Hush Halo: All Poetry

No Exit Signs

Thu, 22 Oct 2026 04:24:32 GMT

I wrote this poem from my personal angst on rising technology, limited choices and growing desire to escape. This piece, ‘No Exit Signs’, is part of HUSH HALO, my Dystopian Sci-Fi Poetry Collection. At this date, this poem has not been published elsewhere.

Poetry and concept by Sam Oldman. Images and soundscapes are created by the author using various generative tools.

No Exit Signs

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

No outside.
No exit signs.
No alternative actuality.
Factually forced,
the staying was free,
on the true cost we can agree
to disagree.
Nothing left here reminding me
of a choice once done
by someone,
other than me.

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CONTEXT: After the Great Optimization we all had a choice. This poem reflects on the realm chosen by Systoics, a privileged group that integrated into the system, believing they had now perfected themselves.

I’m Sam.
A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with
a shade of inbuilt melancholy.

———

Hush Halo is my indie art project.
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HUSH HALO is a dystopian sci-fi poetry collection set in a near-future, shaped by technology and irreversible choice. Each poem is paired with a unique soundscape. Poetry and concept by Sam Oldman. Images and soundscapes are created by the author using various generative tools.

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Just Stop

Tue, 20 Oct 2026 04:01:33 GMT

HUSH HALO is a dystopian sci-fi poetry collection set in a near-future, shaped by technology and irreversible choice. Each poem is paired with a unique soundscape in both digital format and in printed books.

CONTEXT: After the Great Optimization we all had a choice. This poem below tells a story of Systoics, a privileged group that integrated into the system, believing they had now perfected themselves.

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Just Stop

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

You are not missing.
Stop arriving.
Stop moving.
Nothing is missing.
Stop searching.
Stop looking.
Stop caring.
Not worth it.
Just Stop.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Unimpressed

Sat, 17 Oct 2026 04:53:32 GMT

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Unimpressed

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

I touch the ground.
Indifferent,
pretending no hospitality,
confronting me cold,
granular,
guaranteed.
In all respects
unimpressed
by me.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Smell of Rain

Thu, 15 Oct 2026 04:56:51 GMT

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Smell of Rain

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

Did you know
they can drain the clouds now,
sell it as hydration,
at an almost
affordable price?
Did you know
they can stabilize the pressure,
force-fit the thunder,
and sell it as care?
You can still smell the rain
in acoustic landscapes,
sonic soundscapes.
You can feel the beat of rain
at the soothing bottom
of that bottle.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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All Roads Lead Nowhere

Tue, 13 Oct 2026 05:43:22 GMT

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All Roads Lead Nowhere

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

Since movement
replaced all meaning
every horizon here
feels equally sufficient.
No signs warning me
of dead ends.
No direction pulls harder
than another.
Relief
settles in the logic.
Among these crowds
I’m a lonely wanderer
on my looping path.
These crowds beside me,
on my way to nowhere
I cannot get anywhere
but lost.
I stopped checking the map
a long time ago.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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The Label

Sat, 10 Oct 2026 05:42:09 GMT

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The Label

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

Though they told me so,
their label didn’t save me.
It didn’t carry me to shore.
It was never meant to.
It only kept me floating
long enough
to learn how to swim.
You can try
to push and pry.
But eventually,
I reach the shore.
On my own,
cleared of your labels,
I find my terms intact,
buried in the sand,
right where I left them.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Unscaling Devotion

Thu, 08 Oct 2026 11:41:42 GMT

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Unscaling Devotion

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

The system runs the numbers.
Efficiency outdates history.
Scalability outweighs attachment.
Risk models ignore fidelity.
Loyalty was never violated,
but bypassed
as an unnecessary variable.
A different logic—
one that assumed
humans counted
just because they were there.
The imbalance sharpens—
the kind that removes nostalgia
from my body,
forcing me to face the facts.
My loyalty was measurable—
yet not enough
to survive the equation.
Devotion doesn’t scale.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Assigned Weight

Tue, 06 Oct 2026 11:37:36 GMT

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Assigned Weight

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

You let my loyalty deepen
until it carried weight,
allowing it to grow into a burden—
an unshareable cargo
assigned to me,
and me alone.
Then you shifted the frame.
My staying
became the baseline.
My commitment
became expected.
My care
became an endless opportunity.
I get it.
Now
I could always
be asked
to endure
more.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Mastery of Mental Mayhem

