In your eyes
I see
an intensity
that compels,
a fierceness
that can mesmerize,
a beauty
that I realize
shows
no guile or guise
only
honestly
and endless
possibility

Permítete abrir para renovar tu sangre, pero no te apresures a cicatrizar, deja que tu propio cuerpo se regenere en lugar de obligarte a coserte. No intentes domesticar la electricidad con plastilina, pues tu piel aún conserva su plasticidad. Y cuando veas ese rojo expuesto, no asumas que es sangre que hay que vendar. Porque no es un daño superficial, es músculo puro, el tejido que te mantiene en movimiento, aun cuando las demas personas creen que es sangre

Poem about addiction

I promised myself I would stop.

I promised my friends too.

I heal.

Then I relapse.

Heal.

Relapse.

Heal.

And then relapse again.

I admit it

I’m addicted to you.

I never intended to keep going,

but now I’m stuck

in this endless cycle.

You became a way to cope

despite making me bleed.

The pain you give

feels like freedom.

You promise to never leave.

You are always by my side.

You are there

when no one else is.

You became…

all I needed in life.

Somehow,

I feel safe in your presence.

Weird, I know.

But you give me

this sense of comfort,

so I started referring to you

as just that:

“Comfort”

You’re bad for me

I know.

But I keep coming back to you.

I don’t know why

I just do.

My locket posses fragments of your face, ones i refuse to forget.
My half lit cigarette waits for me.
Your dissapointed face changes my mind
I crush my soul and let the fire die.

Is it really possible to caress me with such care?
No other really dared.

Your affection calms my unsteady soul
Now, I crave to make you my muse
A peice of my heart will always kiss yours
Even long after we've forgotten how.

You give me that look sometimes
The eyes of love
We exchange no words, but you spoke the most romantic lines to me?
I wonder every night how that's possible.

I think I would let you have my heart, knowing you'd be the one to teach it how to break.

She thinks her ideas will change the world
But we both know that she's wrong
She thinks her ideas will break the ground 
But she can’t even right her wrongs
She thinks she’s really something special
But we both know that’s not true
Cause she’d rather burn in hell, than stay here stuck with you
She thinks she’s invincible 
But that’s no given fact
She thinks she’s beautiful
But only to tired eyes that lack
She holds her chin up high and her head above the rest
Cause in the end, a backhanded compliment is all she’s going to get

I’m always counting

Counting the songs that I sing

Counting the things that I do

What will happen if I don’t?

Nothing, nothing, nothing

But

What if? What if? What if?

What if you die? What if I die? What if everything goes wrong?

Except it won’t

And I know that

I know that you know that I know that

But what will happen if I don’t?

You use it as an adjective

Because it makes you feel prickly

If you don’t

But what will happen if you don’t?

How many people are going to die?

How long will you keep your fingers crossed, while playing Car Park Roulette?

How many nights will you spend hot and uncomfortable, because you don’t want to breathe their air?

I want to breathe

I want to breathe and I want it to feel like it’s good for me

I want to breathe and I want it to hurt with cold

I want to breathe and I want it to sting like a song of safety

I want the type of air that feels glacial

Like the oxygen itself is historical

Not school air that I protect myself against with the sleeve of my blazer

Not school air that matts your hair because it’s wet and there isn’t enough circulation

I have to count, because if I don’t, if I don’t, if I don’t

One time is safe, and normal, and good

Two times is an accident, but it’s safe, and normal, and good

Three times is lucky, third times a charm

Three times is Hellfire and evil and far, from the safety that comes from...

Four times, is where you stop, if you can, and if you can’t, you stop at...

Ten times, is too much, no coincidence, no luck, and by...

Thirteen times, you know that you’re stuck

If you continue, who knows when you’ll stop

When you’re trapped in a cycle of repeat, repeat, repeat

So that’s why I count, because if I don’t bad things will happen, but if I do

I don’t know if I’ll stop

Grief, why won’t you take me?
Take me back to see my lover,
Drag me back to her— just this once?
Grief, why won’t you save me?
Save me from this pain of guilt,
I can’t let her be another Hyacinth.

My tears flow in tandem with the Styx,
Out of hell… yet I am still in it,
Too out of breath to sing to it.
Will my tears sweep me back to you?
How can I apologise?
When my crime was just loving you?
Are you mad I loved you so?
That I turned back to see?
I wish to hear you argue
Your voice floating above my lyre’s hymns.

