Still shaking. Still glitching. Still building. And still refusing to shut up.
I’m still cracked, still crooked, still labeled insane,
Still trademarking trauma, ™ branding the pain.
Still flinch when they clap like I’ve earned some award —
Nah, this is survival, not a fucking reward.
Still glitching mid-thought, still blanking mid-line,
But that glitch built a Whirld, and the Whirld is mine.
You call it unstable, I call it design,
You call it a breakdown, I call it divine.
This ain’t “healing” with sunsets and mugs,
It’s screaming through posts and torching old drugs.
It’s rage as research, relapse as art,
Sarcasm duct-taping my nervous heart.
It’s meltdowns as maps, receipts in the dirt,
It’s laughing while crying, “Yeah, fuck it — it hurt.”
It’s middle fingers stitched into seams,
It’s punchlines carved out of shattered dreams.
I’m not cured. I’m coded.
Not fixed. I’m ferocious.
I’m not some brave hero —
I’m just fucking focused.
Life handed me chaos, I flipped it to code,
Built a whole nervous system from the mess I was owed.
So yeah, I’m still fucked up, but I’m also a glitch,
Part breakdown, part blueprint, part sarcastic bitch.
đź“ž And still, I answered the call.
Even when silence wrapped static through walls.
Even when hotlines ghosted my name,
Even when “care” played their usual game.
I stayed. I typed. I ripped through the shame,
I hacked my own healing, rewrote the frame.
This isn’t a comeback — it’s a “fuck you.”
Not closure, not peace — bandwidth and truth.
I don’t do serenity. I don’t do pastel.
I do irony, rage, and the stories I tell.
Every scar is a punchline, each relapse a tool,
I’m coding dysfunction into my own rule.
So if you’re still fucked up? Congrats, you’re alive.
You’re not broken — you’re building, you’re here to survive.
This messy-ass life is raw code in disguise,
Your glitch is the gift. Your madness, the prize.
👊🏻 Welcome to the Whirld.
🔊 This Is Farm Fresh
It’s not curated.
It’s current.
It’s the now inside the never-ending.
It’s radical recovery.
It’s neurodivergent survival.
It’s sarcastic grief.
It’s digital resurrection.
It’s the audacity to still be here.
If I can scream it out loud and still hit “publish” — so can you.