Sat, 03 Oct 2026 11:36:50 GMT

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Mastery of Mental Mayhem

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

That’s my cue.
I soften my outline.
I step back internally
before questions arise.
This ritual of vanishing feels pure,
like mastering the method
of mental mayhem.
I make my move with precision,
protecting the illusion.
I spare everyone
the discomfort
of witnessing
me sinking.
The unbearable imbalance,
untraceable to me,
comes later.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Facing Memento

Thu, 01 Oct 2026 11:35:08 GMT

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Facing Memento

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

Recorded memory returns intact,
but the weight is wrong.
Like a lightweight challenger
returning as a heavyweight champion.
Ready to crush.
I take it backstage
and face the memento again.
Face to face reasoning.
Remembrance was never restoration,
just an unjust continuation
without consent.
I signed nothing.
Still the weight
I never agreed to carry
resumed.
Relentless.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Educated Into Lack

Tue, 29 Sep 2026 11:34:45 GMT

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Educated Into Lack

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

I only know a place
that confused hunger with virtue
and called it growth.
Hunger sharpened my focus,
kept me moving,
compliant.
It made me easy to direct
as I was always reaching,
never arriving.
Over time,
I stopped asking
what I was hungry for.
The wanting became ambient,
hovering over my body,
no outcome could ever satisfy.
Fed on hollow futures
until my gums bled.
Fasting
until the machines flop
and hunger finally stops.
I felt trained
rather than deprived.
Educated into lack,
prepared to struggle out of balance,
to survive on nutrient poor
promises alone.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Common Contraband

Sat, 26 Sep 2026 05:25:53 GMT

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Common Contraband

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

Each of us carries a different refusal.
Carefully,
like common contraband
folded into their coded
code of conduct.
Invisible uniforms.
Analog banners.
Unspoken expressions
detectable only by us inside.
We recognize each other
in the heavy pause
before a reply,
in the slight delay
before obeying,
in communal decision
allowing a ciphered tell
to pass through
without scanners
detecting.
That is how we find each other—
the way we always have
in times of despair
repeating again
and again.
This is us
finding our way through
a Never Again moment,
once again.
Refusal travels light.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Innocence Gone

Tue, 22 Sep 2026 17:58:26 GMT

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Innocence Gone

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

Standing upright,
I feel the floor beneath me tilt.
How do I move here
without collapsing
everything
I rely on?
Clarity arrived late,
burning through my core
hotter than guilt.
A forced,
or maybe an unforced choice
reminding me exactly
where to stand,
and why nothing
feels solid.
Comfort holds me still
better than fear
ever could.
Innocence gone.
Being on the wrong side
feels less like danger
and more like
permission.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Depth as Luxury

Sat, 19 Sep 2026 11:30:44 GMT

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Depth as Luxury

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

All this comfort feels thin,
yet somehow indestructible.
It doesn’t accumulate,
nor does it care.
It pats my shoulder,
always available,
never here.
Regulated comfort
sets a tolerable enough tone.
What on earth
made depth
a luxury?

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Search Complete

Thu, 17 Sep 2026 11:26:54 GMT

CONTEXT: After the Great Optimization we all had a choice. This poem below tells a story of Systoics, a privileged group of upper crust that integrated into the system, believing they had now perfected themselves.

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Search Complete

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

They mark the search complete.
Check the box.
I am listed as found,
yet I feel more absent
than ever.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Mushroom Height

Tue, 15 Sep 2026 11:52:44 GMT

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Mushroom Height

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

This world should not fear
the dim
or the dark.
It should fear
uncontrolled light.
The blinding brightness.
The kind of light
that rises
to mushroom height
in broad daylight.

I’m Sam. A mother of two,
a neurohappy writer with a shade
of inbuilt melancholy.

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Hush Halo is my indie art project.
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Chess Player

Sat, 12 Sep 2026 17:19:39 GMT

WHAT IS HUSH HALO?

Hush Halo is a dystopian sci-fi poetry collection set in a near-future shaped by technology and irreversible choice. Each poem is paired with a unique soundscape in both digital format and in printed books.

Subscribe FREE or paid

To follow and support my indie art project,
consider becoming a subscriber.

Chess Player

Hush Halo · Poetry by Sam Oldman

I sit across from the board
long before the game.
Studying the room.
Sensing the rhythm.
Noticing where attention slips.
I look for habits.
The moves you repeat.
The patterns you trust.
You think I’m waiting.
I am counting.
Every move
shrinks your imagination,
closes yet another door
you won’t notice
until it’s gone.
Eventually
you stop choosing.
You start reacting.
The game
becomes mine.
I don’t enjoy the play.
I constraint from celebration.
From up here
checkmate feels crude,
especially the moment
you finally realize
you’ve been playing
my game
all along.
I thank you
for the data.

