#My poems

[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.

[hybriddh]

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.

[dark-strangers-art]

I leave fingerprints

on silky skin

your eyes close

 ... barely audible moans

lust consumes 

Breathless

an erotic dance

No inch untouched

shivers of anticipation

pain overwhelmed

By an ardent need to feel

Dark Stranger©

[wordsofpoetry]

The earth could end and I would still think about you

[flagellant]

[dodgerboxd]

Chemotherapy

[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!

[victormalonso]

cosmogénesis de un sueño \ víctor m. alonso

[escenas de un sueño \ el universo de mi imaginación]

como un espacio estático,  el oleaje mudo de la noche me recuerda el sueño; aquí sigo, aquí estoy, vivo, entre los ramajes oceánicos del jardín de mi futuro

like a static space, the silent waves of night remind me of the dream;  here I am, alive, among the oceanic branches of the garden of my future

[l-michalska-writer]

you deserve someone

who'll learn what you like

what you hate

and why you cry at night

[a-midnight-dreary]

Eggtober 2024 Poem by me. Living in your hometown am I right? @quezify

Previous Eggtober Poems 2023 | 2022

[dreamgirljune]

may we carry our scars to tomorrow ── judas h. (image id in alt)

[dark-strangers-art]

His Hands

~Dark Stranger ©

She remembered 

his hands,

soft ...strong

firmly holding her 

how gracefully

guiding her  

forcefully controlling her

the exquisite pain

they brought

…the pleasure 

Oh… yes…

The pleasure

…she trembled

~Dark Stranger ©

[vink-charles]

There was a time I really wished, craved, to be terminally ill.

Just so that people would stop pleading with me.

If I were visibly ill, people would stop bargaining, would stop expecting me to stay.

My mind is like a tumor that is untreatable, I wish people would understand that and let me pull my own plug.