TheBlackPen121 - Hello Poetry

Let me— let me write with my soul on the canvas of the universe... Not with ink— no— with something deeper. Something that aches. Something that knows. Let me be bold. Unapologetically bold. The kind of bold that shakes silence and makes the stars lean in to listen. Let me be strong— not the quiet kind, but the kind that breaks… and still chooses to expand. Ever-expanding— like breath, like time, like a dream that refuses to die inside a fragile body. Because I— I am a wild child. Born of stardust and magic, with galaxies stitched into my veins and purpose pulsing through my bones. I am not just here to exist— I am a creation of the Creator… placed here— to create. To feel. To burn. To become. So let me— let me bleed upon the canvas. Not in pain alone, but in truth. In color. In everything I was too afraid to say out loud. Let it spill— messy, honest, eternal. And in that moment… may I be forever immersed— not lost— but found in the art of becoming.

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7d ago

May 27, 2026 at 8:35 AM UTC

A wild child's Declaration (extend)

Let me— let me write with my soul on the canvas of the universe... Not with ink— no— with something deeper. Something that aches. Something that knows. Let me be bold. Unapologetically bold. The kind of bold that shakes silence and makes the stars lean in to listen. Let me be strong— not the quiet kind, but the kind that breaks… and still chooses to expand. Ever-expanding— like breath, like time, like a dream that refuses to die inside a fragile body. Because I— I am a wild child. Born of stardust and magic, with galaxies stitched into my veins and purpose pulsing through my bones. I am not just here to exist— I am a creation of the Creator… placed here— to create. To feel. To burn. To become. So let me— let me bleed upon the canvas. Not in pain alone, but in truth. In color. In everything I was too afraid to say out loud. Let it spill— messy, honest, eternal. And in that moment… may I be forever immersed— not lost— but found in the art of becoming.

47

“Don’t write me any poems,” you said… But why wouldn’t I? For I am a poet — I write about the things I love. So let me immortalize you in stanzas and phrases, in rhythm and flow. Allow me to weave my words together and show them just how deep this love goes. For I am a poet… and you — you are my poetry. So let me write. Let me write beautiful words for the world to see.

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May 9

May 9, 2026 at 7:34 AM UTC

I WROTE THIS FOR YOU

“Don’t write me any poems,” you said… But why wouldn’t I? For I am a poet — I write about the things I love. So let me immortalize you in stanzas and phrases, in rhythm and flow. Allow me to weave my words together and show them just how deep this love goes. For I am a poet… and you — you are my poetry. So let me write. Let me write beautiful words for the world to see.

15

Let me write with my soul on the canvas of the universe. Let me be bold, strong, and ever-expanding, for I am a wild child born of stardust and magic— a creation of the Creator, placed here to create. So let me bleed upon the canvas, to be forever immersed.

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Mar 20

Mar 20, 2026 at 3:40 PM UTC

A Wild Childs Declaration

Let me write with my soul on the canvas of the universe. Let me be bold, strong, and ever-expanding, for I am a wild child born of stardust and magic— a creation of the Creator, placed here to create. So let me bleed upon the canvas, to be forever immersed.

5

Oh, my little flower, teach me how to love you. For many have seen your beauty— You’ve captivated them with your color. But all they see is surface level; They never stop to wonder— How can I love you? Done by K.C.G

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Mar 19

Mar 19, 2026 at 3:12 PM UTC

My Little Flower

Oh, my little flower, teach me how to love you. For many have seen your beauty— You’ve captivated them with your color. But all they see is surface level; They never stop to wonder— How can I love you? Done by K.C.G

7

I am becoming someone I am not truly familiar with. I am in transition — not anchored by the ways of the old, but not fully cemented in the ways of the new. Every day, the old me fights to stay alive, invoking old emotions, sabotaging new habits, clinging to comfort like it’s oxygen. That ************ gotta die. Identity suicide. Not self-destruction — but self-selection. I bury the habits that betray me. I silence the voices that shrink me. I let the version of me built on fear return to dust. I am allowed to be aligned. I am allowed to evolve. I am allowed to outgrow who I was.

