MarcoCarlosCorreia - Hello Poetry

Perhaps, if I am fortunate, this room in which I am imprisoned will one day become a museum. Perhaps by the end of it all, a story will have been told - enough to make this suffering worth something. I am bound by an unreasonable degree of wishful thinking. I have failed countless times, and yet I do not know what failure is.

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Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 2:09 PM UTC

Failure is a Stranger

Perhaps, if I am fortunate, this room in which I am imprisoned will one day become a museum. Perhaps by the end of it all, a story will have been told - enough to make this suffering worth something. I am bound by an unreasonable degree of wishful thinking. I have failed countless times, and yet I do not know what failure is.

4

What a beautiful thing it is to love another, and what a terrifying thing it is to love oneself. Everyone needs something, or someone, to hold gently within their mind. Not always romantically, but tenderly. A presence that, when recalled, fills the soul with warmth. How beautiful it is when that presence is not oneself. Yet how frightening it is to realise how easily the self can dissolve - how quickly “I” can be broken down, only to be rebuilt around the image of another.

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Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 2:08 PM UTC

How Beautiful, How Scary

What a beautiful thing it is to love another, and what a terrifying thing it is to love oneself. Everyone needs something, or someone, to hold gently within their mind. Not always romantically, but tenderly. A presence that, when recalled, fills the soul with warmth. How beautiful it is when that presence is not oneself. Yet how frightening it is to realise how easily the self can dissolve - how quickly “I” can be broken down, only to be rebuilt around the image of another.

4

Black bird in a golden cage. It feels as if God has placed a veil over my soul. I can look out, but no one sees me looking. I stand in a garden of beauty, yet my stem bears no bloom. A small sapling, my roots reaching down into hell. Unseen, unrecognised - yet do you not feel them beneath your feet? If only you could see my soul, if only God had not hidden it from you. The wolves that would have snarled at the scent of prey pass by, none the wiser. Faceless, I see the façades of people - only the silhouette of muscle and bone. They buzz around the hive as though it all makes sense. I remain apart. The signs point to reason, to protection, to preservation of the self - or is it that He is protecting them from me? It is always within reach to become what I once feared.

0

Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 2:08 PM UTC

Black Bird in a Golden Cage

Black bird in a golden cage. It feels as if God has placed a veil over my soul. I can look out, but no one sees me looking. I stand in a garden of beauty, yet my stem bears no bloom. A small sapling, my roots reaching down into hell. Unseen, unrecognised - yet do you not feel them beneath your feet? If only you could see my soul, if only God had not hidden it from you. The wolves that would have snarled at the scent of prey pass by, none the wiser. Faceless, I see the façades of people - only the silhouette of muscle and bone. They buzz around the hive as though it all makes sense. I remain apart. The signs point to reason, to protection, to preservation of the self - or is it that He is protecting them from me? It is always within reach to become what I once feared.

1

Atheists argue about the painting. They debate the contrast and composition of the piece but never lift their eyes from its surface. The image is constantly changing. What began as a tadpole became a fish, and somewhere along the way some of those fish were painted legs, with toes at the end of them. They study the pigment, the chemistry of the paint, the patterns unfolding in intricate sequence. The scientist, himself composed of genetic code, feeds his analysis of the painting into computers that speak in coded language. Design observing design. Step back far enough and a simpler truth appears: there is a canvas. Something has been painting upon it all along, and the work is not finished but ever expanding. Debate the geometry and forms if you must, but never do so with someone who cannot see beyond the paint into the canvas, who cannot recognise the strokes of the unseen hand. God is both the painter and the canvas, and you are a fractal of that same essence, a drop in an ocean made entirely of drops. When I see you, I see I. The thread that binds us dissolves the illusion of separation. When I ask when you are free, do not answer with a time or a day. You were always free. Paint each day with a symphony of colours. And if someone uses their brush to paint you inside a prison or a cubicle, answer by painting paradise behind your eyes.

