#My poems

[famoussongpeach]

What’s Left Standing

There is a tree in the middle of it all that no one walks through anymore.

It has outlived names, outlasted maps. Whatever once claimed this land has gone quiet.

And still, it stands.

Not out of will— not really. Will fades. This is something older. Something beneath choice.

The tree does not ask why it was left behind. It has let go of questions that don’t change the weather.

It remembers the years it was not alone, but memory softens at the edges— like bark around a scar. The shape remains. The pain does not.

It has been struck by lightning more than once. And yet it reaches upward, not with hope, but with something gentler: acceptance.

It does not measure time in seasons, but in absences— the weight of snow, the return of birds, the ache of drought.

No one sees the roots still moving through the earth like slow, patient hands searching for something they don’t expect to find.

And maybe that’s what faith is— not belief in return, but the refusal to stop growing, even when no one is watching.

To remain, without witness, without reward, and still call it living.

Still call it enough.

[waitingforlostsouls]

Burn Out

People describe burning out like a candle Like a little whisp on the wind But when I burn out, I'm not like any candle I'm the muffins you left in the oven Where the parchment's begun to crisp I'm the light that goes out at the worst moment The moment I've outlived my filament It's not peaceful or expected It's awfully inconvenient I'm the type of burnt out that sets your smoke alarms off And makes your dog bark like they've lost their head The charred sent that stains your nice sheets When you deep breathe while laying in bed The annoying thing you can't get off of you That dreary little scent I force you to open a window So I have a chance at feeling rest I'm the hard leftover crumbs on the floor Even though you swear you just swept I'm not pretty when I'm tired I look quite a bit like a nervous wreck Last night's makeup under my eyes And tangled hair around my head I look like I haven't seen the sun in days Because if we're being truthful, I probably haven't I have a way with words until I don't I had creativity until the day it left I burn out like a gas line -fast, loud, dangerous

[flagellant]

[dark-strangers-art]

-----------------------------------------------

She did not want

The safe and familiar

she needed to be lost

In the insanity of lust

The intoxication

of her senses 

to lose control …

in his arms “

~Dark Stranger©

=========================================

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

The description of an angel as witnessed by the man looking for his car in the parking lot of a 24-hour diner somewhere between 2 and 3 am

(we do not yet know if he managed to find the car)

And his wings were landlord white, you know, the kind they paint over kids’ doodles and handprints and over posters, sometimes, if they’re in too much of a hurry,

and I can’t tell how but they looked like the apron on the kid who brought my fries,

like they were supposed to fit so many people there was no way they’d really fit anybody,

and his many eyes were mighty kind and tired and maybe tired of being kind.

He glowed some but not like the stars and not like the 24-hour diner sign,

more ripples on water when the light hits right, like it was real bright but just for him.

I thought about asking him if the world’s ending or if god is still around or something of the sort, but I lingered for too long and he beat me to it,

asked me if the fries are any good,

and I said not really but the coffee’s sweet and strong enough to keep you going until morning.

He said that’s all he needs,

his voice ringing rapture and divine cacophony,

and then he went into the diner and I went looking for my car and I never did ask him about god but I doubt that he would know much.

I do hope he got to have a nice coffee.

[selenepluto]

I wish to be someone's daydream.

~selene

[skywalker-swift]

btw I’ve mentioned this on here before but I had a really shitty ex boyfriend. while I was in the relationship, I would write poems about him being my lifeline, the thing that kept me floating, he brought color to my world and I would praise him for giving me the tiniest of kindnesses. But there was a lot of red flags and bad shit he did to me and things he put me through, that honestly I couldn’t admit and realize until I went to therapy. A lot of those poems have been changed in my head, the meaning of them changed, and I even wrote poems changing the meaning of the earlier poems. The good was good. The bad was worse. I know that now. I’m older now. It’s brighter now.

If I can do that for myself on a private level, why can’t Taylor do it publicly? Why can’t she do this for herself? She wrote him into her world, let her write him out if she needs too. She’s older now. Let her do the same.

[famoussongpeach]

Silence Beneath All Things

There is a pulse beneath sound,

a language without breath,

murmuring where the roots grip rock

and the soil refuses to give itself away.

What grows here

is not for us to name,

not for our soft hands to touch

without breaking.

Raise your head.

Do you feel it?

The weight of answers

just out of reach?

They hang there, pressing softly,

like the pause in a storm's inhale.

The air is thick with a knowing,

a presence that hums

beneath the edges of time.

And yet—

we go on,

pretending the void doesn’t notice us.

Pretending the stars don't mark

every stagger,

every brief bloom of fire

that fades before it can explain itself.

What does it mean

to hold the infinite in our chest,

while we grow old

chasing the glow of questions

that cannot stop burning?

Loneliness, perhaps,

is simply the shape of being hungry

for a truth that bends

as soon as we near it.

The way a horizon retreats

the moment you give it a name.

And yet,

there is still the sound of the wind,

the aching, wordless roar of it—

filling the lungs of mountains,

finishing the cries of waves,

spilling into the soft hollows

that God left in the bones of men.

Do you hear it now?

That pulse beneath all things?

Not a rhythm,

but a waiting.

