Brwa - Hello Poetry

The rope slumps, an unstrung throat. Pills rattle like broken teeth. The mirror unmouths my name, gulps me in glass, spits static. Outside, the city chews its own tongue. Streetlights pulse like exposed nerves. I step forward. Or maybe I don’t. The night swallows. Nothing shifts.

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Mar 8, 2025

Mar 8, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC

Brwa

Husk

The rope slumps, an unstrung throat. Pills rattle like broken teeth. The mirror unmouths my name, gulps me in glass, spits static. Outside, the city chews its own tongue. Streetlights pulse like exposed nerves. I step forward. Or maybe I don’t. The night swallows. Nothing shifts.

10

The gears gnaw through hollow bone, Flesh burned to cinders, breath erased. The sun is buried, mute, alone, A corpse that stares from steel and waste. The rivers choke in copper veins, Their pulse confined to ghostly code. The wind is crushed beneath the chains, Its howls reduced to static, slow. The past, a shattered thing, decays, Its truth an echo in the ash. An old man’s breath is smeared, erased, His life dissolved in flickering flash. And still, they sleep, with vacant eyes, The mass unmarked by fire or stone. The hour’s toll, a muted cry, The final breath, a hollow drone.

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Mar 4, 2025

Mar 4, 2025 at 6:55 PM UTC

Brwa

Aftermath

The gears gnaw through hollow bone, Flesh burned to cinders, breath erased. The sun is buried, mute, alone, A corpse that stares from steel and waste. The rivers choke in copper veins, Their pulse confined to ghostly code. The wind is crushed beneath the chains, Its howls reduced to static, slow. The past, a shattered thing, decays, Its truth an echo in the ash. An old man’s breath is smeared, erased, His life dissolved in flickering flash. And still, they sleep, with vacant eyes, The mass unmarked by fire or stone. The hour’s toll, a muted cry, The final breath, a hollow drone.

16

A pulse that never reached the air, where the ground cracks open, but no weight falls through. A flicker burns, but the flame never touches the wick. Time folds over itself a thread pulled thin, but not unraveled. A voice is lost before it’s born, and nothing moves to fill the gap.

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Mar 1, 2025

Mar 1, 2025 at 3:54 PM UTC

Brwa

Chasm

A pulse that never reached the air, where the ground cracks open, but no weight falls through. A flicker burns, but the flame never touches the wick. Time folds over itself a thread pulled thin, but not unraveled. A voice is lost before it’s born, and nothing moves to fill the gap.

11

Arrived as a shadow, a breath in waiting rooms, voices flickering like moths. No gods stitched footprints, prayers dissolved like ink in rain. Paper thickened, names erased. Then, a hand— a lantern through the dusk. Pulled from refusal, names spoken, ribs stitched with letters. No temple, no prophecy— just a voice breaking machinery, until gears cracked beneath it. In the hum of verdicts, a voice that did not break.

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Feb 25, 2025

Feb 25, 2025 at 8:00 PM UTC

Brwa

Soft Hands Against the Machine

Arrived as a shadow, a breath in waiting rooms, voices flickering like moths. No gods stitched footprints, prayers dissolved like ink in rain. Paper thickened, names erased. Then, a hand— a lantern through the dusk. Pulled from refusal, names spoken, ribs stitched with letters. No temple, no prophecy— just a voice breaking machinery, until gears cracked beneath it. In the hum of verdicts, a voice that did not break.

17

The womb convulses, spitting me forth—a clot of breath. Light carves itself into my skull. Already, the body is a wound. I lurch toward meaning, but time gnaws at the marrow. The mirror refuses me. Language drips, cooling into names I do not recognize. Love lingers but never sinks in. The tongue, a rusted hinge. The hands, outstretched, grasp absences. They call this aging, but it feels like erosion. Flesh crumbles into concept. Time forgets. A door swings open in the dark— or was I never here at all?

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Feb 25, 2025

Feb 25, 2025 at 12:36 PM UTC

Brwa

Epochs of Decay

The womb convulses, spitting me forth—a clot of breath. Light carves itself into my skull. Already, the body is a wound. I lurch toward meaning, but time gnaws at the marrow. The mirror refuses me. Language drips, cooling into names I do not recognize. Love lingers but never sinks in. The tongue, a rusted hinge. The hands, outstretched, grasp absences. They call this aging, but it feels like erosion. Flesh crumbles into concept. Time forgets. A door swings open in the dark— or was I never here at all?

