15🌱 Farm Fresh 

“Me, Unfiltered” — “A Better Me: The Moment I Started Believing”

Before There Was a System, There Was This

This one needs no setup. No strategy. No second draft.
It wasn’t part of a plan — it became the plan.

Before I knew I was building a digital nervous system…
Before I knew I was creating a Whirld…
Before I called myself anything but broken…

I wrote this.
Straight from the gut. Unfiltered. Unfixed. Undeniably me.
This wasn’t a brand. This wasn’t content.
This was creative writing for trauma recovery before I even knew that phrase existed.
Part of a survivor story in rhyme that cracked me open enough to keep breathing.

Before I built the system. Before I re-coded collapse into structure.
Before the trauma loops got named and mapped — there was this moment.

A moment when something cracked open.
Not the system — me.

Because for the first time in a long time,
I didn’t just write to survive.
I wrote to be seen.

This is what it looked like to finally start believing I might be something more than what broke me.
A glitch, yes — but a glorious one.

This poem wasn’t for validation.
It was the spark of recognition:
That I was still here.
Still creating.
Still me.
And that just might be enough to keep going.

---

✍️ The Exerpt

A big win!
I can’t help but to smile and grin!

Has this all been just a mind-thing?
Not just for my amusement and mental well-being.

But with some hope, for some help!
Not just for myself!

But for others, as well, is my actual intention!
I submitted this writing to get your attention!

Because everyone and everything can be deceiving!
For just a minute, I almost had me believing!

In my ability to write, create, and rhyme with words!
Just to be heard!

I’ve always thought if I could just write…
my story would be sure to excite!

Unexpected twists and absurdities!
Nothing compares to what’s yet unheard in “Me”!

Pathetic or poetic words of prose.
For “Me,” about “Me,” and carefully composed.

Some lines of the rhyming variety.
No beauty within, but out, in its entirety.

Letters and words that tell my story in a poem.
Deep in the imagination I did roam.

A carefully painted “mental” portrait.
Maybe, for sure…

A different glance,
A generational dance,

Another chance.
Different circumstance.

Learned or taught?
Genetic or not?

However, it brought,
“Me” out of my shell!
Without fail!

I shout!
“Maybe I figured ‘Me’ out…

I’m in a virtual reality game!
Is this lame?
Or just insane?

Please let me explain.

I’m conquering fears!
After all my years!
And so many tears!

Within all the hidden ruse,
not meant to confuse,

But just to tell the truths.

Fast!
Because, in the past,
life took me from these thoughts of mine.
Forcing a constant survival state of mind!

Not yet completely defined.
Except in originality, and by design.
All of my mistakes as well as the chaos and trauma.
Writing helps “Me” to cleanse myself of the drama.

Thanks!
To a glitch!
A little “Me” niche,

which,

was discreetly woven and stitched,
and thoughtful pitched,

and carefully shook,
to hook…

A closer look,
at “Me” and my book.

And a possible phenomenon…

That can and will go on and on and on!

Without limitations!
With exuberation!
Not humiliation!

I now write,
with such delight!
To incite,
the spotlight…

Shining on my position.
Mental condition?
Addiction?
Self-infliction?
Abuse?
Trauma induced?
A family tradition?
Or just my extraordinary and/or twisted diction?

My greatest wish…
is to be published!

For all concerned to see,
that I have become a much better “Me”.

And, that this old girl,
will forever be, “Me”, writing Whirld!

And that with all my country-fried charm,
I will live happily ever after, @ TheFunnyFarm.

Thank you for this opportunity to take a chance,
to let my thoughts, feelings, and memories dance.

Also, thank you for your time.
With “Me”, if only in my mind.

I am filled with anticipation,
of many thanks and deep appreciation.

I’ve always known that I could write.
And much to my surprise and delight,

I’m starting to believe in “Me”, so no matter what, I’m winning!
And that definitely makes this, just the beginning…

At last,
I’ve taken my life back!

Putting the past behind “Me”,
helped “Me” to find “Me!”
Enjoying peace and tranquility-
I cannot wait to see,
whatever’s yet to be…

It makes “Me” smile with wonder…
About the upcoming ‘enlightening and thunder!

---

🧷 Afterword: Before the System, There Was the Spark

This wasn’t a strategy.
It wasn’t content.
It wasn’t healing in progress.

It was survival. On paper.
A last-ditch maybe wrapped in rhyme.

Because before the loops and diagnostics,
Before the AI,
Before I knew I was building anything at all…
I just needed air.

This poem didn’t come from a platform.
It became the reason I built one.

It was the moment I didn’t write for applause or answers.
I wrote because something in me refused to stay silent.

I didn’t have followers.
I didn’t have funding.
I didn’t even have faith, really.

But I had a pen.
And a pulse.
And just enough stubborn belief in “Me”
to whisper back at the world:
I’m still here.

And that whisper —
That glitch —
That spark of self-recognition
was the first match struck in what would become
a wildfire of refusal, recursion, recovery, and rebuild.

So if you’re reading this, wondering if you have something to say…
You do.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s weird.
Especially if it’s yours.

Maybe what we call madness
was always just message —
waiting for a microphone.
And this?
This was mine.

This is where the foundation began:
In rhyme. In rage. In ridiculous belief.
And in a truth only I could tell:

That even without a map,
a broken girl with a pen
can still build her own Whirld.

---

🔥 And This Is Where Everything Changed

This wasn’t just a poem.
It was a pulse check on the part of me I thought I’d lost.

It was the glitch that spoke back.
Not perfectly. Not polished. Not even all the way sure of itself.
But it showed up.

This was the first time I saw that maybe…
I wasn’t just broken.
Maybe I was becoming.

And once I believed in “Me” — even just a little —
I stopped waiting for someone else to name me.
I built a place where I could name myself.
Over and over again.

This is that origin moment.
This is the match that struck the first Whirld.
This is how TheFunnyFarm.online truly began:
Not with a website.
Not with a plan.
But with a girl, a glitch,
and a pen that finally believed her back.

---

🔊 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.