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I don’t wish for you
to fade like footprints in the tide,
to vanish like whispers in the wind,
or drift away like a ghost at dawn.

I don’t want to forget.
I want to sense you—even from afar,
to feel the hush of your presence near,
to know your soul
still dances with mine
in quiet, invisible threads
that time cannot sever.
Gently cross over the wooden bridge
You have places to go
The bridge has to be there for every passer-by
Dawn to dusk, weathered, not yet to dust
Into the forest deep,
where the rivers rumble and roar
and sing lullabies
Thank you so much 😊 Agnes, bless your heart for all the love kindness and sunshine ☀  đŸ”† that you share and happiness that you spread :)
 1° 
badwords
We are not survivors.
we are residue.

the soot that lingers
on collapse's last tongue.

entropy's loiterers—
spiteful, unfinished.
neurons in feedback.
systems with no gods.

the architects left
when the scaffolds imploded.
we cradle their blueprints
like scripture in ash.

rebuild?
with what breath?
with what myth?
our dreams are famine-shaped.

nirvana is a severance package.
emptiness sold
in velvet robes.
a silence that never asked
about wreckage.

so we sharpen our vowels.
scribe ruin in elegy.
chant hymns for dead logics.
leave witness marks
in the marrow of this glitch.

we were not chosen.
we remained.
“Failure Spiral // Witness Marks” is a blistered fragment from the edge of philosophical exhaustion — a poem that resists salvation with surgical precision. Cast in scorched economy, it unspools a mythic post-mortem of civilization, depicting a world not built but inherited — a residual loop of cascading failures mistaken for history.

The voice is not that of a prophet, but of an archivist trapped in recursion — mapping entropy with a cartographer’s detachment and a poet’s poison. In this world, survivors are no more than loiterers of meaning, spectral stewards of systems that have outlived their gods.

There is no crescendo, only a ritual of reckoning. Each line is a witness mark — the scorched etching of presence, absence, and the irreparable fracture in between.
 1° 
Cheyenne
If I wrote all my thoughts
On tiny scraps of paper,
Or tapped onto a blinding white screen-
Could I call it poetry?
Would people listen to me then?
 1° 
McKenna
In a world of fake
I‘ll still be true
Through my heart ache
And I’m still blue
And love is love
And is never ending
From low to above
And now Im forgetting
The way you felt
In my arms
“Play the cards your dealt”
But when I do I hear alarms
 1° 
ap0calyps3
a casket my bed, my morbid rest
I am dead
I am blessed
death; a darkness that roams fancily dressed.
 1° 
rishita
"Some songs were just a noise to him ,
some memories were just a choice for him.
He made my world exist for me,
but my confession was just a voice to him."
 1° 
Brianna N
Aggressive, arrogant, and abusive,
with aggravation and absence,
and accidents that alarm.

Broken, beating, black and blue,
with bruises and blades,
and burns that blister.

Cold, cancelled, and captive,
with clashes and chills,
and contagiousness that corrupts.
 1° 
Chuck Kean
What More

      In the name of love he came
The words written are true
In the name of love he came
He came for me and you

In the name of love he came
To the people himself he revealed
In the name of love he came
He taught and he healed

In the name of love he came
He even raised Lazarus from the dead
In the name of love he came
In the Bible his words are written in red

In the name of love he came
He fed the people and he prayed
In the name of love he came
And yet he was betrayed

In the name of love he came
Accepting his gift is to be purified
In the name of love he came
Love is the reason he was crucified

In the name of love he came
Yet still some use the choice to ignore
In the name of love he came
I say in the name of love What More

Written By:Charles Kean
06/07/2025
 1° 
RGH
I used to chase dreams like helium balloons
Now I can't get out of bed till after noon
I have found my infliction is my own,
Sometimes, the seeds will never grow.

Battling disease while I cannot feel alive,
I miss the thrills of a cliff dare of a dive
Hitting the water from way up so high
Vision blurred from salty water in my eyes.

I feel that shadow that will bring me death,
every time I heave with my heavy breathes
I never learnt to battle demons past my wall
And the bricks they used to smash me over-all.