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Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 2:07 PM UTC

Under the Paint

Atheists argue about the painting. They debate the contrast and composition of the piece but never lift their eyes from its surface. The image is constantly changing. What began as a tadpole became a fish, and somewhere along the way some of those fish were painted legs, with toes at the end of them. They study the pigment, the chemistry of the paint, the patterns unfolding in intricate sequence. The scientist, himself composed of genetic code, feeds his analysis of the painting into computers that speak in coded language. Design observing design. Step back far enough and a simpler truth appears: there is a canvas. Something has been painting upon it all along, and the work is not finished but ever expanding. Debate the geometry and forms if you must, but never do so with someone who cannot see beyond the paint into the canvas, who cannot recognise the strokes of the unseen hand. God is both the painter and the canvas, and you are a fractal of that same essence, a drop in an ocean made entirely of drops. When I see you, I see I. The thread that binds us dissolves the illusion of separation. When I ask when you are free, do not answer with a time or a day. You were always free. Paint each day with a symphony of colours. And if someone uses their brush to paint you inside a prison or a cubicle, answer by painting paradise behind your eyes.

1

Assume meaning when none is visible, find love where none is offered. The trials were thorns with healing properties in them; the victories a hollowed-out medallion, shelved within a day or two. I was not made to win, I was made to endure. I raise my shield and face the storm; this is not the patience of waiting but the patience of pursuit as the winds of time push against me. My body is besieged by its worst nightmares and still I remain, though there are nights I am tired of remaining. I can bear a scar on the elbow or a chipped tooth, for if it were an eye for an eye I would surely be blind. A broken femur grows back stronger, a torn soul stitches itself together and returns heavier, filling a room like fog. Were it not for trees breathing oxygen into me or birds dancing on clouds, I would not believe the impossible to be true. I lie on the ***** of God as He shapes me, even as I deny Him. I searched for Him in books, but He was always here, in the spacing between the words, cradling me as He fills the empty rooms where I sit and contemplate. I thought myself a sinner, but my worship came in breaths and suffering, and when there was nothing left to say except exhalation, I understood that silence had been praying through me all along.

0

Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 2:06 PM UTC

The Silence of Prayer

Assume meaning when none is visible, find love where none is offered. The trials were thorns with healing properties in them; the victories a hollowed-out medallion, shelved within a day or two. I was not made to win, I was made to endure. I raise my shield and face the storm; this is not the patience of waiting but the patience of pursuit as the winds of time push against me. My body is besieged by its worst nightmares and still I remain, though there are nights I am tired of remaining. I can bear a scar on the elbow or a chipped tooth, for if it were an eye for an eye I would surely be blind. A broken femur grows back stronger, a torn soul stitches itself together and returns heavier, filling a room like fog. Were it not for trees breathing oxygen into me or birds dancing on clouds, I would not believe the impossible to be true. I lie on the ***** of God as He shapes me, even as I deny Him. I searched for Him in books, but He was always here, in the spacing between the words, cradling me as He fills the empty rooms where I sit and contemplate. I thought myself a sinner, but my worship came in breaths and suffering, and when there was nothing left to say except exhalation, I understood that silence had been praying through me all along.

1

I am constantly dying of thirst, and you are my water. The difference between a desperate mouthful and a drink drawn from a shaded canteen is immeasurable. You are the source of the Nile; around you, civilizations rise. I come bearing seeds, but without you they remain inert. Bathed in your presence, I am cleansed of my travels. Your kisses fall like droplets on depleted soil, and wherever you touch, something inside me grows anew.

0

Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 2:05 PM UTC

Thirst

I am constantly dying of thirst, and you are my water. The difference between a desperate mouthful and a drink drawn from a shaded canteen is immeasurable. You are the source of the Nile; around you, civilizations rise. I come bearing seeds, but without you they remain inert. Bathed in your presence, I am cleansed of my travels. Your kisses fall like droplets on depleted soil, and wherever you touch, something inside me grows anew.

