Foxes_are_cool - Hello Poetry

Been a while since I have been sat, in the silence of the vacuum, I call room. Its peacefully sore how I enjoy the smell of rot Mixed with taste of hell in a can with *** on the clock It wonders makes me why legs exist for species like me? For anomalies that feasts on silence and crumbled goods left by travellers that once sat in Thys place for creatures left in the corner of the world, Iris of the wise and colourful may acknowledge and see Rather than the common man that distanced from the soil it grew from How it makes me wonder why arms exists When the use is to see them rot when the use fades away Replaced by thoughts and words When the growl of machines rule the road, The arms lay at the side with weight of failure Weigh that carried Growls Runs Greed Reds And Blues Now lay on the side creeping into the last feast it will reach Oh how I wonder when I wont sit in the silence of the vacuum

0

May 9

May 9, 2026 at 4:59 PM UTC

Silence of the Vacuum

Been a while since I have been sat, in the silence of the vacuum, I call room. Its peacefully sore how I enjoy the smell of rot Mixed with taste of hell in a can with *** on the clock It wonders makes me why legs exist for species like me? For anomalies that feasts on silence and crumbled goods left by travellers that once sat in Thys place for creatures left in the corner of the world, Iris of the wise and colourful may acknowledge and see Rather than the common man that distanced from the soil it grew from How it makes me wonder why arms exists When the use is to see them rot when the use fades away Replaced by thoughts and words When the growl of machines rule the road, The arms lay at the side with weight of failure Weigh that carried Growls Runs Greed Reds And Blues Now lay on the side creeping into the last feast it will reach Oh how I wonder when I wont sit in the silence of the vacuum

23

I lay on the bedroom floor, looking at the sky. The blue filled sky with dandelions and hope. The white petals cover the sky, as the yellow pistil covers my room with its golden pollen. The pollen shines through the paper thin curtains, that take the form of a star. Star silhouette that reminds me of the one above Bethlehem, the Nordic star that was to guide people to its saviour. It gets me to wonder. Am I shouting loud enough? Am I shouting loud enough for the petals to wither away and make gray the new blue? Loud enough for the star that was supposed to guide me through the misty paths with muddy pits that drown adventurous, to lower its rays so they are no longer able to cut the surroundings with guilt? Every ray of pollen that hits the windows and grass, cuts right thru the paper thin curtains which reveal the dirt and dust the room is left in. No matter the effort. No matter the hope. No matter the screams. The dirt stays there. It stays right where it’s left. Time moves, places stay. The star formed pollen shines through the paper revealing all its secret. Wishes and screams it held inside, Now being poured out onto the wall in shapes and figures that tell decades of stories, decades of history, decades of dirt. Suddenly everything falls silent. Everything except the stories the curtains hold. They whisper and talk, cry and whimper, shout and beg. Everything happens so quietly that it is impossible to notice, so quietly that even a snail that carries its whole world would make a bigger disturbance. The only thing that reveals the tragic game of monopoly and irony of music, is the paper thin curtains that keep shouting and begging, but still overpowered by the world around.

0

Jun 29, 2025

Jun 29, 2025 at 3:36 PM UTC

Am I heard?

I lay on the bedroom floor, looking at the sky. The blue filled sky with dandelions and hope. The white petals cover the sky, as the yellow pistil covers my room with its golden pollen. The pollen shines through the paper thin curtains, that take the form of a star. Star silhouette that reminds me of the one above Bethlehem, the Nordic star that was to guide people to its saviour. It gets me to wonder. Am I shouting loud enough? Am I shouting loud enough for the petals to wither away and make gray the new blue? Loud enough for the star that was supposed to guide me through the misty paths with muddy pits that drown adventurous, to lower its rays so they are no longer able to cut the surroundings with guilt? Every ray of pollen that hits the windows and grass, cuts right thru the paper thin curtains which reveal the dirt and dust the room is left in. No matter the effort. No matter the hope. No matter the screams. The dirt stays there. It stays right where it’s left. Time moves, places stay. The star formed pollen shines through the paper revealing all its secret. Wishes and screams it held inside, Now being poured out onto the wall in shapes and figures that tell decades of stories, decades of history, decades of dirt. Suddenly everything falls silent. Everything except the stories the curtains hold. They whisper and talk, cry and whimper, shout and beg. Everything happens so quietly that it is impossible to notice, so quietly that even a snail that carries its whole world would make a bigger disturbance. The only thing that reveals the tragic game of monopoly and irony of music, is the paper thin curtains that keep shouting and begging, but still overpowered by the world around.

39

I’m banging my head thru the wall. That tic and click as my head tics back and forth just begging to be twisted it off. Off like a switch of a twitch that is itchy that can’t be itched because it’s deep inside the clicks and ribs that can’t be ripped. I’m living with the constant tremble of a broken twitching and shifting body that won’t stop clicking and picking until I can’t control an ick.

