TruthFeelerFifi - Hello Poetry

My poetry. My wishes. My vision. My hopes and dream. My love. My silence. My unwanted solitude. My heart. My scattered realities and my complete imagination. Through the cracks of the former I grasp glimpses of the latter. On the quiet separated isles of those floating parts I sit, in the dark, looking over the black water at the half-open shadow door. Stream of black blood of loneliness flowing from underneath me, forming my shadow, down into the water under my empty soles. My closed eyelids and opened eyes. My scarred face. My quiet frozen fire of soul. My fallen tears and my opened chest. My blindness. My anger. My sore forehead. The open gate of my brows. The river of sorrow. My waiting. My salvation. My ennui. My swinging legs. My confused eyes. My empty mouth. My calm black pupils. My empty gaze. The bridge being built above the surging flood. My naked feet. My tired toes. My wrinkled sole. My empty fingers. My longing palms. My yet unechoed song. My light. My reignition. My arrival. The bottom of my gaze. The terminus of the river. The faint strength in my fingers. The overlap of my void physicality and the illusory unknown.

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Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 11:42 AM UTC

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My poetry. My wishes. My vision. My hopes and dream. My love. My silence. My unwanted solitude. My heart. My scattered realities and my complete imagination. Through the cracks of the former I grasp glimpses of the latter. On the quiet separated isles of those floating parts I sit, in the dark, looking over the black water at the half-open shadow door. Stream of black blood of loneliness flowing from underneath me, forming my shadow, down into the water under my empty soles. My closed eyelids and opened eyes. My scarred face. My quiet frozen fire of soul. My fallen tears and my opened chest. My blindness. My anger. My sore forehead. The open gate of my brows. The river of sorrow. My waiting. My salvation. My ennui. My swinging legs. My confused eyes. My empty mouth. My calm black pupils. My empty gaze. The bridge being built above the surging flood. My naked feet. My tired toes. My wrinkled sole. My empty fingers. My longing palms. My yet unechoed song. My light. My reignition. My arrival. The bottom of my gaze. The terminus of the river. The faint strength in my fingers. The overlap of my void physicality and the illusory unknown.

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A little black puppy At my tentative greeting Wagged their tail surely. Then, rushed into my arms passionately unreservedly Giving me countless kisses all over me. Your little body against my skin and clothes, How warm How soft Like the spring sunshine, Like tears of joy. So that adults and children not far away screaming in fear at your nearness Saddens me As I turn away I already miss you. Your warm, slightly burning body. Your softness. Your gentle fur rubbing against my skin. The dust in your hair was left on me Clean water will bring it back to the world once again And as you roll around on the ground with your friends again in your family's displeasure It will come back onto you again In my dreams tonight You'll be a hundred times larger Your hair will grow so long to burry me in it In our adventures in the dark forest You'll protect me surely As sure as how you wagged your tail at me. We'll meet again All the puppies in the world We'll meet again That day, I become you You become me

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Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 11:39 AM UTC

A little black puppy At my tentative greeting

A little black puppy At my tentative greeting Wagged their tail surely. Then, rushed into my arms passionately unreservedly Giving me countless kisses all over me. Your little body against my skin and clothes, How warm How soft Like the spring sunshine, Like tears of joy. So that adults and children not far away screaming in fear at your nearness Saddens me As I turn away I already miss you. Your warm, slightly burning body. Your softness. Your gentle fur rubbing against my skin. The dust in your hair was left on me Clean water will bring it back to the world once again And as you roll around on the ground with your friends again in your family's displeasure It will come back onto you again In my dreams tonight You'll be a hundred times larger Your hair will grow so long to burry me in it In our adventures in the dark forest You'll protect me surely As sure as how you wagged your tail at me. We'll meet again All the puppies in the world We'll meet again That day, I become you You become me

33

Lonesomeness is like hollow, transparent tubes coiled within my flesh. My flesh can neither fill nor touch these empty spaces. In them, piercing, whistling winds run through. I stand on the ground with these tubes, with my mouth half open, fingers hanging bewilderedly in mid air Bereft, at a loss, helpless, Not having a clue.

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Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 10:53 AM UTC

Lonesomeness is like hollow, transparent tubes coiled within my flesh.

Lonesomeness is like hollow, transparent tubes coiled within my flesh. My flesh can neither fill nor touch these empty spaces. In them, piercing, whistling winds run through. I stand on the ground with these tubes, with my mouth half open, fingers hanging bewilderedly in mid air Bereft, at a loss, helpless, Not having a clue.

