NeoWandersEternally - Hello Poetry

Children are Crammed into school busses Shoved into neat little hallways. Holding bulletproof backpacks. They are Told to be respectful While being inferior. They are quiet Stationary Silent. The teachers value them with letter grades And paper. They are told /You are the future/ While they live in a present That treats them like nothing. They are trained for the Factories And adults around them are shocked when They cannot function Outside a factory. And when the children mention this They will be told /You are lucky. I had it harder./ While they are shot down in schools.

0

Mar 27

Mar 27, 2026 at 12:36 AM UTC

Silence

Children are Crammed into school busses Shoved into neat little hallways. Holding bulletproof backpacks. They are Told to be respectful While being inferior. They are quiet Stationary Silent. The teachers value them with letter grades And paper. They are told /You are the future/ While they live in a present That treats them like nothing. They are trained for the Factories And adults around them are shocked when They cannot function Outside a factory. And when the children mention this They will be told /You are lucky. I had it harder./ While they are shot down in schools.

26

There is a crow- maybe it’s a raven. Who knows. It stares at you, watching as you lay in the grass. Watching as your bones creak, fill and break. It watches you die, and it does not leave. People whom you’ve never even seen cry for you, not for your death but for the forever empty soul. You’re a husk. You’re a husk, and the crow knows you're still conscious. Intelligence more so than humanity tenfold. And it follows you to wherever the finished stories go.

0

Mar 13

Mar 13, 2026 at 6:24 PM UTC

Crowing

There is a crow- maybe it’s a raven. Who knows. It stares at you, watching as you lay in the grass. Watching as your bones creak, fill and break. It watches you die, and it does not leave. People whom you’ve never even seen cry for you, not for your death but for the forever empty soul. You’re a husk. You’re a husk, and the crow knows you're still conscious. Intelligence more so than humanity tenfold. And it follows you to wherever the finished stories go.

7

We are on a path Talking to my mom ,I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner’ I say You look at me Knowing Knowing Knowing ,It won’t be done for another hour’ Mother would reply I try not to choke on my lungs ,We’re a two hour walk away. I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner.’ You walk ahead of me Hands over ears Pretending we are Not lying ,… okay, I’ll see you soon then.’ Mother says. The phone ends with a click. I see you turn, the click of the phone alerting you. We do not talk You look at me Knowing Seeing the vines around my arms I look at you Knowing With the stars in your eyes We mourn For the life we Walked away From But we have never been so free.

0

Mar 8

Mar 8, 2026 at 4:32 AM UTC

Home

We are on a path Talking to my mom ,I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner’ I say You look at me Knowing Knowing Knowing ,It won’t be done for another hour’ Mother would reply I try not to choke on my lungs ,We’re a two hour walk away. I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner.’ You walk ahead of me Hands over ears Pretending we are Not lying ,… okay, I’ll see you soon then.’ Mother says. The phone ends with a click. I see you turn, the click of the phone alerting you. We do not talk You look at me Knowing Seeing the vines around my arms I look at you Knowing With the stars in your eyes We mourn For the life we Walked away From But we have never been so free.

31

You are Curled up on the floor It’s warmer than you ever were. The tiles older than you, more knowledgeable. You wish to slam your head into them. Just for a fraction of that knowledge. It haunts you. The easiness of letting go. It feels like losing a limb. But you only have so many of those. It always hurt at first. You learned how to keep your arms. By using them to shove away others first. Before they could chop your arms away.

0

Mar 2

Mar 2, 2026 at 3:14 AM UTC

Tiles

You are Curled up on the floor It’s warmer than you ever were. The tiles older than you, more knowledgeable. You wish to slam your head into them. Just for a fraction of that knowledge. It haunts you. The easiness of letting go. It feels like losing a limb. But you only have so many of those. It always hurt at first. You learned how to keep your arms. By using them to shove away others first. Before they could chop your arms away.