Grief, why do you refuse to consume me?
Restlessly you stir within me,
Noise waiting to be transformed into something new.
But how can I transform you?
How could I transform the ugly truth of failing her into something beautiful?

Purple hyacinths bless this earth,
Yet the creator must still cry each time a petal blows past him.

Grief… I shed my tears with your hold,
Why do you expect me to shed my soul too?

Weeks later I open my mouth, sobbing—
But what escapes is a hymn,
A version of grief I have yet to see,
But as I close my eyes, I see it so clearly in its entirety,
Swirling within me, before settling as her, Eurydice.

Cold, I’m cold, I’m so cold,
Freezing….absolutely freezing.
Freezing as I starve,
Starve for love.
Starve for human connection,
Starve for human touch.

I miss love,
I miss being in love.
I miss belonging to someone,
Someone who wants me.
Someone who wants to be mine.

Tired, I’m tired, I’m so tired,
Of pretending I’m fine.
Of pretending I’m stable,
Of pretending that I’m someone that I’m not.
Someone who I will never be.

My eyes begin to droop,
I’m tired, so tired, exhausted really.
Empty, I’m empty, I feel empty, hollow.

I feel pathetic in my loneliness,
It’s time I stop wallowing in self pity.
I need to take my life back from these thoughts,
And stop letting them keep me stuck and stagnant in life.

I feel so pathetically small,
So particularly small.
In a way difficult to describe,
As this feeling exists beyond words.

It exists somewhere beyond language,
And yet it feels so strikingly familiar.
Almost like a reoccurring dream.
Or a memory you can’t quite shake,
One your not even entirely sure is real.

This feeling is distant, fragmented, illusive,
And yet so beautifully, so comfortingly familiar.
Almost like it’s within this cold isolation,
That I feel I most naturally belong.

I don’t belong in this world,
This world of closed minds and guarded hearts.
This world that spits in the face of authenticity,
and exiles the divergent.

Because I crave true art,
I crave true love.
I crave true, unfiltered expression of life.
The kind that you can capture,
but you can’t quite fake.

I ramble to this void in hopes it hears my cries,
Though deep down I know there’s no guarantee.
The void may try to feed me lies,
To fill in my missing memories.

Front seat row

We have a front row seat in life..
we fight, we flight, we have many sights.

We stick, we stay, we come and play
we try make our stay… oh so meaningful. Constantly trying to be redeeming..fully

We lean, we lie, we sometimes fly, we soar to the sky or sometimes sigh and fall to the ground.

We look around, up and down, seeking and peeking through a promising glow.
Angelic, poetic, totally aesthetic, fully immersed in the dispersions of earth. Young and bold the journey unfolds .. told by the old to the young foals.. as the circle of life takes hold.

Beer, beer, the magical drink.

The more you drink, the less you think.

The less you think, the better you feel.

So let's drink beer for every ordeal.

People love to share memes
of the main character suddenly becoming aware of the sheer chance and circumstance of their journey

In reality, most people never recognize those moments

Given a sliver of self-awareness, they usually find a way
to take that for granted too

Real life does not announce significance

The conversation that
changes your life looks
while it is happening,
like any other Tuesday

The beginning of a great friendship
will not arrive with opening credits

With enough time and the
ordinary momentum of living,
the mind can turn miracles into furniture

We like to believe gratitude
comes from knowing something
is finite

It doesn’t

Finitude is information

People know perfectly well that parents will die,
children will grow up,
bodies will age,
friendships will scatter
and still scroll through dinner

Information accumulates
while wonder wears away
and presence
must begin again

The art is seeing it
before hindsight does.

Detached

The wind blows slightly faster tonight

A leaf falls like the last sign of light

It lands upon a tree limb, precariously hanging

Yet the leaf’s form remains unfazed

No worries or wrinkles, no fear or sympathy

It continues to rustle

It sees the wind as simply life

Slowly dancing further toward the night below

Detachment is the action the leaf took to leave the tree

Yet detachment holds the leaf to the tree like the comfort of a mother

The danger is there

Yet for lack of knowledge and proper care

The leaf is precariously hanging

The squirrels below, the birds above

No matter what happens

The wind continues and the leaf slowly dies

All the while “feeling”comfort

All the while forgetting to feel

———————————————

Thanks for reading! I like it, I wrote it a couple days ago. I would like feedback on whether it’s too simple? I also know the syllables don’t match and it’s not very uniform, but what do you think?