0

Feb 26, 2025

Feb 26, 2025 at 3:00 PM UTC

Tics and icks

I’m banging my head thru the wall. That tic and click as my head tics back and forth just begging to be twisted it off. Off like a switch of a twitch that is itchy that can’t be itched because it’s deep inside the clicks and ribs that can’t be ripped. I’m living with the constant tremble of a broken twitching and shifting body that won’t stop clicking and picking until I can’t control an ick.

3

She gazes at me, those stone-cold eyes, Piercing deep, where my heart pumps. That stare, a curse, of sweet deception, Binding my mind in desperate obsession. My eyes bleed salt, my knees start to quake, I plead for forgiveness for my audacity to stare. For gazing upon that divinely carved face, I pray for her eyes to let me leave. I push my fingers deep into my eyes, casting a shadow over her devilish smile that keeps me bounded. I dig them deeper into the skull, I feel the past mistakes, the green fields, and her. It the only cure that slowly stops the ache of her hands, deep inside my ribs.

0

Jan 24, 2025

Jan 24, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC

Her gaze

She gazes at me, those stone-cold eyes, Piercing deep, where my heart pumps. That stare, a curse, of sweet deception, Binding my mind in desperate obsession. My eyes bleed salt, my knees start to quake, I plead for forgiveness for my audacity to stare. For gazing upon that divinely carved face, I pray for her eyes to let me leave. I push my fingers deep into my eyes, casting a shadow over her devilish smile that keeps me bounded. I dig them deeper into the skull, I feel the past mistakes, the green fields, and her. It the only cure that slowly stops the ache of her hands, deep inside my ribs.

15

Stretching out like a lion before a fight, dressing like Madonna before a flight. The scene is filled with blurred out faces, using cigar filled spaces, with big fat snout that grin behind champagne cases. Using tux and hat to hide its hideous face. The music starts, curtains drop, the dress is on, breath is held. The **** show is to start. Stand up and start to spin. Spin and twist like a quiz with questions of riches. The growing snouts are getting greater as the ash trays are getting major. The ace and break of broken pines and spine that been rearranged to fit the Madonnas dress. The show must continue, continue to stand and twist and jump and smile like some sort of an idiot. Stand at the tiptoes reaching for the gold above while the tips are dripping thru. The bleeding tips that keep painting the ceiling red are painting runes on the ceiling and floor like a sign for the sos. The pigs are wheezing, the ash is in the air, the gold has fallen. Just the ash that builds up the throat, the only motivation that keeps the smile on and the floors glowing red. The curtain drops the wheezing stop. The floor is so close and the gold is so far. Bette luck next time is all I hear.

0

Dec 22, 2024

Dec 22, 2024 at 6:09 PM UTC

Ballerina

Stretching out like a lion before a fight, dressing like Madonna before a flight. The scene is filled with blurred out faces, using cigar filled spaces, with big fat snout that grin behind champagne cases. Using tux and hat to hide its hideous face. The music starts, curtains drop, the dress is on, breath is held. The **** show is to start. Stand up and start to spin. Spin and twist like a quiz with questions of riches. The growing snouts are getting greater as the ash trays are getting major. The ace and break of broken pines and spine that been rearranged to fit the Madonnas dress. The show must continue, continue to stand and twist and jump and smile like some sort of an idiot. Stand at the tiptoes reaching for the gold above while the tips are dripping thru. The bleeding tips that keep painting the ceiling red are painting runes on the ceiling and floor like a sign for the sos. The pigs are wheezing, the ash is in the air, the gold has fallen. Just the ash that builds up the throat, the only motivation that keeps the smile on and the floors glowing red. The curtain drops the wheezing stop. The floor is so close and the gold is so far. Bette luck next time is all I hear.

10

I feel the cozy, warm, soft and pure sheet around my back, shoulders and arms, it’s so light it’s so soft until it tightens its grip and you feel its hip. The sheet becomes hard and cold when you feel its eyes digging into your cries. Tight and dark when the sheets chest presses onto your ******* Suffocating and breaking when its neck feels like a whole ship wreck around my aching neck . The river down my cheeks even if I know that it was just a wrap around me.

0

Dec 6, 2024

Dec 6, 2024 at 5:59 PM UTC

Wrapped

I feel the cozy, warm, soft and pure sheet around my back, shoulders and arms, it’s so light it’s so soft until it tightens its grip and you feel its hip. The sheet becomes hard and cold when you feel its eyes digging into your cries. Tight and dark when the sheets chest presses onto your ******* Suffocating and breaking when its neck feels like a whole ship wreck around my aching neck . The river down my cheeks even if I know that it was just a wrap around me.