5

In stillness, I inscribe your void, A pulse drowned in distance. You burn, distant, A wound I wear to breathe. Love— a murmur lost to glass, A thirst in the marrow of nothing.

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Feb 25, 2025

Feb 25, 2025 at 4:04 AM UTC

Brwa

Immemorial

In stillness, I inscribe your void, A pulse drowned in distance. You burn, distant, A wound I wear to breathe. Love— a murmur lost to glass, A thirst in the marrow of nothing.

6

Yellow bleeds into empty space, Fingers trace what’s forgotten— Light bends, but doesn’t reach, No warmth, no trace. The wind erases what it touches, Thoughts drift, lost in air. Inside, a silence stretches, Where words once lived. A river fades, But whispers crash— Water turns to dust, Silent in my chest. A name, a face— They slip like smoke, Dissolving into nothing I cannot grasp.

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Feb 24, 2025

Feb 24, 2025 at 7:06 AM UTC

Brwa

Fading

Yellow bleeds into empty space, Fingers trace what’s forgotten— Light bends, but doesn’t reach, No warmth, no trace. The wind erases what it touches, Thoughts drift, lost in air. Inside, a silence stretches, Where words once lived. A river fades, But whispers crash— Water turns to dust, Silent in my chest. A name, a face— They slip like smoke, Dissolving into nothing I cannot grasp.

16

Bones threaded with silence, a weft of unseen tides, drowned before the sky could murmur, names twisted into half-light. Empty calls carve through marrow, a dissonance stitched in the flicker of unspoken skies, twisting where shadows breathe. Flesh frays in the void of mouths that never opened— rusted hums too thin to grasp. Skin unthreads, and what remains burns in the air like a scream that cannot form. Dust to dust— the thread severed in half-thoughts, too distant to bleed, too numb to remember.

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Feb 24, 2025

Feb 24, 2025 at 4:47 AM UTC

Brwa

Dissolution

Bones threaded with silence, a weft of unseen tides, drowned before the sky could murmur, names twisted into half-light. Empty calls carve through marrow, a dissonance stitched in the flicker of unspoken skies, twisting where shadows breathe. Flesh frays in the void of mouths that never opened— rusted hums too thin to grasp. Skin unthreads, and what remains burns in the air like a scream that cannot form. Dust to dust— the thread severed in half-thoughts, too distant to bleed, too numb to remember.

19

Waking, or not. Walls fold inward, thin-breathing. Something hums behind what isn’t there. Steps press into steps, press into steps, press— A door flickers. A mirror drowns. A bed forgets its shape. Somewhere, a hand reaching, unmade. Somewhere, a voice, air-thin, unvoicing. Drink, it says. But the cup is hunger, the milk is grit, and my mouth is borrowed. Leaving, or not. The door unshuts, the light unwrites, and I am—

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Feb 22, 2025

Feb 22, 2025 at 10:40 PM UTC

Brwa

Unmouth

Waking, or not. Walls fold inward, thin-breathing. Something hums behind what isn’t there. Steps press into steps, press into steps, press— A door flickers. A mirror drowns. A bed forgets its shape. Somewhere, a hand reaching, unmade. Somewhere, a voice, air-thin, unvoicing. Drink, it says. But the cup is hunger, the milk is grit, and my mouth is borrowed. Leaving, or not. The door unshuts, the light unwrites, and I am—

15

They fed you ghosts, called it breakfast. You swallowed bone-dust with your milk, it settled deep in your ribs— grinding, grinding, grinding. Yet they said: grow. Outside, the trees towered, but inside, the walls learned your name. Soft hands became knives, small mouths learned silence. The mirrors cracked, but nobody asked why. Lullabies were hunger songs, bedtime stories always ending with: Run, little rabbit. Run.

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Feb 22, 2025

Feb 22, 2025 at 10:19 PM UTC

Brwa

Teeth in the Milk

They fed you ghosts, called it breakfast. You swallowed bone-dust with your milk, it settled deep in your ribs— grinding, grinding, grinding. Yet they said: grow. Outside, the trees towered, but inside, the walls learned your name. Soft hands became knives, small mouths learned silence. The mirrors cracked, but nobody asked why. Lullabies were hunger songs, bedtime stories always ending with: Run, little rabbit. Run.

13