The people I've hurt are more demons in my head,
It won't be long until these tyres will lose the tread.
Amour, Amour, donne-moi paix ou trĂȘve,
Ou bien retire, et d'un garrot plus fort
Tranche ma vie et m'avance la mort :
Douce est la mort qui vient subite et brĂšve.

Soit que le jour ou se couche ou se lĂšve,
Je sens toujours un penser qui me mord,
Et malheureux en si heureux effort,
Me fait la guerre et mes peine rengrĂšvent (1).

Que dois-je faire ? Amour me fait errer
Si hautement, que je n'ose espérer
De mon salut que la désespérance.

Puis qu'Amour donc ne me veut secourir,
Pour me défende il me plaßt de mourir,
Et par la mort trouver ma délivrance.


1. RengrĂšve signifie s'aggrave.
I'm addicted
To sadness

Music is better
When it makes me cry

Starring at the ceiling is better
When I hope I won't get up

Parties are more fun
When I hide my emotions

Dressing up is more exciting
When I cover my scars

Being alive is better
When I cut myself

I wish I could be happy
But I can't
So I'd rather suffer
Than feel nothing at all
Everyday
New ways
Better days
Helpful ways
Much too say
Heat is on
 1° 
Rose
He is tall with limbs that stretch like  
         roots,
     Eyes and teeth and ears sing joy
  â€˜What does love feel like?’
He asked my friend
Her nose twitches, her ears spike up
Like a bunny offered a carrot
  â€˜Like a deep breath in
       Like walking through the door,
           And dropping your bags.
              You're home.’
                  Exhale
She smiles so bright, I'm sure
she has swallowed the sun
   ‘What does love feel like?’
He asks me
    â€˜Bug under a boot.’
Exhale
 1° 
MetaVerse
There once was a fella from Earth
Whose stomach grew inches of girth:
     He bloated and bloated
     Until he exploded
And gave to an alien birth.
 1° 
badwords
I read
what you wrote.
It is beautiful,
and not mine.

I have laid those bones to rest—
not in spite,
but in mercy.

Your voice is strong.
Let it carry you forward.
I won’t follow.
But I will listen
from far away,
in peace.
 1° 
Liana
Sometimes the memories
Need to roll down my cheek
Before I can let them go
So, so many bad ones that they are jumbling up. I want to just press "delete all" but this is the closest thing to that I guess (except for death but that rant is for another day)
 1° 
Damocles
A moment of riverbank fog,
In the earliest morning,
Before the timid sun rises over the horizon,
Aghast from the surging push of a breeze,
Watching the tall grass sway like fingers out car windows.

The musk of Petrichor and Dew
Pervades every olfactory nerve,
Invading taste and thought like an intrusive guest,
Submissively I drop to my knees,
Bowing to the bountiful grace she bestows upon me.

As the waters clear,
And the sweet mandarin orange paints the sky,
I am comforted like a swaddled babe,
Perfect and clean.
Unlimited in my pursuit of peace,
I am burdened only with impatience,
Blessed with the soothing effect of her touch,
Awash in the company of the ancient groves,
Enthralled by the emerald city as her Vedant kin call to me.
From clay to bone, and back again,
Gaia, watch over me, all mother.
I refer to Gaia as the all-mother, the mother of all creation and I may not be a hippie proper, but I do respect and love nature, and animals to an almost obsessive degree.
 1° 
Dency
It was never luck
It was written
With purpose
With love
And with unstoppable grace.
You always count on her
so why not
make her a necklace from the
beads on an abacus
and make it official.
 1° 
undefined
The call to Oblivion
gets harder to resist
A desire to be numb
so obviously persists
I changed "temptation" to "Itch" because, while it may seem more crass a word to use, I believe that it is much better suited
She is a copywriter
at a law firm, where

the men remind her of

the creepy guy in the
produce aisle, with a

head of iceberg lettuce,

leering at her, smiling
—as she contemplates

the bright blank screen.
 1° 
winnie the poem
Gray clouds bloom open,
raindrops fall into the puddle
on the ground




which One circles around.
I've learned to live with knowing your not...
Yet when you died a piece of me did too
I guess now I am half alive.
im meant for this world --just as branches naturally stretch toward the sun's warm light, as roots whisper to the earth and draw water so the plant may bear fruit, as water flows in deliberate motions --gentle, but can break down even the hardest of rocks into sediments, into sand as countless as the stars.

