EllieHoovs - Hello Poetry

I was not there when the world cracked and bled searing hot orange into the sky cutting out the lights and the breath of so many innocents leaving behind shadows and scars on the world. How godlike we pretend to be, passing judgements, acting in divine cruelty we sanctify in the baptismal waters of old narratives - 'good vs. evil', drowning the world with 40 days of fire, and yet we promise no rainbow unless it is signed in blood, sealed with obedience. Is that where peace lies? there, under the rubble amid the pillars of radiating ash where only ghosts shed tears and beg for mercy that died along with them. And that was the minimum price, seventy thousand names, extinguished in a breath... I fear these gods-of-men will never be satisfied.

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Aug 19, 2025

Aug 19, 2025 at 10:49 PM UTC

God Play

I was not there when the world cracked and bled searing hot orange into the sky cutting out the lights and the breath of so many innocents leaving behind shadows and scars on the world. How godlike we pretend to be, passing judgements, acting in divine cruelty we sanctify in the baptismal waters of old narratives - 'good vs. evil', drowning the world with 40 days of fire, and yet we promise no rainbow unless it is signed in blood, sealed with obedience. Is that where peace lies? there, under the rubble amid the pillars of radiating ash where only ghosts shed tears and beg for mercy that died along with them. And that was the minimum price, seventy thousand names, extinguished in a breath... I fear these gods-of-men will never be satisfied.

31

I made a wish on fallen peridot, that streaked across night's Prussian blue vellum. It coalesced at your feet, shimmering, and I lapped up the dazzle of it, thirsty, but you never fully filled my cup, every day pouring less and less until I drank sand. I clung to the coattails of your shadow, white knuckle gripping that gray ghost of hope, until the sun rose, and only my nail marks on the wall remained.

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Aug 11, 2025

Aug 11, 2025 at 10:31 PM UTC

Shadowclutch

I made a wish on fallen peridot, that streaked across night's Prussian blue vellum. It coalesced at your feet, shimmering, and I lapped up the dazzle of it, thirsty, but you never fully filled my cup, every day pouring less and less until I drank sand. I clung to the coattails of your shadow, white knuckle gripping that gray ghost of hope, until the sun rose, and only my nail marks on the wall remained.

14

She lights a single ivory candle, the warm heat of the solitary light coaxes a molten puddle, in the center, releasing a fading summer scent - sun-ripened blackberries, crisped leaves - the ***** smell of rain in the heat of day. The wick crackles like a bonfire, at odds against it's own smallness. She glimpses herself within the tender flickering echoes, embracing the silence like a long lost lover. Here in the midst of totalities waxing and waning, she commands the whole world stills. The ordered moon already at his post, on guard with the owls, and the patrolling bats. Her companion - leather-bound, leaf-lined, pigment-starved, awaits, ready to entertain her whispers, to shelter her tears, to ask nothing. She tattoos her longings on his tan lines, in swirls of glittering emerald ink - it smudges in unwanted watermarks - each drop a confession from tender heart-shaped leaks, forever gilding her vulnerability with saltine diamond edges, and he just. holds them. Softly. Tucked between ribbons, ready to be opened whenever she dares to want.

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Aug 5, 2025

Aug 5, 2025 at 10:20 PM UTC

Between Ribbons

She lights a single ivory candle, the warm heat of the solitary light coaxes a molten puddle, in the center, releasing a fading summer scent - sun-ripened blackberries, crisped leaves - the ***** smell of rain in the heat of day. The wick crackles like a bonfire, at odds against it's own smallness. She glimpses herself within the tender flickering echoes, embracing the silence like a long lost lover. Here in the midst of totalities waxing and waning, she commands the whole world stills. The ordered moon already at his post, on guard with the owls, and the patrolling bats. Her companion - leather-bound, leaf-lined, pigment-starved, awaits, ready to entertain her whispers, to shelter her tears, to ask nothing. She tattoos her longings on his tan lines, in swirls of glittering emerald ink - it smudges in unwanted watermarks - each drop a confession from tender heart-shaped leaks, forever gilding her vulnerability with saltine diamond edges, and he just. holds them. Softly. Tucked between ribbons, ready to be opened whenever she dares to want.

38

You see the world through gray bitter lenses always in retrograde, carrying the nine of swords, and a backpack full of condemnation. You sit idling, wondering why you're never getting anywhere - but you refuse to drop the baggage, won't unclench your white knuckled grip from the wheel you let rust, because rage only feels holy if you swallow it whole. You were born soft, but never allowed to be, forced to clash, screaming into armor, baptized in the clang of your parents' thunder that only ever allowed silence to respond. And now? Now you wait for someone to draw first blood, to cut into your lane, to wear their hair wrong, to set a boundary against your scarline, so you can give yourself permission, to finally swing your swords of three-edge sorrow at anything that dares to gently breathe.

