I don’t remember
when my thoughts stopped feeling like mine,
when they started sounding
like something I’d already read somewhere else,
like a sentence with fingerprints that aren’t my own.
Copy,
that’s the easy part, isn’t it?
Highlight the feeling, drag it across the screen,
pretend it fits neatly inside the box
like it was always meant to live there.
Paste,
and suddenly it’s mine,
or at least it looks like it is.
Same words, different place,
a quiet kind of stealing no one calls out.
But sometimes
there’s a glitch,
a line that doesn’t belong,
a rhythm that stumbles
like truth trying to break through the script.
And I wonder
if there’s an original version of me somewhere,
uncopied, unshared,
still waiting to be written
without needing to paste at all.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 9:08 PM UTC
Silver tongues use flowery words
to paint lust and heat as one -
they call it fire,
and claim we're children of the sun.
A pretty lie: Lust is not heat.
It is the frozen erasure of humanity.
It is face-blurring,
flaw-concealing frost,
surviving only at an arm's length.
It is standing in a blizzard of longing,
each snowflake of your own making,
aching for her warmth,
her softness,
like cold blood begging for a pulse.
But when you
finally
meet her lips,
all your hunger
runs off like meltwater,
a deluge leaving nothing behind.
Lust is not heat.
It is frostbite;
slowly numbing and deadening,
until you cannot feel what you've lost,
and
can no longer tell what's been taken.
Mar 20
Mar 20, 2026 at 12:22 AM UTC
Yeah…
Come here, baby.
The room doesn’t glow—it leans toward your grace,
as if the walls themselves remember your light.
My heartbeat shifts, trying to draw near your space,
’cause God shaped you slow… carved your spirit just right.
Only you—
yeah, you’re the occasion, girl.
Only you—
my night’s soft celebration.
Only you—
my morning’s lift in a rising swirl.
I’m grateful you stayed—my quiet foundation.
The world turns gentle when your eyes meet mine,
like velvet brushing soul, two spirits entwined.
I don’t need reason—your presence is the sign,
My path found its meaning the day you aligned.
Only you—
Yeah, you’re the occasion.
Only you—
My night’s warm celebration.
Only you—
My dawn’s unfolding elevation.
You make it deeper, girl—my revelation.
Your laugh is a whisper carved only for me,
and the way that you move lets the whole moment breathe.
Let the world fade away—no imitation can be
what we are, heart to heart, with nothing beneath.
Pulled by your rhythm, lifted by your grace,
every second with you feels like truth in motion.
No season can shift it, no time can erase—
you’re where I begin… the root of devotion.
Only you—
yeah… it’s only you.
You’re the occasion my soul always knew.
Mar 20
Mar 20, 2026 at 12:20 AM UTC
Past my skin you'll find my soul,
But you never bothered to look anyways.
Your fingers tracing along me.
across my body, the miles and miles of skin, enough space to wander, to cover, to smother, to hide me.
Run your hands up along my ribs - the cage - feeling my chest rise and fall with each breath you stole,
always breathing in the scent of you.
You lock your eyes on something
other than unlocking my cage to find my heart.
You always favoured the outside parts
rather than the depth that waited beneath it. Begging to be seen.
Without a performance.
Running out of time - we ran out of time.
Never enough time for you to stay.
Never enough time for depth that lied beyond my body.
You lead me through the forest,
always finding your way back to the path - somehow im still lost.
The clouds turned grey
and the light turned to dark as i spent more time trying to escape,
I saw through the trees in the moonlight,
but the moon looked wrong; almost false, I saw your reflection.
It flickered from time to time but too quick to catch it.
Too quick to hold it.
Too quick to ever find the warmth that held my face the same way you did.
Ever again.
Suddenly, im back in my room, you in yours. Only my walls carried the sound of my cries, you'll never hear.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 10:41 PM UTC
Are you the person who reads what I write,
oh so immersed you recite it every night.
Let my words paint you a vivid dream,
which do you prefer a laugh or a scream?
Because I can make both
happen in tandem,
a scribe taken as an oath
instead of a reprimand and
I’ve been ready for so much more
I’ve been waiting for a very long time.
From my exterior to my core,
to not use it would be a crime.
At a point of do or die,
I just pray to remember how to breathe.
I’ll keep barely getting by,
right by the skin of my teeth.
Don’t you play coy I know that you’re obsessed,
like I’m your toy to pose and get dressed.
Sometimes I don’t mind because it’s flattering,
you’ve been so kind even though I’m maddening.
But you keep on reading
so I’ll keep on talking,
even though I’ve been bleeding
I’ve just always kept on walking.
Now I’ve been waiting on my destiny,
instead of seizing my own fate.
Maybe the universe is just testing me,
or maybe the inevitable is running late.
