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Phantompoet
26/M/Somewhere peaceful
Not the voice— though I still hear it in the way wind moves through curtains on certain afternoons. Not the hands— though I still feel them when I lift something heavy, when I hold something breakable. What remains is stranger. The way he tilted his head before answering a hard question— I do that now. The way he hummed without knowing, a tuneless thing, while reading the morning paper— I caught myself doing it last Sunday, and froze, and listened to the ghost in my throat. He taught me to tie a tie by standing behind me, our hands moving together in the mirror. Now every knot I make is his hands repeating their lesson. He never said "I love you." Not once. But when I fell from the bicycle, when the skin peeled from my knee like wet petals, he picked me up not with his arms but with his voice— steady, unhurried, as if falling was just another way of learning to rise. I understand now. Some men keep their love in a locked drawer. They open it only when no one is watching. They leave it open just long enough for the air to change. Once, I found him asleep on the couch, the newspaper spread across his chest like a second skin. I watched his breath go in and out, in and out, and thought: this is what holds the world together— not prayers, not promises, but a man breathing in a room full of people he forgot to tell he loved them. He is gone now. The house feels taller, emptier, like a body that has stopped breathing. But sometimes, when I am alone, when the phone rings at the wrong hour, when I solve something difficult, when I laugh too loud at my own joke— I feel him turn in that vast earth, turn toward the sound of me, and smile the way he smiled when I wasn't looking. Father, you did not leave me. You simply changed addresses. Now you live in the space between my bones and my skin, in the pause between my breath and my next breath. I carry you the way the earth carries water— invisibly, essentially, always.
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Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 6:25 PM UTC
What Remains
Not the voice— though I still hear it in the way wind moves through curtains on certain afternoons. Not the hands— though I still feel them when I lift something heavy, when I hold something breakable. What remains is stranger. The way he tilted his head before answering a hard question— I do that now. The way he hummed without knowing, a tuneless thing, while reading the morning paper— I caught myself doing it last Sunday, and froze, and listened to the ghost in my throat. He taught me to tie a tie by standing behind me, our hands moving together in the mirror. Now every knot I make is his hands repeating their lesson. He never said "I love you." Not once. But when I fell from the bicycle, when the skin peeled from my knee like wet petals, he picked me up not with his arms but with his voice— steady, unhurried, as if falling was just another way of learning to rise. I understand now. Some men keep their love in a locked drawer. They open it only when no one is watching. They leave it open just long enough for the air to change. Once, I found him asleep on the couch, the newspaper spread across his chest like a second skin. I watched his breath go in and out, in and out, and thought: this is what holds the world together— not prayers, not promises, but a man breathing in a room full of people he forgot to tell he loved them. He is gone now. The house feels taller, emptier, like a body that has stopped breathing. But sometimes, when I am alone, when the phone rings at the wrong hour, when I solve something difficult, when I laugh too loud at my own joke— I feel him turn in that vast earth, turn toward the sound of me, and smile the way he smiled when I wasn't looking. Father, you did not leave me. You simply changed addresses. Now you live in the space between my bones and my skin, in the pause between my breath and my next breath. I carry you the way the earth carries water— invisibly, essentially, always.
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87
There is always a bit of fear when it comes to falling in love. As scary as it is there is nothing better then feeling the electric shock and awe of finding new love and there is no denying the spark of a new love. A new love that takes your words and breath away is as pure as the heavens themselves
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Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 6:25 PM UTC
A spark of a new love
I went driving down that old road. Life passing me by like an old film black and jagged. Static like snow fall on over my eyes. The memories flooding me out like heavy rain
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Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 7:12 PM UTC
Snow fall and heavy rain
Someone I used to know a long time ago and I had a complicated relationship all these years I carried that weight as to never forget how bad I hurt them. But recently I’ve learned new things about them and regardless of the past they came a long way. As little as it’s worth from me they are stronger braver and as a whole better than all of y’all. But that growth comes at a cost of the weight and burden of pain. Something some of y’all know very little about.
