KamoX - Hello Poetry

A mosaic of a thousand strokes, Of violet, gold, and indigo light. I see the boy I used to be, And the son who keeps me up at night. The upward tilt of a hopeful chin, The eyes that search a distant sky, Reflecting all the worlds within, And the bitter "hello" in a long goodbye. There is a distance, cold and wide, A silence where a song should be. It haunts the spaces deep inside, Like a ghost that’s anchored fast to me. The grief is heavy, sharp, and still, A loss that tastes like salt and stone, Bending the spirit to its will, Leaving the architect alone. In this season of the searching soul, Where I peel back layers of the past, I try to make the broken whole, And build a peace I hope will last. Through every brushstroke of the day, In every line I seek to trace, I find the parts I threw away, And look for shadows of your face. I whisper to the quiet air, A plea to Him who counts our tears: Let not my memory vanish there, Across the bridge of silent years. May he remember how I loved, Though I was lost within the gale, By ancient mercy, deeply moved, Beneath a grace that will not fail. I wait for when the colors blend, When distance yields to solid ground. Where every bitter road will end, And what was lost is finally found. Until then, I will hold this light, This portrait of a spirit true, And pray through every lonely night, To find my way back home to you.

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Apr 26

Apr 26, 2026 at 11:25 AM UTC

KamoX

The Upward Gaze: A Prayer in Pigment

A mosaic of a thousand strokes, Of violet, gold, and indigo light. I see the boy I used to be, And the son who keeps me up at night. The upward tilt of a hopeful chin, The eyes that search a distant sky, Reflecting all the worlds within, And the bitter "hello" in a long goodbye. There is a distance, cold and wide, A silence where a song should be. It haunts the spaces deep inside, Like a ghost that’s anchored fast to me. The grief is heavy, sharp, and still, A loss that tastes like salt and stone, Bending the spirit to its will, Leaving the architect alone. In this season of the searching soul, Where I peel back layers of the past, I try to make the broken whole, And build a peace I hope will last. Through every brushstroke of the day, In every line I seek to trace, I find the parts I threw away, And look for shadows of your face. I whisper to the quiet air, A plea to Him who counts our tears: Let not my memory vanish there, Across the bridge of silent years. May he remember how I loved, Though I was lost within the gale, By ancient mercy, deeply moved, Beneath a grace that will not fail. I wait for when the colors blend, When distance yields to solid ground. Where every bitter road will end, And what was lost is finally found. Until then, I will hold this light, This portrait of a spirit true, And pray through every lonely night, To find my way back home to you.

40

I have never understood how some people can kiss and remain continent, no coastlines redrawn, no tectonic surrender. For me, every mouth is a monsoon. Every pair of hands leaves behind a residue of constellation. I am porous as pumice, cathedral-thin, a lung taking in more than air. The boy who wore cedarwood cologne still lingers in the sleeves of my sweaters. The girl who hummed old jazz braided herself into my playlists. Someone else taught my fingers the delicate angle of a cigarette, how to hold it like a secret between two trembling saints. I cannot touch without absorption. Cannot leave without sediment. My closet is a reliquary. My throat, an archive of borrowed laughter. My tears taste faintly of other people’s salt. Some call it attachment. I call it osmosis: the quiet migration of essence through the semipermeable membrane of my ribcage. How could I survive a carousel of strangers, when each goodbye is an amputation performed without anesthesia? I would rattle, a wind chime made of fingerprints, clattering with borrowed ghosts. No, I am not built for the revolving door. I am an estuary, where every river I have loved empties itself into me and stays. I would rather be solitary shoreline than carry the brine of a hundred meaningless seas.

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KamoX

Apr 25

Apr 25, 2026 at 2:43 PM UTC

poetriesgrave

Osmosis

I have never understood how some people can kiss and remain continent, no coastlines redrawn, no tectonic surrender. For me, every mouth is a monsoon. Every pair of hands leaves behind a residue of constellation. I am porous as pumice, cathedral-thin, a lung taking in more than air. The boy who wore cedarwood cologne still lingers in the sleeves of my sweaters. The girl who hummed old jazz braided herself into my playlists. Someone else taught my fingers the delicate angle of a cigarette, how to hold it like a secret between two trembling saints. I cannot touch without absorption. Cannot leave without sediment. My closet is a reliquary. My throat, an archive of borrowed laughter. My tears taste faintly of other people’s salt. Some call it attachment. I call it osmosis: the quiet migration of essence through the semipermeable membrane of my ribcage. How could I survive a carousel of strangers, when each goodbye is an amputation performed without anesthesia? I would rattle, a wind chime made of fingerprints, clattering with borrowed ghosts. No, I am not built for the revolving door. I am an estuary, where every river I have loved empties itself into me and stays. I would rather be solitary shoreline than carry the brine of a hundred meaningless seas.

51

Her eyes are pools of ancient, heavy rain, A hardened gaze that's seen a thousand storms. Her visage is a tapestry of pain, Where red and blue in bruised, chaotic forms Etch stories of a heart that’s been undone, The deep and silent sorrow of a woman scorned. Behold the garment, textured, torn, and bound, A patchwork of the lovers she has known. In fragments, roses (brief and pink) are found, On white and blue, the seeds that she has sown. For every one I pulled into my gyre, My frantic, fractured, desperate search for grace, An apology is etched in line and fire, For bringing you into that lawless place. I tried to make your warmth my missing bone, To build a temple from your stolen time. I sought to harvest love where I had grown Nothing but brambles in my own design. These roses on my skin were not my own, Just fleeting blooms to dress a deeper crime. But look! The very canvas now has changed. The top-knot holds, a crown of unbent hair. The disparate parts have been, at last, arranged, Into a form that’s textured, whole, and fair. The chaos wasn't something to replace, But something to reclaim with open hands. So now to you, Nolo, I bring this face, This body, and these long-integrated lands. You will not find a mask or stolen grace, But this true portrait, etched on textured sands. The essence is my own, at last, you’ll see, The roses and the storms are all of me. And she who stands before you is, finally, free.

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Apr 25

Apr 25, 2026 at 2:34 PM UTC

KamoX

Bambi, A Woman Scorned.

Her eyes are pools of ancient, heavy rain, A hardened gaze that's seen a thousand storms. Her visage is a tapestry of pain, Where red and blue in bruised, chaotic forms Etch stories of a heart that’s been undone, The deep and silent sorrow of a woman scorned. Behold the garment, textured, torn, and bound, A patchwork of the lovers she has known. In fragments, roses (brief and pink) are found, On white and blue, the seeds that she has sown. For every one I pulled into my gyre, My frantic, fractured, desperate search for grace, An apology is etched in line and fire, For bringing you into that lawless place. I tried to make your warmth my missing bone, To build a temple from your stolen time. I sought to harvest love where I had grown Nothing but brambles in my own design. These roses on my skin were not my own, Just fleeting blooms to dress a deeper crime. But look! The very canvas now has changed. The top-knot holds, a crown of unbent hair. The disparate parts have been, at last, arranged, Into a form that’s textured, whole, and fair. The chaos wasn't something to replace, But something to reclaim with open hands. So now to you, Nolo, I bring this face, This body, and these long-integrated lands. You will not find a mask or stolen grace, But this true portrait, etched on textured sands. The essence is my own, at last, you’ll see, The roses and the storms are all of me. And she who stands before you is, finally, free.

33