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Standing Guard

Sat, 18 Jul 2026 05:02:08 GMT

Hush Halo by Sam Oldman is a dystopian sci-fi poetry collection set in a near-future shaped by technology, silence, and optimized perfection. Each poem is paired with a unique soundscape created by poet, in Suno.

Standing Guard

Years passed.
The shield grew used to my arm
like a tool learning from the hand
that never puts it down.
Readiness became my posture.
I woke alert,
slept light,
ate standing.
They called discipline a virtue.
I stopped noticing
what defense was doing to me—
how much of my interior
became collateral,
how many quiet thoughts
were cleared away
to make room
for the guard.
Stepping aside
was rarely allowed.
Reality began to feel staged—
a set built around a threat
that never arrived
and never left.
On a never ending watch
I stopped expecting relief.
Vigilance eats the room inside you.
Was I guarding the world?
Or was I guarding a fantasy?
No enemy came.
My posture remained.
I stood there so long
the ground shaped
to my stance.
I don’t know
how many years
I kept guard
before realizing
no one had ever planned
to let me rest.

WHAT IS HUSH HALO?
Hush Halo is a dystopian sci-fi poetry collection set in a near-future shaped by technology, and optimized perfection. Each poem is paired with a unique soundscape created by poet, in Suno. Learn more in Square One.

Context: After the Great Optimization, a privileged group integrated into the system, believing they had now perfected themselves.

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Parallel Army

Thu, 16 Jul 2026 05:16:53 GMT

Hush Halo is a dystopian sci-fi poetry collection set in a near-future shaped by technology, silence, and optimized perfection. Each poem is paired with a unique soundscape created by poet, in Suno.

Parallel Army

The parallel army doesn’t recruit,
but emerges.
On the outside,
nothing stands out.
We show up.
We perform adequacy.
We pass inspections
of tone and timing.
On the inside,
it’s a whole other ball game.
Orders no longer land clean.
Commands echo without authority.
The chain of meaning breaks.
Choice begins to breed.
We learned the drills early—
discipline, endurance,
how to stand straight with the system
that rewards posture over presence,
silhouette of loyalty
more than the weight
of showing up.
We don’t salute.
We don’t coordinate.
That’s our protection.
We provide
no center to decapitate,
no heads to sever,
no commands to poison.
We feel each other in gravity of silence,
confirm each other in untrusting eyes,
carry the shared knowledge
of life beyond the assignment.
Uncertain,
unarmored,
done pretending.

Context: After the Great Optimization, a privileged group integrated into the system, believing they had now perfected themselves.

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Poetry Update · About Decency · Jul 15, 2026

Sam Oldman — Wed, 15 Jul 2026 06:49:21 GMT

Thank You for subscribing to Hush Halo.

In this post:
#1 Writer’s Update
#2 Dystopian Poetry
#3 Color Me Weird
#4 Writers Worth SubStalking + Thanks

Subscribe now

#1 Writer’s Update

I’m still holding back on the new Hush Halo material for a little while longer. I’ve been working on the next arc whenever I get a burst of energy. This upcoming arc will drain me before it fills my cup again.

Flip Flopping My Summer Away

I severely injured my ankle on a family trip. We had rented a beautiful cabin by the lake and had arrived the previous night. On the very first morning, my slipper did what it does best, slipped out from under my foot, and I came down with my full weight on a twisted ankle.

At least I got this pic.

This was the first time I’ve ever seriously injured myself, and it’s been exhausting to adjust to a disabled life. It’s not just the injury. I feel like my thoughts have turned to mush.

I know it’s only temporary, but it has truly opened my eyes to appreciate my body on a whole new level. It’s been three weeks already, and it will take another three before I’m out of this wheelchair.

Not the summer I had planned, but I’m well past the pissed-off stage.

A Decent Side Quest

It wouldn’t be me if I weren’t chasing new ideas and side projects. For the past several weeks I’ve been working on an article series that has nothing to do with poetry.

I came across a deep sense of decency and character that completely grabbed my attention. It made me study deeper why decency feels so rare today and why we’ve grown numb to indecency.

I’m planning to publish the series once summer cools down. I write this to writers who are tired of writing villains as heroes.