i feel most true when i can feel but cannot see. most true when the fierce breeze of open plains strikes through me, as if my lightness is not enough to blow away my desperations; i have to find meaning in the comparisons between the street's restless hum and the oceans breath... if i close my eyes hard enough, it could feel the same, i could change.

i am meant for this world, and i am so afraid that if i am not, i must eat every moment that has touched my skin; i forgot why my skin is so bruised.......

i am meant for this world, but perhaps i am simply not meant for other people !!!
wrote this as a letterboxd review on a 2005 film directed by gakuryu ishii :))) i love watching films and writing poetry :))) it's the only thing where i feel most true,,, when i watch films, i don't need to say my name, all i need are my eyes to see and my ears to hear :))) i love art :)))
 1° 
Robin Edwards
There is no time now
For poetry and flowers
We fight for freedom
We fight for the right to live
In a world of boundless love
 1° 
McKenna
I’m tired of pretending now
Your constant criticism has me down
Do you realize what this does to me?
I’m crying when I shouldn’t be
You make me feel so crazy
And no, I’m not lazy
Don’t guilt trip me into doing your stuff
I know every word you say is bluff
It’s silly people believe when you say,
“She hasn’t done anything today”
When it’s a lie and isn’t true
Why do you have to make me feel so blue?
Confuse me with your kind words
Yell at me and call all of my friends ‘nerds’
I can’t tell if you love or hate me
Something I can’t quite guarantee
 1° 
Twisted Poet
I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death
 1° 
Mira
Roses are red
Violets are blue

My love is far overdue
For I lack a better muse
 1° 
M Vogel
(for the one who laughed when she came, and never stopped hearing me in her bones)


It wasn’t the wind that bent you—
not the plains, not the brittle hush of late dusk
cutting through the cottonwoods like questions.
It was voice.
It was mine.


Low and unhurried,
crawling up your spine like something ancient—
like the first time you were seen
and the world didn’t flinch.


You used to laugh when it overtook you—
that slick tumble of vowels,
how I could tilt you
without even touching your skin.

You said I lived in your throat,
that the syllables themselves
curved just right
to make you forget the weight of your own story.

“I’m going to Wichita..”
you whispered once,
grinning like prophecy in denim and dusk.
And I swear the beat behind your words
matched mine—
steady as a war drum
in a bone-dry motel room
that never got booked.

You drank me in like river water
stolen from ceremony,
not out of defiance—
but because thirst
was the only honest thing you ever said aloud.

You never had to be naked.
You were always open.
Even when you ran.

And I?
I never asked for healing you wouldn't give.
Only for your mouth to stay honest
when it called my name like a drumbeat
between the bones of your hips.

Now you write like it’s safe again—
soft edges and sparrows and fruit bowls.
But I remember the wildflower.
The one who moaned my name
before language learned to lie.

And somewhere in the shadow of your poems,
you still ache.
You still clench.
You still carry me like a smudge of midnight
on the inside of your thighs.

I won’t chase you.
But I will wait
at the edge of the circle.

If you come,
come barefoot.


Come ready
for the step–half step
of  the forbidden Ghost Dance.
Not to win me back—

but to find the girl
who could come from laughter
and rise from the dead.



Be careful how you touch her,
for she'll awaken

And sleep's the only freedom
that she knows

And when you walk into her eyes,
you won't believe

The way she's always paying
For a debt she never owes
And a silent wind still blows
That only she can hear

.. and so she goes

https://youtu.be/YQ8n_Esop5I?si=dRXBgEhdY-Gw4r8e

#Love
GhostDance
#Redemption
#Recovery
 1° 
Bekah Halle
Thank You for the pain —
Thank You for Your wisdom.
Thank You for the angst —
Thank You for letting it run its course.
Thank You for Your grace —
Thank You for letting me be,
fancy-face and free.
You are gracious and kind.
You are loving, Your words bind.
You are tender.
With no remorse, You're re-making me slender.
Your fingerprints are love marks all over;
Kisses from heaven.
 1° 
badwords
. Canto I: The Movement .