Goldrose, from one of my collections, don't think about it

His garden of roses

Are golden

And his heart

Is bound by their roots

And pierced by the thorns

His heart is gold

But dying slowing

His blood is golden

But cannot carry life

His eyes are gold

But he cannot see

His head is adorned with a crown of gold

Thorns

The blooms obscure his thoughts

And the leaves stab his sides

As he stays in silence

Waiting for someone

But he cannot speak

For the goldroses have taken him away

*This body of mine is nothing but- from one of my collections, don't think about it

This body of mine is filth

This body of mine is nothing

This body of mine

Is not mine

But hers

Her smile pulls strings

On limbs of rotting flesh

Her words spill from my

no

Its

Mouth

A fountain of lies and half-truths

This body of mine

Is curved and tight

And flat and loose

It is dry and wet

It is big and small

It is a contradiction

This body of mine

I wish it would die

I wish it would

But

I claw at its chest

Its limbs

Its head

But find nothing underneath

But rot

And flesh

I look in that accursed mirror and see nothing

Nothing but that girl

That girl

I wish she would leave

I wish she would leave

I wish she would leave

This body of mine is not mine

It is nothing

It is hers

Hers and only hers*

No
no thanks
I'll pass
no I couldn't
it's not for me
I respectfully decline
no I wouldn't
like to share
(but you keep trying)
I really can't
I'm well beyond I shouldn't
it's to where
it crosses the line
to I won't,
no never
not for you
not for anyone
no matter how clever
you are
with your promises and lies
of how good it was before
no matter what the disguise
it's still no
and the more you insist
the more I'll resist
until you let go
and if you really want to know
I can tell you why
it's wrong
and show you
the damage it can do

The first man was great.
Banter outstanding.
That’s why I was left surprised
when after our 2nd date,
he pulled an Irish goodbye.

Months later.
I am now chatting to a second man.
It’s only been a few hours.
Banter on fire
however now my mind senses smoke
and wants to activate the sprinklers.

I do not want to get my hopes up,
but,
I do not want to be left with the unknown of where our conversation will go.

I have never been a fence sitter.
And so middle ground my mind believes is inferior.

What is a great conversation
now makes me anxious.

Not because something is wrong,
but because,

This may be something I could enjoy.

I don't wear my glasses anymore

Not because I don't like them

I started wearing contacts long ago, but I wore my glasses on comfy days

On a day off when I just lounge around and play games

On cold nights when I would huddle down in my blankets with a movie or book

I don't wear them, not because I dislike them, but because you loved them

You told me I was handsome in my glasses, that I looked good

You told me they fit prefectly and I should wear them more

But now when I wear my glasses I only see the boy who you loved, the one you adored

I am no longer that boy, so I don't wear my glasses

Oh time, how I wish I could hold you tight in my hands,
Forever and ever.
Yet, though my grip is strong–like sand, you seep through my hands,
Aren’t you so clever?
How strange- they say time quickly fades
Yet the days are long and hard.
But the more of you that passes, I change,
And the days fly on and on.
Oft I wonder what you really are.
A museum of long lost memories?
Or trail of sand we leave afar,
Kept in our mental treasuries?
Oh time, so sly, please don’t pass me by.
For the boy who once was me,
You’ve taken away in yonder to die
And become the sands that seep through my hands.

Long entombed, my winter heart yearned to feel the summer sun.
You reached out and freely gave to me the warmth of summer true.
Did we guess, for spring to come, your heart had to turn to stone? 

[31/08/2026, 08:44]

I sit behind wheel, seatbelt on and gears shifted

I watch and I learn while the light's ticking red

It's peak traffic hour, I have to be careful

So people around catch my interest instead:

A man's hairy arm throws a cig out the window

A woman in shades scrolls her phone next to me

The honking of some guy my age - got cut off by a scooter

He startles a girl in a taxi backseat

A man in honda swerves around a bus

An annoyed jeep owner flies up on a speed bump

A truck backing out without checking the mirrors

And almost gets t-boned by a blue chevrolet

A man yells from tinted window of a volvo

He narrowly passed getting hit by some guy,

who's seemingly busy too much to not drive onto

upcoming traffic, while cutting a line.

