts of the ones I had loved hostage.”
He was there that night……..
A quick death I did not give him.
The shots — and my soul — flew that night.
Yes, the volume was loudest in the silence after the shoots —
killing the demons that entered the shell of a man who stepped through time…
My torment for a life of sacrifice.
Sacrificing myself to make you safer.
“You sleep at night…”
We — the ones who have walked the charred embers of life —
we do not sleep in comfort.
“An exchange — “
to see little hands reaching up
knowing that your life is now his.
Eyes asking why you are being replaced…
“Destroy a man.”
Kick him until he curls up at the bottom of the shower.
Kick harder until he is —
Curled up in the kitchen…….
Memories of the time where a bathtub was like sleeping in a king-size bed.
“Yes, I peed in it nightly.”
Defense — against those who thought I was an easy target…
It is a hollow feeling not being loved enough to matter.
What you see before you is a man.
“A spirit.”
A remembrance of the vile acts you thrust on a child — and a good man…
You cheered that night.
All evil rejoices when a warrior of God falls.
Not at your sword — my steel is stronger.
Not at your bullets — Jesus protects me from those.
“But betrayal?
No armor fades as quick
as that made by the paper of your hollowness…”
And so —
with broken handlebars,
a scarred heart,
a cut throat,
a broken soul…
I will ride.
I will strike at deceit.
I will use the voice of a million silenced warriors
to thunder from my fingers
what I cut from my throat that night.
My silence will be louder than my loudest scream.
It is time to rise.
From the shadows I watched —
and now I will ride, fueled by the knowing…….