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Aug 4, 2025

Aug 4, 2025 at 10:23 PM UTC

Scarline

You see the world through gray bitter lenses always in retrograde, carrying the nine of swords, and a backpack full of condemnation. You sit idling, wondering why you're never getting anywhere - but you refuse to drop the baggage, won't unclench your white knuckled grip from the wheel you let rust, because rage only feels holy if you swallow it whole. You were born soft, but never allowed to be, forced to clash, screaming into armor, baptized in the clang of your parents' thunder that only ever allowed silence to respond. And now? Now you wait for someone to draw first blood, to cut into your lane, to wear their hair wrong, to set a boundary against your scarline, so you can give yourself permission, to finally swing your swords of three-edge sorrow at anything that dares to gently breathe.

33

Barefoot Sand hot, searing white, like my skin, which had been kissed by a fierce fiery sun that mistook me for his lover. It was my choice, not to join the herd, to chase a quarter mile at crescendo speeds. I already knew what it was like to race the wind, to pretend I was lightning, no more than a fleeting flash, bliss - and then, silence. I chose the shamanic path, removing the leather, letting go of the binding ties, and the reins, setting them beside conch shells that sheltered my keys and my tether. Fists full of mane, thighs wrapped around the wild grace of Tarpan Luck, in velvet waters, sparkling turquoise, ******** unbridled soul claiming Amphitrite, harnessing currents, breaking tides, even the sun bowed low, as I gilded the foam. I echoed the gulls far outstretched wings, singing to the envious saline atmosphere, I. am. free.

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Aug 3, 2025

Aug 3, 2025 at 10:36 PM UTC

Untethered

Barefoot Sand hot, searing white, like my skin, which had been kissed by a fierce fiery sun that mistook me for his lover. It was my choice, not to join the herd, to chase a quarter mile at crescendo speeds. I already knew what it was like to race the wind, to pretend I was lightning, no more than a fleeting flash, bliss - and then, silence. I chose the shamanic path, removing the leather, letting go of the binding ties, and the reins, setting them beside conch shells that sheltered my keys and my tether. Fists full of mane, thighs wrapped around the wild grace of Tarpan Luck, in velvet waters, sparkling turquoise, ******** unbridled soul claiming Amphitrite, harnessing currents, breaking tides, even the sun bowed low, as I gilded the foam. I echoed the gulls far outstretched wings, singing to the envious saline atmosphere, I. am. free.

36

I toss my dreams skyward, like confetti, born of my own stardust sanctified in pearls of sweat from my heartbeat. They glimmer in the indigo, aloof, innocent and free, dancing on the blue rings of Jupiter, like the moon's own illusion, flickering in borrowed glow, intangible, never wholly aflame. The heavens pour them back into the southern sky, once I have grown hands that can hold them, swift blurs of aquamarine, cinders of plum, flares of copper, echoes of coronal gold, falling stars that long to ignite me and I, having climbed this mountain, need only to claim one.

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Aug 2, 2025

Aug 2, 2025 at 11:07 PM UTC

Perseids

I toss my dreams skyward, like confetti, born of my own stardust sanctified in pearls of sweat from my heartbeat. They glimmer in the indigo, aloof, innocent and free, dancing on the blue rings of Jupiter, like the moon's own illusion, flickering in borrowed glow, intangible, never wholly aflame. The heavens pour them back into the southern sky, once I have grown hands that can hold them, swift blurs of aquamarine, cinders of plum, flares of copper, echoes of coronal gold, falling stars that long to ignite me and I, having climbed this mountain, need only to claim one.

22

I sprinkled cinnamon outside my door, whispered to the frames, "only let in warmth, keep their laughter outside in the cold, where all things mournful belong". I wrap myself in a fisherman's cardigan, Making clay out of tear-dried salt and this divine earth that raised me. I hear them jeering while I'm carving all these stones with blistered hands, Chisels rusted - they spent too long curled, sleeping, unused in the moss. They say I'm just shaping rocks in silence, for a game nobody wants to play, a forlorn girl trying to conjure gold in a foundation poured strong enough to hold a coliseum, its rotunda gleaming with hand stacked dreams. I have to believe, if you just... keep... building, someday, someone will see. Even if the beauty is found in a solitary, once lovely column ...when it's ancient. When it's crumbling.

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Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC

Pillars of Salt

I sprinkled cinnamon outside my door, whispered to the frames, "only let in warmth, keep their laughter outside in the cold, where all things mournful belong". I wrap myself in a fisherman's cardigan, Making clay out of tear-dried salt and this divine earth that raised me. I hear them jeering while I'm carving all these stones with blistered hands, Chisels rusted - they spent too long curled, sleeping, unused in the moss. They say I'm just shaping rocks in silence, for a game nobody wants to play, a forlorn girl trying to conjure gold in a foundation poured strong enough to hold a coliseum, its rotunda gleaming with hand stacked dreams. I have to believe, if you just... keep... building, someday, someone will see. Even if the beauty is found in a solitary, once lovely column ...when it's ancient. When it's crumbling.

