RageFuel I WROTE A POEM

[aesthetic_recon]

TO MY BROCELS
A poem by aesthetic_recon

It is hell eternal day after day of my existence as I contemplate my death,
Relegated to this nightmare of unending breadth.

Never offered some relief, a kind word, a gentle gesture, a warm hand from any man,
Every loner to incel boards, it never began.

Castrated, emasculated, ridiculed, slandered, mocked, condemned, hated and reviled,
Bottom-barrel bitches then laughing at the libel.

Emphatic’ly, enthusiastic’ly, euphoric’ly riding all day the dick of Chad,
Exercising her whoredom for men to see unclad.

Living licentious while preaching modesty inspires my ire; I show them no grace,
Lighting them up with my Luger ‘til their life erased.​

 

[aesthetic_recon]

the poem is an acrostic

read the first letter of the first word in the first verse in each stanza
then read the first letter of the first word in the second verse in each stanza

count the syllables in the first verse in each stanza = always 22 because elliot rodger was 22 when he enacted the day of retribution
count the syllables in the second verse in each stanza = always 13 because idk come up with a good interpretation

 

[KetamineAddictYoda]

INCEL REBEL

 

[aesthetic_recon]

INCEL REBEL

thank you

someone understands me

 

[PersonaPimp]

In shadows deep, a lonely soul,
A tale of yearning, takes its toll.
A whispered echo, silent plea,
A heart adrift in misery.

In solitude, a silent tear,
A soul entwined in constant fear.
Yearning for a touch unseen,
A dance untouched, a love pristine.

Through the corridors of dark despair,
A fragile heart, laid open, bare.
Torn asunder, dreams betrayed,
In echoes of the night, love fades.

A yearning spirit, lost in gloom,
Longs to escape the lonely room.
Yet trapped within, a bitter jest,
Aching for a love unexpressed.

But let the heart not dwell in sorrow,
For every night leads to tomorrow.
Embrace the light, release the pain,
In love's rebirth, find joy again.

 

[aesthetic_recon]

In shadows deep, a lonely soul,
A tale of yearning, takes its toll.
A whispered echo, silent plea,
A heart adrift in misery.

In solitude, a silent tear,
A soul entwined in constant fear.
Yearning for a touch unseen,
A dance untouched, a love pristine.

Through the corridors of dark despair,
A fragile heart, laid open, bare.
Torn asunder, dreams betrayed,
In echoes of the night, love fades.

A yearning spirit, lost in gloom,
Longs to escape the lonely room.
Yet trapped within, a bitter jest,
Aching for a love unexpressed.

But let the heart not dwell in sorrow,
For every night leads to tomorrow.
Embrace the light, release the pain,
In love's rebirth, find joy again.

this is beautiful and almost mogs my poem

 

[gummybearcel]

Incel poetry is the only counter-cultural art form left worth preserving.

 

[aesthetic_recon]

Incel poetry is the only counter-cultural art form left worth preserving.

WE ARE THE AVANT GARDE

 

[Intellau_Celistic]

 

[Bianor]

@hierophant

 

[ElTruecel]

INCEL REBEL

 

[ItsovERfucks]

 

[Intellau_Celistic]

http://worrydream.com/refs/Lockhart-MathematiciansLament.pdf

Part of the problem is that nobody has the faintest idea what it is that mathematicians do.
The common perception seems to be that mathematicians are somehow connected with
science— perhaps they help the scientists with their formulas, or feed big numbers into
computers for some reason or other. There is no question that if the world had to be divided into
the “poetic dreamers” and the “rational thinkers” most people would place mathematicians in the
latter category.
Nevertheless, the fact is that there is nothing as dreamy and poetic, nothing as radical,
subversive, and psychedelic, as mathematics. It is every bit as mind blowing as cosmology or
physics (mathematicians conceived of black holes long before astronomers actually found any),
and allows more freedom of expression than poetry, art, or music (which depend heavily on
properties of the physical universe). Mathematics is the purest of the arts, as well as the most
misunderstood.
So let me try to explain what mathematics is, and what mathematicians do. I can hardly do
better than to begin with G.H. Hardy’s excellent description:
A mathematician, like a painter or poet, is a maker
of patterns. If his patterns are more permanent than
theirs, it is because they are made with ideas.
So mathematicians sit around making patterns of ideas. What sort of patterns? What sort of
ideas? Ideas about the rhinoceros? No, those we leave to the biologists. Ideas about language
and culture? No, not usually. These things are all far too complicated for most mathematicians’
taste. If there is anything like a unifying aesthetic principle in mathematics, it is this: simple is
beautiful. Mathematicians enjoy thinking about the simplest possible things, and the simplest
possible things are imaginary.
For example, if I’m in the mood to think about shapes— and I often am— I might imagine a
triangle inside a rectangular box:
T

 

[Intellau_Celistic]

There's no overcoming genes, though.