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Feb 12

Feb 12, 2026 at 6:41 AM UTC

An Elegy For Myself

I am becoming someone I am not truly familiar with. I am in transition — not anchored by the ways of the old, but not fully cemented in the ways of the new. Every day, the old me fights to stay alive, invoking old emotions, sabotaging new habits, clinging to comfort like it’s oxygen. That ************ gotta die. Identity suicide. Not self-destruction — but self-selection. I bury the habits that betray me. I silence the voices that shrink me. I let the version of me built on fear return to dust. I am allowed to be aligned. I am allowed to evolve. I am allowed to outgrow who I was.

20

Honesty ? I would tell you truths that could tear your whole reality apart, crack the glass you thought was unbreakable, leave you staring at a reflection you never wanted to see. I was always Honesty— but in varying degrees, measured, restrained, because I knew you could not handle it completely. You asked for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but when it arrived bare, you turned away. So I dressed it in softer clothing, hid its sharp little face, because undressed truths are ugly, and you were never ready to look them in the eye. Still, I was patient with you— because I loved you. I bent myself across eggshells, guarding your feelings at the expense of my own. But looking back, I should have walked on hot charcoal instead, let the fire scorch every step, let you feel the burn of what it costs to hold back what is real. Because truth is not gentle, and honesty is not safe. It cuts, it scars, it scorches— but only what survives the fire is worth calling love.

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Feb 3

Feb 3, 2026 at 11:44 AM UTC

Honesty??

Honesty ? I would tell you truths that could tear your whole reality apart, crack the glass you thought was unbreakable, leave you staring at a reflection you never wanted to see. I was always Honesty— but in varying degrees, measured, restrained, because I knew you could not handle it completely. You asked for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but when it arrived bare, you turned away. So I dressed it in softer clothing, hid its sharp little face, because undressed truths are ugly, and you were never ready to look them in the eye. Still, I was patient with you— because I loved you. I bent myself across eggshells, guarding your feelings at the expense of my own. But looking back, I should have walked on hot charcoal instead, let the fire scorch every step, let you feel the burn of what it costs to hold back what is real. Because truth is not gentle, and honesty is not safe. It cuts, it scars, it scorches— but only what survives the fire is worth calling love.

37

I am in hell— not the fiery kind Christians preach, but the quiet one… the loop I live in every day. Today is my last drink. This is my last cigarette. My last joint. My last pill. But I already know tomorrow. I’ll use again. I always do. Ahhh—there it is. The hit. Dopamine rising like a warm wave, but the satisfaction is soaked in guilt. Another promise broken. I whisper to myself, Tomorrow I’ll be stronger. Tomorrow I’ll stop. Maybe just one more before I give it up… And so the loop continues— my own personal hell, built not from fire, but from the promises I keep breaking to myself.

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Dec 2, 2025

Dec 2, 2025 at 3:29 PM UTC

The Hell That isn't Fire

I am in hell— not the fiery kind Christians preach, but the quiet one… the loop I live in every day. Today is my last drink. This is my last cigarette. My last joint. My last pill. But I already know tomorrow. I’ll use again. I always do. Ahhh—there it is. The hit. Dopamine rising like a warm wave, but the satisfaction is soaked in guilt. Another promise broken. I whisper to myself, Tomorrow I’ll be stronger. Tomorrow I’ll stop. Maybe just one more before I give it up… And so the loop continues— my own personal hell, built not from fire, but from the promises I keep breaking to myself.

24

I wasn’t supposed to tell you this. But I’m not built like the rest of them. I get restless easily. I crave things I can’t name out loud. Not just skin. Not just the heat of it. It’s the look in someone’s eyes right before they say something they shouldn’t. It’s the way the air shifts when the line’s about to be crossed. I flirt because it makes me feel like I exist. Because for a split second, I’m not someone’s expectation, or disappointment, or ghost of who I was supposed to be. I’ve done things I’ll probably never confess in full. Not because I’m ashamed — I’m not. But because people love you less when you’re honest about the parts of you that don’t fit in their clean little narratives. I tried to be good. Tried to clip my own wings. Play small. Be the man they could take home, brag about, trust. But the truth is I’ve always been a little too much. Too intense. Too curious. Too alive. And maybe that makes me dangerous. Maybe it makes me the one you write about but never introduce to your friends. But **** it. I’m done shrinking. I’m done pretending I’m not this. This heat. This ache. This quiet need to be wanted without being caged. If you can handle it, stay. If you can’t, don’t. But don’t ask me to apologize for it. Not anymore.