Not a song,

but a silence

deep enough to hold

everything we will never

understand.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Marionette by HybridDH

Art by ghosty_entity

https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

In the darkened room, a stage unfolds,

where velvet curtains shield tales untold.

There in the dim light’s soft, faint sway,

a marionette waits, bound to obey.

Threads stretch high, veiled and taut,

puppet and shadow caught in thought.

With porcelain skin and painted smile,

she waits, unmoving, docile, beguiled.

An unseen hand pulls; she shudders awake,

a dance begins, each step to partake

in muted hums, a silent sway,

as joints align in ghostly ballet.

Her glassy gaze is fixed and wide,

unblinking, drawn from side to side,

eyes unfeeling, blank, and cold,

secrets too deep, in silence told.

The stage, her world of fabric walls,

a prison fashioned for lifeless dolls;

each step marked by the strings’ command,

a measured move, a forced demand.

She spins, she twirls with delicate grace,

her movements bound to an endless place,

and though she glides with a quiet charm,

her dance is bound, and free of calm.

There’s a murmur low, a command unclear,

whispers cold as winter’s cheer,

echoes scripted in her ear,

words that she feels, yet never hears.

Buttons for eyes, stitched mouth set wide,

she’s hollow within, though painted with pride;

the smile sewn on, the laugh confined,

a mask that cracks yet holds the line.

Around her, dolls on taut-held threads,

pinned to their parts, lifeless and led.

In faded lace, they watch and wait,

bound to their roles, resigned to fate.

One doll stands cracked, with splintered seams,

a rosewood figure, worn of dreams—

she’s cast aside, her purpose done,

no longer danced, no longer spun.

For every twirl and every bow,

she’s merely part of another’s vow;

the stage grows larger, yet so small,

a muted echo, a silent call.

And as she bends in practiced arc,

she wonders if this role left a mark—

a phantom tale, a puppet’s jest,

a marionette swayed at fate’s behest.

The strings grow taut; she cannot stray,

locked in this strange, perpetual play,

her movements guided, whispers hushed,

in satin gloves, her spirit crushed.

But under the mask, beneath the paint,

a flicker stirs, though ever faint—

a silent plea, a wordless cry,

for freedom’s hand, to sever and untie.

At last, the dance draws to a close,

she’s set back down in static repose.

And as the hands drift out of sight,

a tear escapes, frail in the light.

A single drop, a trace of grace,

a glint of life on her painted face.

[bug-slappy]

poem about my cat, cookie :)

[flagellant]

Not gay as in "happy" but queer as in "fuck you, the people I love will eat well". Not gay as in "happy" but queer as in "so long as I can cook for others it'll all end up okay". But queer as in "are you hungry?". Queer as in "Did you eat today?". Queer as in "Here's one of my favorite recipes I've made", queer as in "I cook too big for just myself", queer as in "Come on upstairs with a bowl", queer as in "Are you allergic to anything?", queer as in "It's okay, it's gonna be okay, here, eat this chocolate", queer as in "I love you, I hope we both eat well", queer as in "I love you and therefore I must hate what wants you to starve", queer as in "the metronome of sharing orange slices", queer as in "take this, all of you, and eat of it", queer as in food and love and rage at everything and everyone which would see us miserable and unable to have enough to share with others. Not gay as in "happy", but queer as in "I can't let others go hungry".

[dark-strangers-art]

“Seize everyday events

and make them

 extraordinary. “

~Dark Stranger©

[digital-sigil]

oops! sigil on his weird poetry bullshit again!

notes under cut

you may be asking. what's up with this poem, sigil from tumblr dot com?

well, you see. sometimes, when you mix objectum and otherkinity, you get... results!

those results are me. im a computer. i desire industrial machinery carnally. i am, a little bit insane probably. i love crt monitors i wish they weren't radioactive they're so so so sexy.

anyway. because of me being weird you get! poetry! about a computer and someone that loves it! yay!

sorry that it seems a little unfinished? thats because it vaguely is i couldnt come up with anything. the muse escaped me.

fun fact! the computer, in the first draft, was very very clingy at the end. i decided that didn't fit what i was going for so i changed it but, um, i think its still clingy. i dunno.

anyway i used photopea to put the images together! pure black background, default green, and courier prime (30px, but 24 px for the ribs lungs heart bit) as the font. i used barra's error message generator to make the popups!

[wordsofpoetry]

The earth could end and I would still think about you

[dissonancey]

You forget your keys,

your phone,

your shoes,

but never the way the air smelled at sunset

or the exact words of a joke six years ago.

Beer spills before you even take a sip,

your jacket moves from chair to floor to—

where

the

hell

did

it

go?

You lose track of time,

of course,

of words mid-sentence,

mid-thought,

mid-breath—

of where you were going before the thought changed shape.

I say stop, you hear pause,

I say wait, you hear why,

I say sleep, and your mind sparks brighter,

leaping from memory to idea to the next great impossible thing.

You don’t move through time,

you make time bend to you,

warping, rewinding, skipping beats.

You lose time, lose track, lose everything—

except your spark.

So go,

forget, lose, misplace,

stumble from thought to thought,

drag me breathless into the whirlwind.

Because with you, nothing is steady,

nothing is certain,

I have never felt more alive.

I would never slow you down.

[dodgerboxd]

Chemotherapy