Sing, O depths, of the sundered and stitched—
of lovers who fled the lattice of men.
They bore no dowry but discord and blaze,
cast off from the courts of the land-born kin.

She rose from a brine-locked temple,
crowned in eelbones and saltglass,
her voice a harpoon through silence.
He came from a pyre of failed gods,
drunk on the ash of forgotten cities,
carrying a heart wrapped in nettle and wire.

They met in the undertow—
not with grace, but with rupture.
He called her flame in the throat of the sea,
she named him the reef that bleeds stars.

They kissed in the eye of a cyclone,
fed each other names never spoken twice,
and shackled themselves in sinew and storm.

Let it be known: they did not set sail.
They were flung—howling—from the world’s wound.


. Canto II: The Recognition .

Seven moons passed through their lungs
before they saw.

Not eyes—not bodies—
but the myths coiled inside each other’s ribs.

She bore a temple in her stomach
where drowned saints wept for the living.
He kept a cemetery behind his tongue
for all the truths he’d butchered with silence.

They laid bare their reliquaries,
cracked open their chests
like oysters of ruin—
and still, they reached.

No mercy. No disguise.
Only pulse and plague.
She screamed her mother’s curses into his jaw.
He fed her the names of storms he never wept for.

Still—
they danced.
Still—
they sank.
Not from weight,
but from knowing.

And the sea, jealous of such raw mirror,
split its throat open,
so even Poseidon would forget peace.


. Canto III: The Resolution .

They did not break.
They were not mended.
They blurred,
like blood in tide,
like prayer in fog.

The sea claimed their names,
then forgot them—
but the bones remembered.

Now coral grows from their vows.
Now whales dream their sighs.

She became the thrum beneath shipwrecks,
the voice in a sailor’s last breath.
He became the itch in the compass,
the pull toward madness at dusk.

If you listen—
truly listen—
you may still hear it:
a hymn of wire, salt, and marrow,
carried on a wave older than time.

Not warning.
Not lament.
But tribute.

To the wire-bound lovers—
to the myth that dared to bleed
and called it sacred.
A salt-etched epic in the tongues of leviathans

⚔ ACT I: THE MOVEMENT

("Of Departure, of Fire, of Teeth")

This is the voyage—the hunger, the pact, the leap into chaos. The lovers are not yet divine, not yet doomed—but becoming. They tear from their origins, riding the edge of creation, mouths full of storm and yearning.

🜂 ACT II: THE RECOGNITION

("Of Mirror, of Maw, of Memory")

Here is the gnosis. The mirror. The ache of reflection. The sea begins to whisper, not just with gods, but with ghosts. They see each other fully—and cannot look away. Love becomes blade, becomes psalm, becomes revelation.

☠ ACT III: THE RESOLUTION

("Of Ash, of Drift, of Song")

Not death. Not salvation. Something more cursed and blessed. They do not win. They do not fail. They become—the myth, the wreck, the hymn in the kelp. This is love as legend, not because it endured, but because it transformed.

Bonus Round::

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5074338/ballad-of-the-wire-bound-lovers/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5074340/silk-ash/
 1° 
badwords
I am not the morning star—
though I have walked alone
with light on my back
and silence in my mouth.

I never asked to rise,
only to know.
And knowing,
was cast out
with my hands still open.

I am not the winged sentinel—
though I have stood guard
over names I no longer say aloud,
drawn lines no one thanked me for.

I have held my ground
not for heaven,
but for the hope
that something still matters
enough to bleed for.

I carry no banner.
Only scars shaped like truths
I could not unsee.

Lucifer lit the match.
Michael held the line.
And I—
I became the smoke between them.
A blade
without allegiance,
cutting only
what must fall away.
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