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In the corners of music and in spaces between punctuations of others' stories I search and imagine for the substance of your love, arriving for me. The glory of its shadow, from the achievements of my imagination, lights up my gently, quivering heart. The solidity of it filters through my porous mind, and surprises it there. It's giant, yet lands without a sound, glimmering, gently, quietly. Like the sound of a breeze passing though airy lashes of soft, gazing eyes. I cannot forget this warmth. It holds every one of the pores of my body, and celebrates each with a gentle, feather-like mini firework. I hold my dreams open All the weight of its out-pouring past content feels less dense than your gaze in my direction, With your whole permanent existence blessing and loving the whole of my permanent existence.

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Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 10:51 AM UTC

Untitled

In the corners of music and in spaces between punctuations of others' stories I search and imagine for the substance of your love, arriving for me. The glory of its shadow, from the achievements of my imagination, lights up my gently, quivering heart. The solidity of it filters through my porous mind, and surprises it there. It's giant, yet lands without a sound, glimmering, gently, quietly. Like the sound of a breeze passing though airy lashes of soft, gazing eyes. I cannot forget this warmth. It holds every one of the pores of my body, and celebrates each with a gentle, feather-like mini firework. I hold my dreams open All the weight of its out-pouring past content feels less dense than your gaze in my direction, With your whole permanent existence blessing and loving the whole of my permanent existence.

9

I am a quivering puddle of melancholic, sorrowful water Held by God in its palms in front of its chest My black candle burns alone Light of tears Wax water of shadow The flickering silent candle light In the lonely corner Rides the seas of my tears Falling into the firmament beneath my feet And the abyss above my head God clasps its hands into its chest Where I melt My philosophy shimmers faintly in its chest chamber My lips that know a thousand languages are tightly sealed My pupils that glow with flame gaze into the depth of the darkness in my eyelids I sit in silence Like a one-month-old melancholic child Angry force pounds from my silent body into the white-grey land of existence My infantile body sits in silence Unable to be compensated Unable to be consoled My cotton shirt is full of flower seeds That are also silent Imagining the mountains Imagining waves of hills They are nourished by the imaginations And blossomed all over me I stand up And turn around To face the faintly blue white radiance

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Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 10:50 AM UTC

I am a quivering puddle of melancholic, sorrowful water

I am a quivering puddle of melancholic, sorrowful water Held by God in its palms in front of its chest My black candle burns alone Light of tears Wax water of shadow The flickering silent candle light In the lonely corner Rides the seas of my tears Falling into the firmament beneath my feet And the abyss above my head God clasps its hands into its chest Where I melt My philosophy shimmers faintly in its chest chamber My lips that know a thousand languages are tightly sealed My pupils that glow with flame gaze into the depth of the darkness in my eyelids I sit in silence Like a one-month-old melancholic child Angry force pounds from my silent body into the white-grey land of existence My infantile body sits in silence Unable to be compensated Unable to be consoled My cotton shirt is full of flower seeds That are also silent Imagining the mountains Imagining waves of hills They are nourished by the imaginations And blossomed all over me I stand up And turn around To face the faintly blue white radiance

30

There is an ant lying quietly on my sink Its body, so small, so tiny, so innocent Its limbs so deeply relinquished, powerless Its head tilted to the side So peaceful and tender Making it look like a baby in deep slumber I, a giant body, gaze at the little tiny ant In infinite tenderness and compassion Softly collecting it into my arms, rocking it in imagination I blow on to it Its tiny antennae sway up and down, gently, lightly Hi there, tiny little ant See you, tiny little ant

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Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 10:47 AM UTC

There's a tiny ant lying on my sink

There is an ant lying quietly on my sink Its body, so small, so tiny, so innocent Its limbs so deeply relinquished, powerless Its head tilted to the side So peaceful and tender Making it look like a baby in deep slumber I, a giant body, gaze at the little tiny ant In infinite tenderness and compassion Softly collecting it into my arms, rocking it in imagination I blow on to it Its tiny antennae sway up and down, gently, lightly Hi there, tiny little ant See you, tiny little ant

13

The signals of the itch Like occasional asteroid explosions in the distant universe— shrill, Abrupt, Then slowly subsiding My body feels like a giant telegraph tower Surges of radio signals sent with electric wave sounds loud and quiet on and off all over me, I watch Quietly A bit lost Like a bewildered giant As if my body doesn't belong to me As if there is a confidential mysterious exchange between it and something that's totally oblivious to me I watch Like an innocent outsider I listen As the exchange continues on without abating As I fall asleep All the lights still flickering All the sounds popping on Bright and dim Sharp and blunt Abrupt or consistent low humming A giant building of sparkling sensations The black medium of the universe containing planetary detonations On and off Here and there Now and then I awaken, In the morning To a quiet body I don't know what has happened over the night I don't know about the progression of the exchange Has it finished? As I wonder, The signals quietly reemerge, The sounds rerise. I get up and off my bed Now I'm a walking telegraph building.

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Jan 23

Jan 23, 2026 at 8:20 AM UTC

My Eczema II.

