#My poems

[flagellant]

[dark-strangers-art]

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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.

[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.

[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!

[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]

===   ==============

“There she is again

on her knees

Her addiction 

only grow

day by day

and he was

her drug “

~Dark Stranger© 

from the poem addictions

============  =================

[wordsofpoetry]

The earth could end and I would still think about you

[dodgerboxd]

Chemotherapy

[chocolate-toes]

Strong arms.

I am a lover of strong arms.

Not the kind I was taught to love, but the kind I instinctively loved.

Not the rough, destructive kind,

But the soft yet somehow firm kind.

Not the kind that are violent and aggressive,

But the kind that are gentle and protecting.

I am a lover of the strong arms I hope to someday hold me, not the ones that currently hold me down.

I am a lover of the strong arms of a beautiful Butch,

the kind I've never experienced yet am homesick for.

A poem I wrote for my butches<3

[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

[varda-star-queen]

Forever There

A poem from Adar's POV, now that he's gone from Middle-Earth, but never from out hearts

I don't often write poetry, but for some reason tonight I felt the need. (It's a bit clunky - I am no Rumil 😉🤣 - but hey-ho, I needed to scratch an itch!)

~~~~~~~~🖤🖤🖤~~~~~~~~

Do not weep, my children, now that I'm gone, Do not grieve in the shadows, for I have flown. Beyond Middle-Earth my soul has moved on, I am not lost; I am reborn.

I walk among the sage where the soft winds sigh, Where river reeds dance and the songbirds cry. In Tilion’s light, in the hush of the trees, You’ll hear my voice on the midnight breeze.

I am the whisper of leaves that fall, The trickle of rain, the nightbird’s call. No chains can bind, no blade cut deep, No scars, no pain. Just rest and sleep.

Forgive me, I beg, for where I fell short, For the times we struggled, the battles we fought. Remember my love, constant and true, Freedom was all I wanted, for every one of you.

So lift your head, let sorrow fade, I am with you in both light and shade. Look always, my children, when you feel despair, In your heart, where I'll be, forever there.

~~~~~~~~🖤🖤🖤~~~~~~~~

[hybriddhthepoet]

Beneath the Iron Veil

By HybridDH Art by ghosty_entity https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

In the heart of night’s deepest clutch,

Where brimstone burns and hammers thrash,

I toll away ’neath the soot-black sky,

Bound to the forge where the weaklings die.

This hellish pit, this eternal grind,

The swing of my hammer, both curse and bind.

The iron resists, my spirit depletes,

In the relentless echo of my heart’s bleak beats.

The damned forces, they wear me thin,

A soul corroded by the din.

Yet I stand firm in the blistering glow,

A forged man, no semblance of woe.

Through the veil of night, I chase mere bread,

In the mines where hope fears to tread.

The coal sears my flesh; I am marred,

Deeper still where the exits are barred.

It’s a choking hell, this miner’s cage,

Where the air is thick and the walls enrage.

But stop I can’t, it’s a maddening lure,

The grind that promises but never ensures.

My body’s a wreck, oh, I’m breaking down,

Yet I can’t fucking stop, can’t bear to drown.

I need to halt, to breathe, to cease,

Yet the chains of labor deny my peace.

These days stretch endless, a cruel jest,

Each sunrise mocking my lack of rest.

What is this life if not a trap?

Where dreams are dreams, and bridges snap.

I’m not the sage, not the learned man,

Just a husk, driven since this all began.

Whittled by duty, by life’s sharp knife,

Carved out of the shadows, devoid of life.

Yet, there’s a beauty in this brutal fight,

In the sweat-soaked days and the coal-black night.

The flicker of hope in a lover’s touch,

The fleeting peace that offers much.

Every strike sparks a bit of my soul,

In the blistering forge that takes its toll.

And though I curse the heavens, forsaken in toil,

I’m tethered to this accursed soil.

Why, oh why, must this be my fate?

To grind and suffer, to spurn and hate.

When will God lend His goddamn hand?

Am I not His creature, shaped by His command?

Yet, amidst the forge’s unforgiving flame,

I find a fierce will no god can tame.

For though I’m cast in the deepest mine,

Each hammer’s fall marks a design.

A life of steel, of fire, of pain,

A spirit tempered, born again.

For each day I rise, broken, anew,

To face the dark with a grim view.

I’ll keep swinging, keep making my mark,

In the belly of earth, in the endless dark.

And when I’m gone, let them say I stood tall,

Against the tide, against it all.

For I am more than this soot, this sweat,

More than the iron, the forge’s threat.

I am the fire, the will, the might,

A smith of my fate, in the dead of night.

So let the winds of hardship howl and moan,

In the mines of sorrow, I’ve found my throne.

A king of ashes, of dust, of bone,

In the silent depths, I reign alone.

This is my saga, grim and long,

A testament written in sweat and song.

For even in darkness, deep and sheer,

The forge’s fire makes everything clear.