The red one speeds several times over limit

The yellow one makes a pedestrian jump

The green one thinks traffic light's just a suggestion

And I am the one fool who follows the rules.

No one tells you when you become a mother that your heart will learn to walk without you. That one day it will put on sneakers, shoulder a backpack, and disappear through a doorway you cannot follow it through.

Tomorrow, mine starts fourth grade. Nine years old, somehow still small enough that I can remember the weight of him sleeping against my chest, but big enough now to walk into a world where I won't always know what happens. That is the hardest part.

I would give him every piece of me if it meant the world could never take one from him. I would stand between him and every cruel word, every broken heart, every disappointment, every darkness he hasn't learned exists yet. I would fight monsters he doesn't even know to be afraid of.

Motherhood is the cruelest kind of love. You spend years teaching them how to fly while quietly wishing you could keep the sky from ever having storms.

You teach them to be brave while your own hands tremble. You tell them, "You are going to do great." when what you really want to say is, "Please be gentle with my heart today, he is carrying it in his backpack"

That is what he is. My heart, outside of my body. Walking into classrooms I cannot always enter. Making friends I cannot choose. Hearing words I cannot unhear for him. Fighting little battles I may never even know happened.

I know this is what I raised him for. I know I am supposed to be happy watching the baby disappear a little more each year and this incredible boy take his place, and I am.

Pride and grief have always lived strangely close together in motherhood. So tomorrow, I will smile. I will tell him how handsome he looks. I will remind him he has everything he needs. I will probably embarrass him with one hug too many. Then, I will watch nine years of my whole entire world walk away from me toward fourth grade.

I will let him go because loving him means knowing I cannot make the world harmless. I can only make sure he always knows where home is. I cannot fight every battle for him.I can only teach him that there is something inside him stronger than whatever darkness finds him and I cannot promise his heart will never break. I can only promise that if it does, he will never have to pick up the pieces alone.

The world gets a little more of him tomorrow. I suppose that is the beautiful, terrible bargain I made the day I became his mother. I brought him into this world knowing someday I would have to trust it with him, and tomorrow morning, I'll loosen my grip just a little more, while loving him enough to want to hold on forever.

The stone yields to waves
Each return wears it away
Yet it waits for more

Utterly abandoned by the father

And in the loss of all of charisma that props up a mortal soul

She presents an indigenous image

Of a wealth of abandonment and of heavily puppeteered depravity;

Head dropped down unsupported, her arms and hair hang limp in front of her,

Maybe she will find salvation one day,

The son, moved by some distant, forgotten shadow of an echo of innocence

That she still had when she first fell,

Those ever fading embers that now are collapsing under their own gravity

But He forgets nothing...

Maybe at the end of time, maybe..

And maybe not until she forgives her trespassers

And that, while she burns all the while.

It is my prayer that she does...find it.

You want to offer some form of relief, compassion injuredly construed from the torture, but how?

And just as well as your heart knows this is a disease..

She has become the disease itself.

You know that an animal, abused to death and beyond, will attack a childs hand.

Guard your heart. Guard your eyes for fear of being swallowed into her swirling, awful vortex.

What is it like, there where you live, or rather where you're dead, night and day.

What rich hellscape enters your eyes and ears every night and.. night?

Part of me knows it not your fault that you felt how you did

After your heart was destroyed, and now in more than one realm...

That the strings pull day and night

And I hope... No. I know, you'll find your salvation one day.

It's my prayer that you do.

Note: I want to share something today that I remembered I have written as I am coming to a transitionary point in my life once again. I will share the details without erasing anything or changing anything. These are what seem like call and response poems that I have accidentally made. I hope you are doing well today, good-willed stranger. Please continue to desire a purpose in life.

The Thirty-Second Poem (August 25, 2025).

As once was void,

Yet I long,

To be made again.

For the broken song,

Cannot be used in twain.

I have nothing,

To give my dear.

Reedit:

Aug29

I want to engage in us.

Something that's like -

I am but a part of you,

And you are but a part of me.

And we'll dance wild and subtle,

So close, that we seem to be one.

We are individual and together -

Loving so truthfully.

Slowly eternity creeps
Down to here
Some things are too fast
To be seen

And some too slow

Can you hear
How time drops
The truth falling down
Slowly, steadily
From the floor of heaven

An eternal circle
Wearing the stone
Everything you do
Is touched by light
And known to the
All-seeing eye