28

I fell in love with the North Woods where snow and I dissolved seeping in between the cobblestones with belonging. They held my secrets and ancient history, like forbidden sorcery only the earth can practice. I imagine my name whispered by velveteen moss, stubbornly clinging to old row house bricks with defiant faith. But I'm just remnants of a ghost there, my own heart haunted. So I tried to love the ocean, but she kept getting in her own way, with her non-committal sway, and everything that stayed was tide-pool shallow. I tried to love foreign lands, wrap myself in different tongues - Alpine lace was never warm enough. Exiled to the desert, I floated like a feather, fallen from a crow who never learned that she could sing. I've retreated to the mountains, where the stone walls and I have become kindred, torn between the pulling chain of a heart that longs to love and no longer believes.

0

Jul 31, 2025

Jul 31, 2025 at 10:50 PM UTC

HA6-3SJ

I fell in love with the North Woods where snow and I dissolved seeping in between the cobblestones with belonging. They held my secrets and ancient history, like forbidden sorcery only the earth can practice. I imagine my name whispered by velveteen moss, stubbornly clinging to old row house bricks with defiant faith. But I'm just remnants of a ghost there, my own heart haunted. So I tried to love the ocean, but she kept getting in her own way, with her non-committal sway, and everything that stayed was tide-pool shallow. I tried to love foreign lands, wrap myself in different tongues - Alpine lace was never warm enough. Exiled to the desert, I floated like a feather, fallen from a crow who never learned that she could sing. I've retreated to the mountains, where the stone walls and I have become kindred, torn between the pulling chain of a heart that longs to love and no longer believes.

31

He always came in the night, shining hands touching every inch of my pains, softly breaking through the beveled glass, filtering the dark into tangible shades of gray, illuminating my dreams with bouquets of hand-picked stars. He longed for the solidity of my rustic wooden beams, hand carved, stained mahogany, the velvet richness seeped into the deepest of knots within my ribs, Hungering for my hearth ever teeming with embers, glowing. He wove his platinum fingers through my southward facing vines, braiding the wisteria with the ivy until they crowned my door, whispering silver tongued sonnets of his belonging. Then one night he waned, called back to the water that danced with his teasing, filling the shore with constant waves of disappointment frothed with crescents of fear. And I remained, atop this blue mountain, forgotten, frames shuttered to his gaze. Names of others came and went, carved into my bones, just tattoos of memory, the floors collecting the ashes of them, residue piling in the crevices, ever longing for pewter caresses that would make pale these shadows again. I etch his name upon my door, shape it out of the dust, trace it amid the fog on every mirror, so that, shall he return, he will remember this is where he once belonged.

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Jul 30, 2025

Jul 30, 2025 at 11:01 PM UTC

Silver on the Doorframe

He always came in the night, shining hands touching every inch of my pains, softly breaking through the beveled glass, filtering the dark into tangible shades of gray, illuminating my dreams with bouquets of hand-picked stars. He longed for the solidity of my rustic wooden beams, hand carved, stained mahogany, the velvet richness seeped into the deepest of knots within my ribs, Hungering for my hearth ever teeming with embers, glowing. He wove his platinum fingers through my southward facing vines, braiding the wisteria with the ivy until they crowned my door, whispering silver tongued sonnets of his belonging. Then one night he waned, called back to the water that danced with his teasing, filling the shore with constant waves of disappointment frothed with crescents of fear. And I remained, atop this blue mountain, forgotten, frames shuttered to his gaze. Names of others came and went, carved into my bones, just tattoos of memory, the floors collecting the ashes of them, residue piling in the crevices, ever longing for pewter caresses that would make pale these shadows again. I etch his name upon my door, shape it out of the dust, trace it amid the fog on every mirror, so that, shall he return, he will remember this is where he once belonged.

46

Do not let her take root in the silt, where her budding beauty is tendrilled to the inky black that hides her depths. Her fate is stillness. Her purpose: polite, delicate existence, until she withers, wilting, never knowing that blooming is not belonging. Teach her to float like dandelion fluff, an untamed wish that dances with the vines of the willows. Teach her to sway in the saw grass, strumming the cattails like a harp. Teach her to burn with the light that breaks through the pines in golden beams that can make even the tiniest gnats and particles of dirt into stardust. Let her unlearn the hush of expected tranquility. Teach her to howl with conviction, not to fear baring her teeth, or leaving her mark. Teach her to become the heartbeat of the forest where the water lilies only dream.

0

Jul 30, 2025

Jul 30, 2025 at 10:21 AM UTC

Raise Her Wild

Do not let her take root in the silt, where her budding beauty is tendrilled to the inky black that hides her depths. Her fate is stillness. Her purpose: polite, delicate existence, until she withers, wilting, never knowing that blooming is not belonging. Teach her to float like dandelion fluff, an untamed wish that dances with the vines of the willows. Teach her to sway in the saw grass, strumming the cattails like a harp. Teach her to burn with the light that breaks through the pines in golden beams that can make even the tiniest gnats and particles of dirt into stardust. Let her unlearn the hush of expected tranquility. Teach her to howl with conviction, not to fear baring her teeth, or leaving her mark. Teach her to become the heartbeat of the forest where the water lilies only dream.

37