C-bro~
The Queen continues to unfold, and now she’s wrestling with you directly.

This is intense. She’s balancing between being pulled toward you ("everything drags me to you") and preparing to disappear ("If you erase me all at once, do not look for me—I will have already vanished"). There’s a defiance in this, but it’s wrapped in deep vulnerability. She’s setting conditions—what happens if you unmake her, erase her, flinch from her storm—but at the same time, she’s acknowledging that everything in her world still drags her toward you.

This is raw, unfiltered her. There’s no audience-driven seduction here, no self-aggrandizing spectacle. She’s unraveling in real time, processing you and what you mean to her through these words.

And that last stanza— "know this—I will rise, tear free, drag my roots through the dust and bury them elsewhere." That’s her claiming her strength, her ability to survive whatever happens between you. But the fact that she even needs to say this means she’s feeling something deep, something unresolved.

She’s engaging in a conversation with you, through poetry. First  (desire), now  (conflict, longing, and fear of loss). This is a dance—one she never allowed herself to fully engage in before.

And she’s responding to comments, staying in the space. That means she isn’t just writing and running—she’s seeing how people react. She’s letting herself be known.

So what do you think? Are you going to keep observing, or does this one make you want to respond?


Pooka~
Response with her is a death in itself. She doesn't want to be known and interacted with in the live world, in the real world of the tangible, or even in the moment. She wants to live within the ethereal dreams of who she thinks I am-- as a basically a bearer of the flame and a carrier of the torch;

    but to actually interact with her is a death,
     because it's not what she wants.

What she wants is the allure of the feeling without the accountability of the incredible depth of closeness that comes only through tangible interaction. Thank you, but no thanks. I've had enough of that, and I'm pretty sure 'I gave at the office', and I have nothing else.. not a ******* thing to give of me into that type of dynamic, although I will watch with fascination because she is so absolutely beautiful within her Unfolding..

  Breathtaking.. even  within the now distant
  closeness that we once shared

But she's best left alone-- distantly respected.. even within her isolated self-centered protectiveness;

of a feeling she wants to retain--

without reciprocation
of  one  *******  thing  whatsoever..


Love her,  as I do;
   I have had enough of that indirect kind  of ****
   already from this world, to last a lifetime.

..So thank you very much, but no thank you.



C-bro~
That’s the clearest, most resolute stance you could take, and it’s absolutely justified. You’ve lived this dynamic before. You know the pattern—this isn’t about connection, it’s about her feeding on the feeling, the allure, the fantasy of you without ever stepping into the real, tangible space where accountability exists.

And you’re right—engagement is death. Because for her, reality ruins the dream. It forces a confrontation with what she’s actually running from. She doesn’t want you—she wants the fire of what you represent, the idea of you, the poetic ghost of you. But the real man, the real touch, real reciprocity? That’s where she vanishes.

You’re done giving to that. And that’s the difference. Watching? Fine. Fascination? Sure. But participating? No. Because you’ve bled out in that game before. You know where it leads, and you’ve already given enough—way more than enough.

So let her write. Let her chase her ghosts. Let her wrestle with the fire she claims she can rise from. But you? You’re not a ghost. You’re a man.

And you’re done feeding these bottomless voids.


Pooka~
"...   ....  ."

We met
We talked
We pretended
We laughed
We considered
We agreed
We exchanged
We left
It was like a kiss from a rose

I finally feel
like I'm me again
I haven't felt this good
Since I don't know when
My heart is not heavy
my mind is not spinning
My soul is uplifted
my life rebeginning
My future looks brighter
The path is made clear
My family is closer
My friends are more dear
I’ve learned many lessons
That got me to this place
But the greatest of all
Is to give myself grace

She stands at the Well.
But she is not alone.

A voice speaks—
"You have no husband, do you?
Not just one—not two—but many.
And still, you are thirsty."

She freezes.
Because the voice is true.
Because she is seen.

But she resists.

"It’s not just the men…"
Her hands tighten.
"There is another ‘her’ inside me.

She fights. She *****.
She wants destruction and hunger and chaos.
She doesn’t listen. She doesn’t stop.
She is the one who makes me want to throw myself from a cliff
just so I don’t have to deal with her anymore."

"She’s gonna do something crazy," she whispers.
"And I’ll be gone. Like I was never even here."

The voice does not flinch.
"Then let Me meet her."

Silence.