5

I lay on the floor, feeling the chore Of living creeping up through a poisonous door That leads to a future that’s already gone. Whatever have I done with my life, Except letting the dope flow down my dome? Foam crawls from my mouth as the door rolls down, Pink elephants are drumming, parading wide open. Stars are shining as they are crying. And the clock is ticking deeply down my aching mind. The whole world spins, foam gushing out, the stars are begging and the clock is killing. Shades of pink like cotton candy swirling about. I pry open my veins, blue liquid drops Mixing with cotton candy as the drumming fades. Why do I twist and turn my veins inside out, Trying to fit them into the right place?

0

Nov 25, 2024

Nov 25, 2024 at 12:02 PM UTC

Veins

I lay on the floor, feeling the chore Of living creeping up through a poisonous door That leads to a future that’s already gone. Whatever have I done with my life, Except letting the dope flow down my dome? Foam crawls from my mouth as the door rolls down, Pink elephants are drumming, parading wide open. Stars are shining as they are crying. And the clock is ticking deeply down my aching mind. The whole world spins, foam gushing out, the stars are begging and the clock is killing. Shades of pink like cotton candy swirling about. I pry open my veins, blue liquid drops Mixing with cotton candy as the drumming fades. Why do I twist and turn my veins inside out, Trying to fit them into the right place?

15

Sitting in the dark dark room, in the corner of my mind, in the corner of the room where the shadows loom. The rivers of salty water flow down the river styx that guides me thru the end. The boat is floating and flowing with screams of the unfortunate and unforgiving as the death rows thru the gates of the end. But the end is never truly the end. Shadow people twist their dark grins in forms that hurts, the death is hanging over my shoulder whispering, urging me to torment my broken mind until it falls and becomes theirs. Theirs, theirs like a thing or a toy or like a match that isn’t destroyed. From dust we come to dust we go, what’s the point of life, if we must die?

0

Nov 24, 2024

Nov 24, 2024 at 2:16 PM UTC

Alone?

Sitting in the dark dark room, in the corner of my mind, in the corner of the room where the shadows loom. The rivers of salty water flow down the river styx that guides me thru the end. The boat is floating and flowing with screams of the unfortunate and unforgiving as the death rows thru the gates of the end. But the end is never truly the end. Shadow people twist their dark grins in forms that hurts, the death is hanging over my shoulder whispering, urging me to torment my broken mind until it falls and becomes theirs. Theirs, theirs like a thing or a toy or like a match that isn’t destroyed. From dust we come to dust we go, what’s the point of life, if we must die?

11

I sit in the pit I call a room, begging death to open the door— But the door stays closed.  I paint my nails with the red liquid that drips from my eyes, A chill crawls down my spine, while ashes burn away my last dose. The voices scream through the walls, Like nails scratching holes in the silence. I wander the streets with tinted eyes, Hearing only one thing—Jump. Jump, jump, jump—on a jumpingrope through hell, The devils laugh.  Satan smokes a joint in the corner of my mind,  Watching me like I have already lost it. Am I in the wrong when everyone else wears the same red liquid?  I’m a ********* for the pain I give myself, Should I break my skull against Satan’s joint, Just to bleed and paint my nails again?

0

Sep 29, 2024

Sep 29, 2024 at 12:42 PM UTC

Red liquid

I sit in the pit I call a room, begging death to open the door— But the door stays closed.  I paint my nails with the red liquid that drips from my eyes, A chill crawls down my spine, while ashes burn away my last dose. The voices scream through the walls, Like nails scratching holes in the silence. I wander the streets with tinted eyes, Hearing only one thing—Jump. Jump, jump, jump—on a jumpingrope through hell, The devils laugh.  Satan smokes a joint in the corner of my mind,  Watching me like I have already lost it. Am I in the wrong when everyone else wears the same red liquid?  I’m a ********* for the pain I give myself, Should I break my skull against Satan’s joint, Just to bleed and paint my nails again?

8

The floors swallow me whole as the world keeps twisting my guts out, That’s the only feeling of peace that I know of. I can’t stop the constant spinning of my head, I rather just twist it off. Twist twist twist the bolt fell off, no more spinning anymore. Finally walking thru the blood filled streets, with a mind that stands still I see the goblins running around, scumming for trash and heads to give to the king. The king that sits on the throne of heads, just laughs as he crushes them underneath his fat filled *** I’m tired of the fantasy of peace, let me twist the head just back on.

0

Sep 28, 2024

Sep 28, 2024 at 3:16 AM UTC

Spinning

The floors swallow me whole as the world keeps twisting my guts out, That’s the only feeling of peace that I know of. I can’t stop the constant spinning of my head, I rather just twist it off. Twist twist twist the bolt fell off, no more spinning anymore. Finally walking thru the blood filled streets, with a mind that stands still I see the goblins running around, scumming for trash and heads to give to the king. The king that sits on the throne of heads, just laughs as he crushes them underneath his fat filled *** I’m tired of the fantasy of peace, let me twist the head just back on.

10