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Nov 20, 2025

Nov 20, 2025 at 10:15 PM UTC

I shouldn't be telling you this

I wasn’t supposed to tell you this. But I’m not built like the rest of them. I get restless easily. I crave things I can’t name out loud. Not just skin. Not just the heat of it. It’s the look in someone’s eyes right before they say something they shouldn’t. It’s the way the air shifts when the line’s about to be crossed. I flirt because it makes me feel like I exist. Because for a split second, I’m not someone’s expectation, or disappointment, or ghost of who I was supposed to be. I’ve done things I’ll probably never confess in full. Not because I’m ashamed — I’m not. But because people love you less when you’re honest about the parts of you that don’t fit in their clean little narratives. I tried to be good. Tried to clip my own wings. Play small. Be the man they could take home, brag about, trust. But the truth is I’ve always been a little too much. Too intense. Too curious. Too alive. And maybe that makes me dangerous. Maybe it makes me the one you write about but never introduce to your friends. But **** it. I’m done shrinking. I’m done pretending I’m not this. This heat. This ache. This quiet need to be wanted without being caged. If you can handle it, stay. If you can’t, don’t. But don’t ask me to apologize for it. Not anymore.

48

Ahoi, ahoi — he sailed the high seas, Beautiful sunlight, Blue sky, And breeze. The sails caught the wind Like a perfect photograph, The captain at the helm With a whistle and laugh. But the sky darkened, The sun slipped away — On his face no more joy, Just fear and dismay. “Captain, why are you scared? This is your domain.” I thought he would battle The storm, The rough seas, The rain. Yet little I knew, My trust was in vain — He feared the unknown, The uncharted terrain. He stood there frozen, Unsure what to do, Then spun the wheel sharply, And cried, “Back to shore — we’re through!” But you’re no captain, bold and true, If calm alone is all you knew. The test of sailors, fierce and grand, Is steering storms no soul had planned.

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Aug 23, 2025

Aug 23, 2025 at 7:44 AM UTC

THE CAPTAIN AND THE STORM

Ahoi, ahoi — he sailed the high seas, Beautiful sunlight, Blue sky, And breeze. The sails caught the wind Like a perfect photograph, The captain at the helm With a whistle and laugh. But the sky darkened, The sun slipped away — On his face no more joy, Just fear and dismay. “Captain, why are you scared? This is your domain.” I thought he would battle The storm, The rough seas, The rain. Yet little I knew, My trust was in vain — He feared the unknown, The uncharted terrain. He stood there frozen, Unsure what to do, Then spun the wheel sharply, And cried, “Back to shore — we’re through!” But you’re no captain, bold and true, If calm alone is all you knew. The test of sailors, fierce and grand, Is steering storms no soul had planned.

31

It’s wild how something so simple used to mean so much. We’d cook together, remember? Messy countertops, loud music, Me tasting things before they were done, You pretending to be annoyed but loving every second of it. Now I stand in that same kitchen and it’s too quiet. The pan still sizzles, the water still boils, but it’s like the soul left with you. I used to love this. Now I can count on one hand how many times I’ve cooked this month. And it ain’t because I’m too busy. It’s because every time I pick up a knife or reach for a spice I feel you next to me, and I’m not ready for that kind of ghost. I don’t know if you think of me. If you miss those nights, if you ever wonder how empty this place feels now. But **** I miss the good, I miss the bad, I miss the everything. One day I’ll cook again. Not for a memory. Not for a ghost. But for me. I’m just not there yet.

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Jul 23, 2025

Jul 23, 2025 at 12:36 AM UTC

Empty Kitchen

It’s wild how something so simple used to mean so much. We’d cook together, remember? Messy countertops, loud music, Me tasting things before they were done, You pretending to be annoyed but loving every second of it. Now I stand in that same kitchen and it’s too quiet. The pan still sizzles, the water still boils, but it’s like the soul left with you. I used to love this. Now I can count on one hand how many times I’ve cooked this month. And it ain’t because I’m too busy. It’s because every time I pick up a knife or reach for a spice I feel you next to me, and I’m not ready for that kind of ghost. I don’t know if you think of me. If you miss those nights, if you ever wonder how empty this place feels now. But **** I miss the good, I miss the bad, I miss the everything. One day I’ll cook again. Not for a memory. Not for a ghost. But for me. I’m just not there yet.

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