The signals of the itch Like occasional asteroid explosions in the distant universe— shrill, Abrupt, Then slowly subsiding My body feels like a giant telegraph tower Surges of radio signals sent with electric wave sounds loud and quiet on and off all over me, I watch Quietly A bit lost Like a bewildered giant As if my body doesn't belong to me As if there is a confidential mysterious exchange between it and something that's totally oblivious to me I watch Like an innocent outsider I listen As the exchange continues on without abating As I fall asleep All the lights still flickering All the sounds popping on Bright and dim Sharp and blunt Abrupt or consistent low humming A giant building of sparkling sensations The black medium of the universe containing planetary detonations On and off Here and there Now and then I awaken, In the morning To a quiet body I don't know what has happened over the night I don't know about the progression of the exchange Has it finished? As I wonder, The signals quietly reemerge, The sounds rerise. I get up and off my bed Now I'm a walking telegraph building.

39

My eczema is climing me like creepers climbing a wall It is always reaching further on my surface Where is it going? As if it has a mysterious destination that has always been just right out of reach It looks all pink and explosive Like still fireworks Frozen on the surface of my skin Frozen Like oil paint tossed into my skin And paused there then For now we have to live together Me and this vibrant, electric plant "What is the significance of your appearance? I ask of it It stays silent, And still. Breathing, Through its quiet, pulsating itching I have to refrain from touching it Its poisonous, tiny, sensitive sakura petals Resisting the lure of its enticing breaths. It fully presents its existence Fully open Exposed Wide-spread As if tranquilly embodying its quiet innocence Peacefully claiming its righteous presence I watch In a distance In wary admiration Watering it twice a day, carefully And applying translucent, pure white vaseline As if taking care of its delicate beauty It lets me be Lets me do whatever I want with it It pays no mind It shrinks when that's the direction of the wind And it absorbs the aliveness for growth happily From when I sometimes give up resistance And indulge in its inviting fragrance Then caught by regret afterwards, When watching its pleasantly enlivened pink existence, charged, ready And let out a sigh in deep remorse. Its art embedded, blooming, serenely, above the intricate highways of my running blood vessels Sometimes I hold resentments against it, Its pink, alarming, worrisome colors Its ever-present attempt to lure, ****** my touching. Sometimes I let it be Admiring its art Like how it lets me be It /is/ like an art Non-verbal messages are carried within its sudden appearance in my gallery, my body To be understood, felt, through experiencing, through me It's a language spoken to me through my skin It's a gast of wind flared with fire flames blowing through my porous physicality Leaving fiery marks on my surface And when my being finishes registering its messages It will leave me It will leave the way it arrived Suddenly Entirely Quietly Leaving my skin peaceful again Like water restored from ripples of a suddenly dropped stone chip Back to being a windless mirror Then will I miss it? I won't. Maybe I will, In my change, In my poetry

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Jan 23

Jan 23, 2026 at 8:18 AM UTC

My Eczema I.

My eczema is climing me like creepers climbing a wall It is always reaching further on my surface Where is it going? As if it has a mysterious destination that has always been just right out of reach It looks all pink and explosive Like still fireworks Frozen on the surface of my skin Frozen Like oil paint tossed into my skin And paused there then For now we have to live together Me and this vibrant, electric plant "What is the significance of your appearance? I ask of it It stays silent, And still. Breathing, Through its quiet, pulsating itching I have to refrain from touching it Its poisonous, tiny, sensitive sakura petals Resisting the lure of its enticing breaths. It fully presents its existence Fully open Exposed Wide-spread As if tranquilly embodying its quiet innocence Peacefully claiming its righteous presence I watch In a distance In wary admiration Watering it twice a day, carefully And applying translucent, pure white vaseline As if taking care of its delicate beauty It lets me be Lets me do whatever I want with it It pays no mind It shrinks when that's the direction of the wind And it absorbs the aliveness for growth happily From when I sometimes give up resistance And indulge in its inviting fragrance Then caught by regret afterwards, When watching its pleasantly enlivened pink existence, charged, ready And let out a sigh in deep remorse. Its art embedded, blooming, serenely, above the intricate highways of my running blood vessels Sometimes I hold resentments against it, Its pink, alarming, worrisome colors Its ever-present attempt to lure, ****** my touching. Sometimes I let it be Admiring its art Like how it lets me be It /is/ like an art Non-verbal messages are carried within its sudden appearance in my gallery, my body To be understood, felt, through experiencing, through me It's a language spoken to me through my skin It's a gast of wind flared with fire flames blowing through my porous physicality Leaving fiery marks on my surface And when my being finishes registering its messages It will leave me It will leave the way it arrived Suddenly Entirely Quietly Leaving my skin peaceful again Like water restored from ripples of a suddenly dropped stone chip Back to being a windless mirror Then will I miss it? I won't. Maybe I will, In my change, In my poetry

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