InklessPens - Hello Poetry

the sky forgets its light one by one the stars unmake themselves even darkness feels full something loosens not sleep not death a silent collapse

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May 20

May 20, 2026 at 8:28 AM UTC

InklessPens

collapse

the sky forgets its light one by one the stars unmake themselves even darkness feels full something loosens not sleep not death a silent collapse

12

I feel like I’m losing myself Oh the irony For I don’t even know Enough to lose it

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May 13

May 13, 2026 at 4:12 AM UTC

InklessPens

Is There an End

I feel like I’m losing myself Oh the irony For I don’t even know Enough to lose it

4

I was never built for belief no sky to answer to no afterlife stitched with meaning but you you bend something unnamed inside me into the shape of prayer not words just a quiet collapsing a reaching beyond language beyond certainty as if existence fractures and I am slipping between its versions searching for the echo of you in every possible arrangement of time if there are other lives let them be threaded with your gravity if there are none let this one stretch warp refuse its ending because this moment this brief alignment of being feels too precise too impossible to only happen once and whatever listens if anything does take this as devotion I am not asking for forever I am asking to find you again wherever forever fails

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May 6

May 6, 2026 at 3:44 PM UTC

InklessPens

Quiet Inevitability

I was never built for belief no sky to answer to no afterlife stitched with meaning but you you bend something unnamed inside me into the shape of prayer not words just a quiet collapsing a reaching beyond language beyond certainty as if existence fractures and I am slipping between its versions searching for the echo of you in every possible arrangement of time if there are other lives let them be threaded with your gravity if there are none let this one stretch warp refuse its ending because this moment this brief alignment of being feels too precise too impossible to only happen once and whatever listens if anything does take this as devotion I am not asking for forever I am asking to find you again wherever forever fails

32

no stars, no witness, only a hollow that cannot recall being full

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May 4

May 4, 2026 at 11:58 PM UTC

InklessPens

i cant remember who i am

no stars, no witness, only a hollow that cannot recall being full

3

She did not fall into it, it opened inside her. A quiet collapse light bending without spectacle, every soft thing pulled inward until even her name thinned into something unrecognisable. There is no ground here, only a deepening, the feeling of slipping past a point no one returns from. She tells herself to be careful, as if grief has hands, as if it chooses. But it doesn’t. It takes. Her laughter stretches into silence, her warmth shifts into distance, a signal no one can decode. People orbit still, at first. They call her back like she is a place, like she hasn’t begun to become the gravity itself. She wants to say don’t come closer, that even light fails here, that love is not immune. But the words don’t escape. Nothing does. So she holds them like debris, like borrowed stars caught in a field that never asked to exist. And that is where the guilt lives: not in the dark, but in the pull. In the way they dim just by staying near. She is not trying to consume them. She is trying to stay contained. But containment is a myth once collapse begins. She folds inward, smaller, denser, a secret no one can reach without disappearing. And still they linger at the edges, hoping she might release them. As if she could. She did not fall into it. She is becoming it. And everything she loves is learning how close is too close to survive.

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May 3

May 3, 2026 at 4:55 PM UTC

InklessPens

Black Hole of Guilt

She did not fall into it, it opened inside her. A quiet collapse light bending without spectacle, every soft thing pulled inward until even her name thinned into something unrecognisable. There is no ground here, only a deepening, the feeling of slipping past a point no one returns from. She tells herself to be careful, as if grief has hands, as if it chooses. But it doesn’t. It takes. Her laughter stretches into silence, her warmth shifts into distance, a signal no one can decode. People orbit still, at first. They call her back like she is a place, like she hasn’t begun to become the gravity itself. She wants to say don’t come closer, that even light fails here, that love is not immune. But the words don’t escape. Nothing does. So she holds them like debris, like borrowed stars caught in a field that never asked to exist. And that is where the guilt lives: not in the dark, but in the pull. In the way they dim just by staying near. She is not trying to consume them. She is trying to stay contained. But containment is a myth once collapse begins. She folds inward, smaller, denser, a secret no one can reach without disappearing. And still they linger at the edges, hoping she might release them. As if she could. She did not fall into it. She is becoming it. And everything she loves is learning how close is too close to survive.

59

The moon melts into my trembling hand a lantern dripping liquid stardust. Stars hiccup slow, spilling galaxies across my tongue like sparkling syrup. My feet dissolve into comet tails, and gravity forgets its name, letting me float sideways through syrupy nebulae, where hiccups are constellations and the night hums a dizzy lullaby.

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Apr 30

Apr 30, 2026 at 9:26 PM UTC

InklessPens

Drunk on Nebulae

The moon melts into my trembling hand a lantern dripping liquid stardust. Stars hiccup slow, spilling galaxies across my tongue like sparkling syrup. My feet dissolve into comet tails, and gravity forgets its name, letting me float sideways through syrupy nebulae, where hiccups are constellations and the night hums a dizzy lullaby.

9

she pulls her gravity inward collapsing distance into a small, survivable core

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Apr 30

Apr 30, 2026 at 8:08 PM UTC

InklessPens

radius of safety

she pulls her gravity inward collapsing distance into a small, survivable core

3

She carried galaxies behind her eyes, quiet constellations no one ever named, a sky she slipped into like a hidden pocket of night. She orbited her own thoughts, mapping silent constellations in the dark, gathering small stars in her hands and teaching them to glow in secret. Then he wandered in, a moon with a gentle pull, drawing softly at her tides until even her shadows turned toward him. Sidewalks softened into stardust beneath her feet, daylight learned the language of nebulae, and every ordinary hour began to hum with distant light. She forgot the way back to those hidden galaxies, not because they disappeared, but because the universe before her finally burned just as bright.

0

Apr 21

Apr 21, 2026 at 7:35 PM UTC

InklessPens

The Language of Nebulae

She carried galaxies behind her eyes, quiet constellations no one ever named, a sky she slipped into like a hidden pocket of night. She orbited her own thoughts, mapping silent constellations in the dark, gathering small stars in her hands and teaching them to glow in secret. Then he wandered in, a moon with a gentle pull, drawing softly at her tides until even her shadows turned toward him. Sidewalks softened into stardust beneath her feet, daylight learned the language of nebulae, and every ordinary hour began to hum with distant light. She forgot the way back to those hidden galaxies, not because they disappeared, but because the universe before her finally burned just as bright.

21

I fold conversations like brittle paper, pressing creases into apologies that never quite align. Every goodbye is a frayed thread I knot with trembling teeth but the fabric still unravels, and my leaving bleeds ragged.

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Sep 9, 2025

Sep 9, 2025 at 6:31 AM UTC

InklessPens

The Ragged Leaving

I fold conversations like brittle paper, pressing creases into apologies that never quite align. Every goodbye is a frayed thread I knot with trembling teeth but the fabric still unravels, and my leaving bleeds ragged.

11

A thousand hands of absence crawl my spine at night, reminding me the grave is never sealed.

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Sep 7, 2025

Sep 7, 2025 at 5:23 AM UTC

InklessPens

Unburied

A thousand hands of absence crawl my spine at night, reminding me the grave is never sealed.

4