14

She holds her hand to the skies as she runs, praying she would find it again if she dare fall. Hands beaten and laced with thorns- still she runs. Knees bent backwards- cracked and flaked blood floating to the ground. (And the only thing she sees is the next thing in front of her. Desperate to reach the next). She trips- vines curling around her legs. (Rest, Child- She would imagine they would say to her). Her form breaks. She is laid in mud- exhausted. And yet, she rises again. Eyelashes glued together- she does not bother clearing them. All she can do is run. Again, she trips. The branch of an oak tree bringing her knees to the ground- she falls into a shallow cut in the Earth. She is forced to rest. She imagines the Oak is what causes berries to fall into her crevice- allowing her to heal. Moss condensed with water falling near her. She does not pretend to understand. If she has been running and running- why is she stopped now? But she is tired. The next thing is so far away. She lays- she rests- but she rises again. Knees straightened and healed- hands covered in moss. She is tired yet- she always has been, a fact of life she believes it- but the next thing does not seem so far away.

0

Feb 21

Feb 21, 2026 at 3:51 AM UTC

Quite Hunterly

She holds her hand to the skies as she runs, praying she would find it again if she dare fall. Hands beaten and laced with thorns- still she runs. Knees bent backwards- cracked and flaked blood floating to the ground. (And the only thing she sees is the next thing in front of her. Desperate to reach the next). She trips- vines curling around her legs. (Rest, Child- She would imagine they would say to her). Her form breaks. She is laid in mud- exhausted. And yet, she rises again. Eyelashes glued together- she does not bother clearing them. All she can do is run. Again, she trips. The branch of an oak tree bringing her knees to the ground- she falls into a shallow cut in the Earth. She is forced to rest. She imagines the Oak is what causes berries to fall into her crevice- allowing her to heal. Moss condensed with water falling near her. She does not pretend to understand. If she has been running and running- why is she stopped now? But she is tired. The next thing is so far away. She lays- she rests- but she rises again. Knees straightened and healed- hands covered in moss. She is tired yet- she always has been, a fact of life she believes it- but the next thing does not seem so far away.

22

You, in your watered down amethyst-colored shoes, in little velvets that cover your toes. You, wonderful you. In your purple glory and silent horror and sadness. You, your total absence. You. The objected darkness. You, in an eternal dream of blankness and darkness. You, who suffered only to suffer the crushing loneliness that is the Nothing of the afterlife. You, beautiful, lovely, gorgeous, horrible you. Dead, cold, you

0

Dec 3, 2025

Dec 3, 2025 at 10:42 PM UTC

Purple cold you

You, in your watered down amethyst-colored shoes, in little velvets that cover your toes. You, wonderful you. In your purple glory and silent horror and sadness. You, your total absence. You. The objected darkness. You, in an eternal dream of blankness and darkness. You, who suffered only to suffer the crushing loneliness that is the Nothing of the afterlife. You, beautiful, lovely, gorgeous, horrible you. Dead, cold, you

8

You . A little runner, a traveler. Covered in dirt and grime, fingernails covered in grit. Work clothes full of ash, head full of dreams (with your feet in the dirt, knowing knowing knowing ). You . This little runner, traveling from dream to dream, finding a new place to sleep each night. Feet in the dirt, head in the darkening sky ( hoping hoping hoping ). You . A watered-down memory. Sunk through quick-sand, up to your neck in stress. You . A thing of remarkableness, hefted at the wall ‘til your head is full of lead and false memories. You . Little runner, head full of lead, weighed down by crushed dreams. Feet walk over your neck, stepping on your jugular. Crumpled little tissue stuck in a beehive, who do you think is stepping on you?

0

Nov 20, 2025

Nov 20, 2025 at 10:20 PM UTC

Little Runner

You . A little runner, a traveler. Covered in dirt and grime, fingernails covered in grit. Work clothes full of ash, head full of dreams (with your feet in the dirt, knowing knowing knowing ). You . This little runner, traveling from dream to dream, finding a new place to sleep each night. Feet in the dirt, head in the darkening sky ( hoping hoping hoping ). You . A watered-down memory. Sunk through quick-sand, up to your neck in stress. You . A thing of remarkableness, hefted at the wall ‘til your head is full of lead and false memories. You . Little runner, head full of lead, weighed down by crushed dreams. Feet walk over your neck, stepping on your jugular. Crumpled little tissue stuck in a beehive, who do you think is stepping on you?

6