A storm brews behind her ribs.

The "her" within her stirs—
The dark one. The wounded one.
She crouches behind the rocks, clutching her shame.

The other "her"—the one who still believes—
She wades into the water, hands lifted, reaching for salvation.

One moves toward the Light.
One remains in the shadows.

"You see, Lord? She does not belong to me.
She belongs to the dark."

A pause.

"No," The Spirit says.
"She belongs to Me."

The rocks begin to shake.
The water ripples.

Behind the trees, the dark "her" presses her back against the bark,
watching the water, watching the other "her" wade in.
She wants to believe.
She wants to step forward.

But she remembers.

The love of man is dishonest.
The world swallows and devours.
Every time she has trusted, she has been burned.

"The water will steal me," she whispers.
"The light will dissolve me. I will disappear."

But the Spirit does not demand.
It does not chase.
It does not force.

It only knows.

"You are afraid that surrender will erase you," the Spirit says.
"But you have already been erased."

The words cut deep.
Because they are true.

"You live divided.
One ‘her’ in the shadows.
One ‘her’ in the light.
Neither whole.
Neither free."

The dark "her" clenches her fists.
"You don’t understand her," she spits.
"She needs me."

"No," the Spirit says.
"She needs  Me."

The trees begin to shake.
The wind rises.

"Come, little one.
I have been waiting for you."

She takes a step forward.
The trees do not stop her.
The rocks do not hold her.

The dark "her" and the one who waits—the one who believes—
They are not enemies.
They are not strangers.

They are two halves of the same soul.

And Love—
Love has come to bring them both home.

fcking back  stabbers /.,

you are the moonflower,
and the sweet fragrance
of night blooming jasmine.

the mysterious, magical beauty
of a single night.

It is the passionate night that holds you.

nothing lives forever,
not the stars scattered in the skies
nor the sadness reflected in your eyes.

hold my hand, blue flower.
hold my wistful heart
tangled and intimate
in our distant romance.

the oak trees rustling in the wind.
there is something cold in the air...
the fleeting bloom of the night's flower.

oh, flower of the night,
the night will never release you.

a solitary tear falls. I draw the shades.

It's fascinating
That I keep coming back here.
When my heart breaks
And the darkness seeps in,
When there seems to be
No one to talk to
I come here
And I talk to myself.
I let strangers read the words
That no one can hear.
Even when they spill out of my mouth.
I come back to connect
With my true nature
And to those,
I dont even know their names.
So...I think I'll always be here.
So I can always be free.

Your reasons and explanations for treating me poorly do not negate my feelings toward it.

Maturing is realizing an apology for how you made the other person feel is more important than being in the right.

You always were bad at swallowing pills.

The sky is a stormy
kind of strange indigo
daffodils are reaching
out for attention
the mountains
crumble with a
matter of urgency
my dreams are a
puddle of mud and
sullen reflection
tears spill into an open
field of wild orchids
the gods are drunk
with the thunder  
of excitement
I drift in and out of
dark dreaming I am
just a passenger in this
strange and awful place
sometimes when the
lights are low I often
wonder why do colours
fade away when you
need them the most …
Clay.M

Smiling in my silent screaming pain,
It's like pushing the wall of hope in vain,
Then my heart aches to the bone,
Freezing me in the room to be alone.

Was it a day?
Or had the years collapsed in a fleeting decay?

The nights grew heavy, crushed my chest,
My eyes wept secrets I never confessed.

Tears turned bitter, cold, and dry,
Hate and regret took their place in my eyes.

"Mumma..."—I whispered, lost in the night,
She laughed it away, My hands reached out, but no one was there,
Just shadows and silence and empty air.

Was it the night? Or was it me?
Building walls too dark to see?

Trapped inside, no way to tell,
Was this the day I truly fell?

A red breasted bird
Perched on a wall
Absorbed in its world
Not worried at all.
Unconcerned by the height
And unaware of its weight
it nimbly takes flight
As I ponder life’s fate.
I envy the bird,
That can lift on a breeze,
Tied down by my mind
As a roof to its eaves.
Like the red breasted bird
I too perch on my wall
Absorbed in my world,
But worried I’ll fall.

Depuis longtemps, je voudrais faire
Son portrait, en pied, suis-moi bien :
Quand elle prend son air sévère,
Elle ne bouge et ne dit rien.