At this rate who even am I?
Not someone I’d love to meet.
I’ll keep barely getting by,
right by the skin of my teeth.
I’ve been ready for so much more
I’ve been waiting for a very long time.
A perfect image of what’s in store,
I just hope that the picture’s mine.
Do or do not; there is no try,
climb above not underneath.
But I’ll just keep barely getting by,
right by the skin of my teeth.
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 9:29 PM UTC
When I die,
will my obituary say
that I preferred wired headphones
that I liked the slow ritual of untangling them?
Will it say,
that I chose oranges with thinner skin
because I loved the way they opened
at the press of my thumb?
Will it mention
the crescent of graphite
smudged along the side of my hand,
how I pressed too hard
in my efforts to make my thoughts permanent on paper?
Will it say
that I waited for the pauses between songs
that suspended breath between the end and the beginning?
Will it record
that I stood under the shower longer that needed,
letting the water cool against my shoulders,
because warmth is something not to be rushed?
Or will it say instead,
a list of dates and titles
a life arranged in neat past tense?
Most importantly;
Will it say I graduated
or I traced constellations across your shoulders in the dark?
Will it say I built a career,
or that I built a language
out of the way you spoke my name?
Will it say
that I counted the hours of the night
by the rise and fall of your ribs-
that time moved for me
in the quiet lift of your chest
and its soft return?
Will it say
that some nights I stayed awake
long after sleep found you,
just to feel your breath
steady the dark?
Will it say
that loving you rearranged my understanding of time
that the future stopped being a place
and started being a person?
Will it say
that I loved you in the smallest of ways;
in refilled glasses, shared stories,
in the way I turned towards you
without thinking,
as if my body had already learned where home was?
In my death,
if I am reduced to just degrees and dates,
to what can be summarized,
within a careful dash between two years
then I was never properly seen.
But if somewhere in you,
the memory remains
of how deliberately I loved you
then I have already
outlived the page.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 11:33 PM UTC
My love is a futile need,
Impossible to please.
My desire keeps me trapped, begging on my knees to feel your hands on me,
To receive the heat that I crave.
⋆˚࿔
Lust has learnt silence,
Incapable of leaving,
Thumping behind my ears as contaminated love fills my heart.
Raw desperation lays beneath my fingertips,
My hands are filthy,
They must be cleaned.
⋆˚࿔
I pray for salvation but your pulse reals me in,
Punishment for my tarnished mind
A sickening greed begging to have your mouth on mine.
You live beneath my skin,
Undeserving of warmth because its heat knows no cure.
⋆˚࿔
It's all so wrong-but it feels so right.
Each noise is a reward,
But need knows not how to be still,
My nature hides behind dilated eyes,
A buzzing restlessness,
Desperate,
Needy.
I beg and beg,
And as your legs shake,
I know the filth is my sentence.
Your pleasure is my escape and the emptiness left is my retribution.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 8:08 PM UTC
The words still linger in the air
Pollute for too long
To small to scar you
But lasts forever
The type of moisture that seaps into the fabric
You can never quite get rid
No matter how much
Cycles, bleach, stain. It will always be there
Woven In between the material like it once was woven into your brain
No matter how hard you scrub.
The words lasted seconds but they stayed in the air so long they were hung to dry
And the more I hang around them, breathing in what once was everything, now feast at my words that stood to long I never got to speak.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 8:04 PM UTC
The sickly scent of
Misty mint, how can it
bring me such joy
Constellations spin as
I lay my head on the
green voluminous grass
Mother Nature hugs me
and tells me
Everything will be fine
"Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness."
I lay still and let the earth
and its soft beauty
consume me
The colors like a bright
Snowy day daphodiles blooming
In the spring
Gives me such longing for
Something so far
Cant touch
For something so far
Cant hear
For something so far
Cant smell
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 11:43 PM UTC
ꨄ➶∞
Another one, I’ve finally gotten the chance to get back at what I try to write or needless to do, and that I’ve been. My last written piece as is written
“Fallen into deeply.
The ever did you clasp the one on one to hold.
It is part of plum trees and much more joyness.
So written words are your thing ꨄ➶∞
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Just because. 🥂
🇻🇮
❤️🔥
ℑt's extreme and its l.o.v.e
໒( ~ ◔ ᴥ ◔ ~ )७
Signed~ by me~ Pyt Kįkį
This does and it doesn't.
As you must'n.
Dearest.
Underneath the signed contract's binding seal,
Promises and obligations revealed,
A solemn agreement both parties must heed,
With consequences for those who don't concede.
🔥”
Needless to say this was written back in December of 2025.
ꨄ➶∞
What a beautiful written out piece, I’ve
“Written out so much, and one thing is for sure, is that this is a poetry thing, and
one thing
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 11:43 PM UTC