Related: The Haaland Effect

Since my focus is on decency now, I wrote a related on note last week you may have missed:

…this Haaland effect definitely caught my eye. Why is he everywhere right now?

In the midst of the manosphere and all the other nonsense we’re facing, I’m happy to spot decency anywhere. Even if, and especially when it comes in the form of a 25-year-old viking boyo.

Why? As the mother of two boyos, I feel we need to pay close attention to positive role models whenever, where ever we can find them. There are plenty of great examples. They just don’t make the headlines very often.

Maybe the best way to fight indecency is an overwhelming amount of actual decency. Share it. Embrace the shit out of it.

I’m still not a great fan of football at the elite level, but I’m a big fan of old-fashioned decency.

Read the full note.

#2 Dystopian Poetry

I have plenty of unpublished material from Hush Halo’s first arc that I want to share with you. Let me know how you feel about these three poems below.

“What stayed with me most is the distinction between what can be saved and what actually makes a life lived. ”
- Antonio Castellaneta

Found Missing

I disappear without ever leaving the premises.
My body moves through familiar spaces.
Systems recognize me,
confirm continuity,
verify identity.
I remain here documented,
in a witnessless timeline.
Functional,
yet unable to fully explain what happens
once someone irreplaceable to me slips out
but no one keeps looking.
That someone being me.
I am the unstable variable,
replaying recent events,
searching for exit points,
the exact instant
I somehow failed
to follow through.
A sign replaces the exit:
Smooth transitions only.
Smooth enough for reality to behave again tomorrow,
though my perception of it doesn’t.
It is like walking through a place
reconstructed from memory
by someone
who never actually lived there.
My sense of arrival fails to load.
It’s like returning to a scene
without understanding the crime
you were a victim of.
The status remaining “found”
means nothing to me,
who isn’t really there,
but still waiting
for an off-record revival.
As I watch this version of me
walk through the longest corridor,
I wonder when I stopped being real.
Should I celebrate
being found missing?

#S2020

Their Ordure

They put on hold
my desire to sleep.
They forced the lid
on my need to scream.
Tempting me.
Gently pulling me off my center,
without dragging me forward,
without risking disorder,
by bullying me
into becoming a believer,
made me their ordure.

#S2030

Ritual of Divine Doom

The ritual looks familiar.
Why do I feel I’ve done this before?
They lower me gently
with calm hands,
ambient hums
and mending metaphors.
Formless assurance surrounds me
like water that doesn’t bless
but recalibrates.
A compromising ritual
designed to wash away resistance
while filing the useful sins.
Divine doom
disguised as renewal.

#S2017

©Samia Oldman

#3 Color Me Weird

I know I’m too old for this shit, but in the name of weird, I’ll admit I had a crush on a fictional character. Yeah… I seriously thought I’d outgrown these episodes. Apparently not.

The silver lining here is, that I’ve managed to separate the character from the actor, whom I actually dislike. It also gave me a weirdly strong motivation to study character building.

I’ll spare you the details, just wanted to share my weird. These days, I’ll take the dopamine wherever I can get it.

Tell me I’m not alone with my weird!

#4 Writers Worth SubStalking

I have made some cool findings here on Substack. I’d love you to check these out:

publishes a poet-friendly daily comic strip called The Poet.
makes the world better place by writing lovely everyday poetry like this: Someday You’ll Miss The Mess.
writes about creativity and illustrates her articles with wonderful art. Start here: How to Survive Your Own Creative Metamorphosis.
writes lyrics and occationally shares a sing along in a her car. Her range is wide, this is one of my favourites: Ms. Chernobyl.

Special Thanks ♡

Dystopian poetry is not the easiest art to spread around. Special thanks to , , , , , and everyone who has subscribed, dropped a comment or shared my posts recently. I’ll do my best to pay it back or pay it forward.

I’m daily floored by you all. ♡

WHAT IS HUSH HALO?
Hush Halo is a dystopian sci-fi poetry collection set in a near-future shaped by technology, silence, and optimized perfection. Each poem is paired with a unique soundscape created by poet, in Suno. Learn more in Square One.

Context: After the Great Optimization, a privileged group integrated into the system, believing they had now perfected themselves.

BUY PAPERBACKS · BUY eBOOKS

POETRY · START HERE · BUY BOOKS · SHOP · LINKS

Hush Halo is an indie art project.
To follow and support my work, consider
becoming a free or paid subscriber.

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