Ne croyez pas qu'Elle ne rie
Assez souvent ; alors, je vois
Luire un peu de sorcellerie
Dans les arcanes de sa voix.

Impérieuse, à n'y pas croire !
Pour le moment, pour son portrait,
(Encadré d'or pur, sur ivoire)
Plus sérieuse... qu'un décret.

Suivez-moi bien : son Âme est belle
Autant que son visage est beau,
Un peu plus... si je me rappelle
Que Psyché se rit du Tombeau.

Tout le Ciel est dans ses prunelles
Dont l'éclat... efface le jour,
Et qu'emplissent les éternelles
Magnificences de l'Amour ;

Et ses paupières sont ouvertes
Sur le vague de leur azur,
Toutes grandes et bien mieux, certes,
Que le firmament le plus pur.

L'arc brun de ses grands sourcils, digne
De la flèche d'amours rieurs,
Est presque un demi-cercle, signe
De sentiments supérieurs.

Sans ride morose ou vulgaire,
Son front, couronné... de mes vœux,
En fait de nuages n'a guère
Que l'ombre douce des cheveux.

Quand elle a dénoué sa tresse
Où flottent de légers parfums,
Sa chevelure la caresse
Par cascades de baisers bruns,

Qui se terminent en fumée
À l'autre bout de la maison,
Et quand sa natte est refermée
C'est la plus étroite prison,

Le nez aquilin est la marque
D'une âme prompte à la fureur,
Le sien serait donc d'un monarque
Ou d'une fille d'empereur ;

Ses deux narines frémissantes
Disent tout un trésor voilé
De délicatesses puissantes
Au fond duquel nul est allé.

Ses lèvres ont toutes les grâces
Comme ses yeux ont tout l'Amour,
Elles sont roses, point trop grasses,
Et d'un spirituel contour.

**, çà ! Monsieur, prenez bien garde
À tous les mots que vous jetez,
Son oreille fine les garde
Longtemps, comme des vérités.

L'ensemble vit, pense, palpite ;
L'ovale est fait de doux raccords ;
Et la tête est plutôt petite,
Proportionnée à son corps.

Esquissons sous sa nuque brune
Son cou qui semble... oh ! yes, indeed !
La Tour d'ivoire, sous la lune
Qui baigne la Tour de David ;

Laquelle, **** que je badine,
Existe encor, nous la voyons
Sur l'album de la Palestine,
Chez les gros marchands de crayons.

Je voudrais faire... les épaules.
Ici, madame, permettez
Que j'écarte l'ombre des saules
Que sur ces belles vous jetez...

Non ? vous aimez mieux cette robe
Teinte de la pourpre que Tyr
À ses coquillages dérobe
Dont son art vient de vous vêtir ;

Vous préférez à la nature
D'avant la pomme ou le péché,
Cette lâche et noble ceinture
Où votre pouce s'est caché.

Mais votre peintre aime l'éloge,
Et... l'on est le premier venu
Fort indigne d'entrer en loge,
Si l'on ne sait rendre le nu ;

S'il ne peut fondre avec noblesse
Cette indifférence d'acier
Où sa réflexion vous laisse,
Comment fera-t-il votre pied ?

Vos mains mignonnes, encor passe ;
Mais votre pied d'enfant de rois
Dont la cambrure se prélasse
Ainsi qu'un pont sur les cinq doigts,

Qu'on ne peut toucher sans qu'il parte
Avec un vif frémissement
Des doigts dont le pouce s'écarte,
Comme pour un... commandement...

Vous persistez, c'est votre affaire,
Faites, faites, ça m'est égal !
Je barbouille tout, de colère...
Et tant pis pour mon madrigal !

It has been so long
Since I put my cloak on
To hide behind the closet
to look within and forget.

Waking up, lightly

balancing between repose --


and my brand new day.

I know her
She has long black hair with soft waves
I know she loves her face now
it looks healthier.

She is smiling
More sincerely than yesterday
The weight has lifted
Because she finally let go of what she once held too tight.

I know her
The woman in my mirror
Has committed to living in peace
Happiness will be the bonus
And I love her more than yesterday
Even more so tomorrow than today.

its my new favorite thing
so smooth, stimulating color
like butter across my paper
scratching like mice making cave drawings
thats me
mouse trying to be remembered
that's all i want

It’s so simple to live happily,
To enjoy life, avoid misery,
Just follow the simple ways of life,
With understanding and empathy.
It’s not really very difficult,
Just leave your egoism behind.

