^The Rabit Hole Of Fake Comfort^

By A.Bell (Verses From The Abyss) ©️ 2025

 

I stand before the rabbit hole,

it’s familiar in the most unsettling of ways.

 

It calls out home to me,

evil has remembered my name.

 

The screams from within, fill me with comfort, I become eager to go deep.

 

I know what's been longing for my return,

Pain—nothing else.

 

Im not frightened by it.

The dark always knew my presence.

 

I left this place once,

deluded with hope,

thinking something might save me.

 

But this new found happiness a stranger to me—

its touch, too fair, too pure.

It never stays.

 

I have to return,

Things are unfinished,

wounds I didn’t cut deep enough to call my own.

 

I’m ready, i know my way.

 

Ready to let the wounds cut deeper this time.

Ready to lose all of me,

my name,

my sanity.

My soul.

 

This isn’t a surrender.

This is my homecoming.

 

So take me,

maze of my mind—

devourer, deceiver, mother of my insanity.

Split me apart, build your wall's with what's left.

 

I do not want freedom.

 

I want the darkness,

the sadness,

the pain I’ve always known.

I want to remember what it feels like

to disappear into the only place

that ever truly saw me.

 

So take back what was never truly mine.

 

 

^The Endless Meat Grinder^

Copyright © Written by Adam Bell, 24/5/25

 

They built a world in concrete lines.

This cage—steel-boned, faceless—

Disguised as freedom.

Sold as salvation.

 

Value, measured in flesh and coins.

 

Time, devoured in profit’s jaws.

Every tick, a tooth.

Every breath, taxed.

 

We rise with lead in our veins,

Eyes blank,

Dreams poisoned before waking.

 

We chase the bait—

A lie stitched in gold thread.

How unkind.

How cruel.

 

All we find is empty breath.

A race not run—

But endured.

Until collapse.

 

Our children sleep alone.

We are gone.

We are ghosts.

 

Work devours the hours.

 

Their laughter, a fading echo through walls.

Cold.

Silent.

Unheard.

 

What is success,

When love lies dying in the dark?

Joy is auctioned.

Souls, drained dry.

 

A jar of coffee for an hour’s spine.

While the rich sip ease.

Untouched.

Uncaring.

 

The system feeds when hope is low.

It fattens on despair.

Not failure.

But design.

 

Broken bodies.

Minds shattered under fluorescent lights.

 

Depression—

No longer illness.

Now norm.

Expected.

Institutionalized.

 

A quiet, acceptable suicide.

 

They taught us wealth means full-grown pockets—

Not warmth.

Not bedtime tales.

Not presence.

Only absence.

Only grind.

 

We all obey.

No matter how rich we are.

We kneel.

Some on marble,

Some on stone,

Some in dirt.

But all kneel.

 

We march.

Heads low.

Mouths shut.

Another cog.

Another name.

Born not to live—

But to serve.

To feed the beast

And fade.

 

Freedom?

A myth.

A bedtime story for the already broken.

 

Generations, lined up like cattle,

Cattle prods buzzing,

Marching toward the grinder.

Built by the elite.

Polished with our blood.

 

I long, with so many, for my freedom.

My number—

Branded

In silence at birth.

 

Property.

Not person.

 

My family—

I hear them calling.

But I do not turn.

 

Success demands blindness.

I was taught to obey.

 

What a bleak end

To a beautiful chance.

Life was meant to be lived.

But somehow,

Coin became breath.

Currency became god.

 

And we bowed.