5

Life is building statues out of sand and worshipping them, yet we find ourselves in the desert. The material of our gods clings to our knees when we rise from prostration, grains lodged beneath our fingernails quietly betraying the facade we build for ourselves. The figures slowly sink; what was once angelically beautiful becomes grotesque, collapsing under its own weight back into dust. The desert waits patiently for us to shape another, an endless cycle of destitute attempts to extract meaning from what cannot hold it. Each new figure stands taller than the last, as if stature alone might grant survival. Still, each returns to the desert from which it came. When we reach down to gather more sand and find it risen past our ankles, we understand that we too will return to the desert. In the end, you are your final masterpiece. It has all become both home and final resting place.

0

Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 2:05 PM UTC

False Idols

Life is building statues out of sand and worshipping them, yet we find ourselves in the desert. The material of our gods clings to our knees when we rise from prostration, grains lodged beneath our fingernails quietly betraying the facade we build for ourselves. The figures slowly sink; what was once angelically beautiful becomes grotesque, collapsing under its own weight back into dust. The desert waits patiently for us to shape another, an endless cycle of destitute attempts to extract meaning from what cannot hold it. Each new figure stands taller than the last, as if stature alone might grant survival. Still, each returns to the desert from which it came. When we reach down to gather more sand and find it risen past our ankles, we understand that we too will return to the desert. In the end, you are your final masterpiece. It has all become both home and final resting place.

1

I am alive in your little world because you still have to find ways to walk around me. When I step forward, you step back, as if we were dancing. Avoidance is not absence; it exists precisely in the place you refuse to look. We’ve entered a new phase in our relationship, one between the eraser and the word being erased. But I’m written in ink.

0

Apr 28

Apr 28, 2026 at 2:04 PM UTC

Written in Ink

I am alive in your little world because you still have to find ways to walk around me. When I step forward, you step back, as if we were dancing. Avoidance is not absence; it exists precisely in the place you refuse to look. We’ve entered a new phase in our relationship, one between the eraser and the word being erased. But I’m written in ink.

1

What does one do when love is lost? I have merely stopped existing. No past, no future No dreams, no fears No up, no down Just a mere straight line, With no faults, breaks, or ascensions. I even crave a plummet, If need be. But there’s nothing... I have flatlined, I am dead. As what is life without love? Nothing

0

Jun 2, 2019

Jun 2, 2019 at 1:09 PM UTC

Nothing

What does one do when love is lost? I have merely stopped existing. No past, no future No dreams, no fears No up, no down Just a mere straight line, With no faults, breaks, or ascensions. I even crave a plummet, If need be. But there’s nothing... I have flatlined, I am dead. As what is life without love? Nothing

14

D’evils Devils amongst us, painted in a glisten, dipped in gold. And thus, if to them, you truly listen, thou shan’t make it to old. A patter of steps, trailing, lurking, never rest. For if guard is lost, with her eyes, you will get undressed. A slither of a tongue, a caress or two, scrounging around for what it is, that weakens you. May it be ambition, may it be vanity. The appearance of it, a delusion, for something so innocent, could wield your sanity. Like a fisherman in calm waters, peering about into the blue sea, an encounter, lies a test for thee, beautiful it is, promises empty as hollow. Peer closer he does, a goner he may, in the waters he is swallowed. For she lured and prevailed it be, beauty is no longer hailed, as to him, it and the devil, are now a simile. D’evils.

0

Jul 16, 2018

Jul 16, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC

D'evils

D’evils Devils amongst us, painted in a glisten, dipped in gold. And thus, if to them, you truly listen, thou shan’t make it to old. A patter of steps, trailing, lurking, never rest. For if guard is lost, with her eyes, you will get undressed. A slither of a tongue, a caress or two, scrounging around for what it is, that weakens you. May it be ambition, may it be vanity. The appearance of it, a delusion, for something so innocent, could wield your sanity. Like a fisherman in calm waters, peering about into the blue sea, an encounter, lies a test for thee, beautiful it is, promises empty as hollow. Peer closer he does, a goner he may, in the waters he is swallowed. For she lured and prevailed it be, beauty is no longer hailed, as to him, it and the devil, are now a simile. D’evils.

9