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Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 4:44 PM UTC
Weight and burden of pain
if i had chosen i would not have met you i would have chosen a plain with no name, a sky with no weight, a day no one remembers i would have chosen a silence no one guards i would not have met you not because you are you but because after you i don’t know how to live in a world with no after every day now has a name every silence waits every threshold someone already there i could have been a man who didn’t know a man with no address in his own chest a man whose palm was only for holding but you came now i know i would not undo it i would not have met you — if i had chosen but i didn’t choose you did here i am a man who thought he guarded silence now silenced by your name in me i don’t speak it not to spare you to spare the world the sound of it, said as if for the first time still i say it inside always and each time silence doesn’t leave it gathers in my palm and waits for you to open it i would not have met you i didn’t want to but now that you are how could I want anything before you? how could i choose not to be when you are? i would not have met you that’s the last lie i still tell myself truth is: nothing before you waited nothing after you will come and you — you are here on the threshold as if you’d always sat there as if the gate wasn’t there until you came to open it not with your hand with you it opened metal sighed iron remembered it wasn’t iron just something waiting to be touched i would not have met you but i did no more questions
0
Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 10:47 AM UTC
if i had chosen
if i had chosen i would not have met you i would have chosen a plain with no name, a sky with no weight, a day no one remembers i would have chosen a silence no one guards i would not have met you not because you are you but because after you i don’t know how to live in a world with no after every day now has a name every silence waits every threshold someone already there i could have been a man who didn’t know a man with no address in his own chest a man whose palm was only for holding but you came now i know i would not undo it i would not have met you — if i had chosen but i didn’t choose you did here i am a man who thought he guarded silence now silenced by your name in me i don’t speak it not to spare you to spare the world the sound of it, said as if for the first time still i say it inside always and each time silence doesn’t leave it gathers in my palm and waits for you to open it i would not have met you i didn’t want to but now that you are how could I want anything before you? how could i choose not to be when you are? i would not have met you that’s the last lie i still tell myself truth is: nothing before you waited nothing after you will come and you — you are here on the threshold as if you’d always sat there as if the gate wasn’t there until you came to open it not with your hand with you it opened metal sighed iron remembered it wasn’t iron just something waiting to be touched i would not have met you but i did no more questions
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75
My friends are tumbling down Like jack and Jill Their arms are bruised and bleeding All for that painful thrill And I can’t help them No matter what I say They don’t trust a kid Who looks forward to each new day I dig my nails into my skin But I stop before it bleeds Because I’m afraid of what may happen If they look and see And they don’t talk to me They prefer to post online Their desperation grows But in real life, it’s “fine” I try and ease it with humor But alas I am talked over Because they don’t trust a kid Who really is a pushover We really are just kids I wish they could understand We haven’t lived long enough Is this really all they’ve planned?
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Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 10:47 AM UTC
We really are just kids
when god lets my body be from each brave eye shall sprout a tree fruit that dangles therefrom the purpled world will dance upon between my lips which did sing a rose shall beget the spring that maidens whom passion wastes will lay between their little ******* my strong fingers beneath the snow into strenuous birds shall go my love walking in the grass their wings will touch with her face and all the while shall my heart be with the bulge and nuzzle of the sea
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Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 2:21 AM UTC
When God Lets My Body Be
Not a poem a test
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Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 7:04 PM UTC
Not a poem a test
I went back to old habits. Burying demons and emotions. Cutting my own heart. Personal demons led to a broken mind. My weakness led to a shattered heart
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Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 5:00 PM UTC
Broken mind shattered heart
If the choice were ending the rest of the world or keeping only you, I would erase the spine of time itself, let every future collapse into silence, and stand unashamed beside you as the last two beings in existence. —InkWept
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Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 2:34 PM UTC
For My Muse