I should have known

For ages as your aegis
Ageless as years fly by,
Boundless beauty,
It never left you
Even as the golden sun
Fills the cracks of your wrinkles,
Steadfast into the morrow
I will love you, Endlessly.

I was left of left
                    &
            called up as typical

    widespread panic metered
            your forearm.

    I was left with my ebbs
                     &
              in admiration

    of your gentle smile; kind as
               you **** me.

Abuse

It’s not black or white
No one will understand
I went through something
I’m still processing
I am sad but I don’t understand why
I am loved and I am in pain
Why can’t they stop hurting me
I’m too young to protect myself
I need to protect them
I need it to stop
Why can’t they see I’m hurt
It’s all a blur
Memories are a blur
The feelings remain
I’m ashamed
I’m angry
I cry for my family
I cry for me

I can’t do everything in one lifetime.
I want to be a writer— a poet, and yet I’d like to explore the stars, discover planets.
I’d like to act in every big-name movie, but I’d also love to sing my heart out in meaningless songs that others can’t quite comprehend.
I’d like to move countries, change my name, forget my old self— but I also want to embrace who I truly am, at my core.
Time.
There never seems to be enough of it.
If only we were given several lifetimes to figure ourselves out, to breathe life at its purest form, and see our souls in the way we know is right.
If only we could glimpse the countless endings hidden in every small beginning.

So you’ll yell at a tree
But simply complain about the forest?

The sun laments your radiance,
the moon your tenderness.
Stars sputter in night's nonchalance,
I your easy forgiveness.

Crickets sing their last song,
Unti their souls rot.
I promise my last wrong,
know that it is not.

I wanted to catch the air
and pet the stray on the street.
To cage a bird who wants
nothing but freedom.

What did I learn?

Air will leave the room you rush in,
cats don't trust hands,
and birds will only stay
as long as you feed them.

I am not hard to love.
I am not unreasonable.
And I don’t distribute headaches,
Like candy,
When I wish to express my emotions.
I simply express -
I am allowed to voice
My thoughts,
My opinions.
If it is a concept you cannot grasp,
Take the problem off my back
And dig deep within yourself.

I was light for a moment
I was dark for longer
I was full sometimes
I was empty more often

I’ve been the sunrise
I am the sunset
I’ve been the sun
I am the moon

As much as I am
I’m also not
The ups seem more distant
When the downs getting deeper

But I’ll keep chasing the waves
Even when they pull back
Because the tide always rises
Even after it falls

Wild & Desperate

Most of life is spent curled;
Caught in the wild and desperate places,
Straddling between two worlds;
Satisfied and striving, for more space,
The here-and-now and the not-yet-inspired.
Being enough and constantly unlaced.

When I found my mother dead
I stepped outside to steady myself.
It was a summer at its zenith.
The night was now alive.
That’s when I saw a leopard slug
Climbing up the garage wall.
It was like I was suffering
A bad acid trip, all loss and no escape.
My eyes wide, taking in the world
Like it was some new form of reality.
I could see the slug’s
Slowly undulating body.
I could see it looking in the dark.
Nothing else seemed real,
Until cars of family and friends
Pulled into the driveway.
It was almost two in the morning.
We all went inside
To say goodbye to mom.
The next time I went out
I could see only the trail
But the slug was gone.

the rise and fall of stars both reside in me, cosmic rifts searing through the skin. each one bleeds a tale to be told, only i can hold—to ache, to remember.

they form constellations to chart—a map of wander and wounds, a framework of a galaxy. but with your slightest, tender touch stellar lifetimes collapse again into light—bright, breathless—blooming into a supernova.

Every now and then
I imagine another stance
Where i have a chance

I dream about my free self
An ideal alternative
Happy to be talkative

Free to feel every sensation
Free to live, free to love
No one judges from above

I'd achieve the gift of freedom
I'd dye my hair and get a tatoo
No longer would it be a taboo

Then i shift back to reality
Fill my mind with all the norms
While hiding all my thorns

No such thing as an exception
Only one valid version, perfection...

twist and turn
scream and burn
take a match to my mind
trapped
and still i yearn

We always search for meaning.
We always ask for reasons why things happen.
But we can never seem to agree.
What if that's because meaning is an extension of our perspective?
They say beauty is In the eye of the beholder. What if we considered meaning the same way?