Blake, cursed, the darkness of light/ the game, fate, emersed in the harshness of life/ ive mastered the night,noctornal ,the dead/ most men mask there insight, to reserved with wats said/ see in black there is hope/ in the dark lies the pure /from black we have rose /n embarked on the tour /blake, my names melts into most like its mould/ a kanserous plaque that engulf the good souls / with out nothingness, dark matter, colours look dull/ an the light that gives life ,vanishs under darkness enfolds/ in a world thats so twisted, n lost in illusion/ slaves to the system ,an the cost of confusion/ to me blake means ancient ,the first n the last /the darkness gives light, an preserves all the past/ perhaps im eternal, im the only remains/ blackness ,the truth of the lonely less plain/ OWning my name is the burden thats banked/for darkness defines wat is certain its blank/black is the colour that creation came from/ like water it calms no limitations can bond/
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I Left My Name in a Place That Forgot Me I left my name in a place that forgot me. Not all at once, not dramatically, but the way dust settles on furniture no one uses anymore—quiet, patient, inevitable. It happened in the city where I learned how to make myself smaller. At first, my name was spoken often. It lived on tongues, warm and familiar. It was called from doorways, written in notebooks, saved in phones with little symbols beside it—stars, hearts, inside jokes only we understood. My name meant something then. It meant me. But places, like people, have short memories. I noticed the forgetting in fragments. A pause before someone said my name, as if searching through a cluttered drawer. A smile that didn’t quite reach recognition. Conversations that continued smoothly whether I was present or not, like I was an optional detail in the background. I became excellent at standing still. The café on Seventh Street used to know me. The barista once wrote my name carefully on every cup, looping the letters like they mattered. Over time, the spelling changed. Then the question disappeared altogether. “Name?” became “Next.” I drank my coffee anyway. At work, my ideas were echoes. I’d say something in a meeting, softly, carefully—always careful—and the room would absorb it without reaction. Minutes later, someone else would repeat the same words, louder, more confident, and the room would light up in agreement. I learned that invisibility isn’t about being unseen. It’s about being seen through. I still showed up. I always showed up. That’s the cruel trick of emotional erasure—you don’t disappear, you just stop leaving an imprint. You sit at tables where your chair could be empty and no one would shift. You speak, and the sound passes through people like light through glass. At night, I walked streets that no longer felt like mine. Buildings remembered everyone but me. Windows glowed with lives continuing, overlapping, moving forward. I wondered how many times I had walked past the same people without them noticing I had ever been there before. I wondered when I stopped being memorable. I left my name everywhere, hoping it would stick. In journals no one read. In messages left on “seen.” In photos where I stood at the edge, half-cropped, half-forgotten. I left it in apologies I didn’t owe and explanations no one asked for. I left it in rooms where I laughed at the right moments and nodded at the right times, performing presence like it was a role I could perfect if I tried hard enough. But the place kept forgetting me. There was a moment—there’s always a moment—when the forgetting became undeniable. A gathering. A familiar room. Familiar faces. Someone asked, “Do you remember when she used to come with you?” She. I was sitting right there. No correction followed. No embarrassment. Just a casual rewrite of my existence. I felt something tear, softly, inside my chest—not pain exactly, more like a thread snapping after being pulled too long. I realized then that I had been grieving myself without knowing it. Grief doesn’t always arrive with funerals and flowers. Sometimes it arrives when you understand that the version of you who mattered in a place no longer exists—and no one noticed when she left. I stopped trying after that. Not in a dramatic way. I didn’t announce my departure or burn bridges. I simply withdrew my name. I stopped offering it up like a fragile gift. I let conversations happen without inserting myself. I let silence sit where my voice used to fight for space. The strange thing about becoming invisible is that it teaches you how loud the world is without you. I watched people interrupt each other, compete, perform. I watched how quickly attention shifted, how easily affection was replaced. I learned that memory is not a measure of worth—it is a measure of convenience. 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