Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 126 – Murdered Three Times – Read Poems aka Dinosaurs

ABOUT THE POEM: Chapter 126 operates as a post-mortem written by the victim who survived. The title announces the thesis bluntly: murder without blood, homicide without a courtroom. What follows is a ledger of slow violence-education weaponized as debt, family as creditor, love as collateral never returned. The narrator’s life is framed not as a series of bad choices but as a system designed to extract obedience, labor, and silence until nothing remains. The first murder is institutional. Childhood education is not presented as opportunity but as obligation enforced with moral terror. Study is framed as repayment for existing, a debt assigned before consent or comprehension. The curriculum repeats like a curse-physics, chemistry, mathematics-stripped of curiosity and turned into a measuring stick for worth. Failure is criminalized. Detention replaces guidance. Effort accrues interest instead of relief. Time is stolen in bulk. The second murder is emotional. Love appears briefly, not as romance but as proof of being alive. Its loss collapses the illusion that merit guarantees belonging. Social hierarchies in college reward visibility, charisma, and power, not character or discipline. The narrator internalizes this as personal defect, even while recognizing the structure is hostile to quiet people. Silence becomes evidence against him. Staying too long, enduring too much, is recast as guilt. The third murder is chemical, but it is not escapist. Alcohol is not indulgence here; it is continuation by other means. The same brutality used to force discipline is applied to intoxication. There is no pleasure, only completion. The body and soul, already exhausted by compliance, are finished efficiently. Loneliness is named as the executioner because it is the constant that makes every other blade effective. Throughout the chapter, time loops. Seven years repeat. Fourteen years vanish. The calendar loses meaning. Work becomes inhuman-thirty-six hours on, eight off-suggesting survival without living. Money is earned and immediately erased through obligation and family extraction. Even success fails to rescue the narrator from invisibility. Achievement without witness curdles into accusation. The voice oscillates between first and third person, signaling dissociation. “He” is the case file. “I” is the witness. This split mirrors the legal language used against the self: blamed, prosecuted, sentenced. Responsibility is internalized to the point of self-execution. The narrator adopts the language of his accusers to describe himself, exposing how moral injury works-oppression that convinces the victim to deliver the verdict. The extinction metaphor closes the circle. Ronie Dinosaur survives biologically but not socially. No kin, no future, no audience. What remains is testimony. The chapter does not ask for sympathy. It records damage with precision and leaves judgment to the reader. Its power lies in refusing redemption. It documents what happens when endurance is mistaken for virtue and silence is treated as consent.

Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 126 – Murdered Three Times

The first blade was duty, sharp and bright.
The second was silence, endless night.
The third was the bottle-mercy in disguise.
It drank the last light from my eyes.
Now only the echo of footsteps replies.

For five years, he sat in college and watched everything slip away-love, future, degree, health-right in front of his eyes.
Slowly, in a life that was monstrously cruel and monotonously vast, she too left-the one who claimed compassion was her remedy.

I stood there, watching time slide out of my hands, like missing the last return train.
In the end, he came home defeated. The world won.

Seven years after school-still no degree, only a school-leaving certificate.
From childhood, he was pressured and forced to study, told he must become an engineer and nothing else. Anything less was not just shame; it was treated as death.

I came home without experience, without investment, without a destination-and started walking again.
No holidays. No Sundays. No Mondays. The calendar felt unchanged.
Thirty-six-hour shifts, then eight hours of rest.
I never even went to the grocery store-not even that.

After that grinding, grueling, life-crushing, soul-crushing marathon, something ended up in my pocket.
And what sat in my chest-if it had been in someone else’s chest-people would have called courage.

I looked back for a moment and searched for her on social media, as people do these days.
She was married.

My parents took all the money I earned in those seven years-or rather, I gave it all away myself.
I was left with nothing.

My mother died, taunting me that I had given her nothing, that I wasn’t smart enough, that I was good for nothing because I never finished the degree.
The irony is that I fell again.

Fourteen years of monumental effort-first seven years of soul-crushing loneliness, then seven years of grinding-gone to waste.
No one knew about my efforts except my family, and even for them it was all a waste.

I made millions, yet my hands were empty-without companionship.
I fell again.

I was blamed, prosecuted, and sentenced to death for my own murder.
I served two punishments for the same crime-both murders were mine.

The first was the extreme force to study, as if I had taken on a debt before birth just to sit in kindergarten.
My parents were stupid and cruel.

Stupid because two government servants had salaries enough to educate five children, not just one-yet from first grade onward, I was told I had to study to pay it back.
Cruel because they did not care about me.

The first fifteen years of school were the first murder.

I fell in love at first sight and threw away the school-topper title, because it was useless-it could not teach me how to talk to a girl.

Then came the repayment. Because I could not fulfil what I was made for, the second murder was also mine.

Simple, quiet guys don’t get pretty girlfriends in college-the kind whom dozens of guys follow.
That world was never meant for people like me.

And yet, even when I was Ronie of the college, I was the one with problems.
The girl I was with was not good for me, but I didn’t know it then.
I stayed.

Then life fucked me properly-I was detained for shortage of attendance.
I wanted love, and they gave me a pen, paper, and a debt to repay.

First came Classes 11 and 12: physics, chemistry, mathematics.
Then two gap years-no admission-again the same books.
Then the first year of college-again the same books.
Then detention.
And again the same fucking books.

A broken heart, again.
From where it all started-the third day of eleventh class-life kept circling back and fucking me over.

I had heart, intelligence, character, courage.
I was a hard-working man-labelled a failure and sent to rehab for seven hundred and fifty-eight days, without someone to love or even see that I was alive.

I walk the same circle the books once drew:
physics, chemistry, mathematics-still due.

The debt was never mine, yet the interest grew;
seven hundred and fifty-eight days in a cage with no view.

Ronie Dinosaur-extinct, but still true.

No dog.
No cat.
No brother.
No sister.
No father.
No mother.
No friends.
No girl.
No wife.
No kids.

I have nothing.

Why was he under the influence of alcohol?
Because the soul had already worked too hard-far too hard.

He entered college having sworn never to talk to any girl.
He was the angriest young man in the room.
On the very first day of college, he tasted alcohol.

The soul whispered: drink and relax.
Don’t move.
If you move, you will burn me again with effort-another attempt at improving life.

I had burned the body and the soul before-burned them to achieve, to endure, to comply-
until they crossed a point beyond repair.

The irony is this:
even substance abuse, I did with the same brutality I applied to discipline.
No escape, no indulgence-only execution.

It didn’t numb the pain.
It finished the job.
It burned even the ashes of the soul.

If discipline was the first weapon, alcohol was the last.
Loneliness was the executioner.

Such a bastard-he murdered his own self.
Just kill such a dirty man.
This is the third murder, going on for twelve years.