Wakey29 - Hello Poetry

Four words. “Does that feel good?” It's the only thought In pushed down fog That comes through Like lightning. I was nine, Feelin’ fiiiiine And he was sixty and change. He groped when no one was lookin’ But I talked it off Laughed it off Scoffed at the thought Of When I heard “Does that feel good?” I cried and was silent I shook my head, I remember. Or is that wishful thinking A wanting end to what happened. But it didn't end Did it “Does that feel good?” Turned to Face in pillows In those positions children make When they snore And hang half off the bed. Positions children make in adult situations. “Does that feel good?” I don't know I don't think I weep So so silently. “Does that feel good?” I can't feel anymore.

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Apr 30

Apr 30, 2026 at 6:47 AM UTC

Wakey29

Does That Feel Good?

Four words. “Does that feel good?” It's the only thought In pushed down fog That comes through Like lightning. I was nine, Feelin’ fiiiiine And he was sixty and change. He groped when no one was lookin’ But I talked it off Laughed it off Scoffed at the thought Of When I heard “Does that feel good?” I cried and was silent I shook my head, I remember. Or is that wishful thinking A wanting end to what happened. But it didn't end Did it “Does that feel good?” Turned to Face in pillows In those positions children make When they snore And hang half off the bed. Positions children make in adult situations. “Does that feel good?” I don't know I don't think I weep So so silently. “Does that feel good?” I can't feel anymore.

37

Tick - Another second. Tock - Another moment. Blink - Days vanish. How do we live Thrive Grow In the fog of days past? The moment in which I type, And the moment in which this is read, Are different points, But both now just memories. Left with a clip of life, Another X on the calendar. Everyone mourns the passage of time, Passing faster the deeper we get. All we know is, We all experience the passage, Dread making time move faster As we desperately skid to avoid the moment it stops. The idea of time, The passage, The march, Is a construct - An idea shared by consciousness Craving understanding of the universe. Imagine a book. The hero starts a journey, Experiences trials, Grows, Learns, And finished their journey. But the first CAPITAL And the final period Are in our hands simultaneously. The hero and villain The best friend and lover All created and discarded at the same time. Imagine rising above time. Seeing the beginning, The end, The highs, The lows. No orbit around the sun, No days to enjoy or dread, Just a story. All in front of you. A tapestry of time. The failed fantasies, The placebo prayers, The twisted trials, Wrong religions, Redundant rallies, Insignificant ideas. Who wrote our book? If time is a construct, Then we know Once the final line is written, We have no destination after THE END

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Apr 8

Apr 8, 2026 at 8:33 PM UTC

Wakey29

Time

Tick - Another second. Tock - Another moment. Blink - Days vanish. How do we live Thrive Grow In the fog of days past? The moment in which I type, And the moment in which this is read, Are different points, But both now just memories. Left with a clip of life, Another X on the calendar. Everyone mourns the passage of time, Passing faster the deeper we get. All we know is, We all experience the passage, Dread making time move faster As we desperately skid to avoid the moment it stops. The idea of time, The passage, The march, Is a construct - An idea shared by consciousness Craving understanding of the universe. Imagine a book. The hero starts a journey, Experiences trials, Grows, Learns, And finished their journey. But the first CAPITAL And the final period Are in our hands simultaneously. The hero and villain The best friend and lover All created and discarded at the same time. Imagine rising above time. Seeing the beginning, The end, The highs, The lows. No orbit around the sun, No days to enjoy or dread, Just a story. All in front of you. A tapestry of time. The failed fantasies, The placebo prayers, The twisted trials, Wrong religions, Redundant rallies, Insignificant ideas. Who wrote our book? If time is a construct, Then we know Once the final line is written, We have no destination after THE END

62

“Okay so you see? You-you see this on the left, This pocket watch, The face, it tells more-. Eh? No, no. Fine, I guess. Or what about this plate? Hand painted chi- … No, just one, not four. Right, look, please, I've only this left - A jar of dirt, I know - But it's about the lore.” All who look, never see. They scoff at these kept memories. The watch? A token. A bond with my mother, Forever unbroken. She passed, Many years ago now. And her face is getting Harder. But the face of the watch, The face. I can hear the tick, And remember. Remember her rituals around the holidays This was the last thing she gave me Before she was gone. But that last year - “He's been! He's been!” At 5am That memory is warm The plate is part of a whole. See this wonderful woman, This strange, amazing ball of light ... Loved chickens. We sat, I remember Wading through nostalgia. I swung my legs off my chair, While she hummed out the window. It dawned on us then, Just how crazy this Clustered chicken collection Had grown. I remember 250, I remember your face. You laughed until you cried, With gusto, and haste. The dirt is last, But the tightest I hold. See you always wanted To give me a world Filled with magic And hope. You found a site, “Historical Pirate Port” Closed off and condemned. You shimmied under chicken wire Put dirt in a jar So I could hold some magic For when you were afar. Quirks, Rituals, Memories and more You are what Traditions are for.

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Mar 18

Mar 18, 2026 at 2:04 AM UTC

Wakey29

Trinkets

“Okay so you see? You-you see this on the left, This pocket watch, The face, it tells more-. Eh? No, no. Fine, I guess. Or what about this plate? Hand painted chi- … No, just one, not four. Right, look, please, I've only this left - A jar of dirt, I know - But it's about the lore.” All who look, never see. They scoff at these kept memories. The watch? A token. A bond with my mother, Forever unbroken. She passed, Many years ago now. And her face is getting Harder. But the face of the watch, The face. I can hear the tick, And remember. Remember her rituals around the holidays This was the last thing she gave me Before she was gone. But that last year - “He's been! He's been!” At 5am That memory is warm The plate is part of a whole. See this wonderful woman, This strange, amazing ball of light ... Loved chickens. We sat, I remember Wading through nostalgia. I swung my legs off my chair, While she hummed out the window. It dawned on us then, Just how crazy this Clustered chicken collection Had grown. I remember 250, I remember your face. You laughed until you cried, With gusto, and haste. The dirt is last, But the tightest I hold. See you always wanted To give me a world Filled with magic And hope. You found a site, “Historical Pirate Port” Closed off and condemned. You shimmied under chicken wire Put dirt in a jar So I could hold some magic For when you were afar. Quirks, Rituals, Memories and more You are what Traditions are for.

67

I approached the familiar chair, And sat, breathing out the stress of the day. Looking around, familiar faces with almost-remembered names Flashing back and forth on the TV. In my hand is just water, But it feels like a tell. I sit, all my possessions within reach. Everything that makes me what I thought was Unique Fearless Strong Is hidden behind my leg. Embarrassment and shame engulfs me again. Another hotel lobby, because no bed welcomes me. A bag filled with donated miscellaneous mystery meat Cans I bow down for, gratitude for something For something someone found. From Easter, or Christmas, 15-20-30 years past. No good for people, To the homeless it's passed. The chair is familiar. It is the chair I sat in when I realised - Pity is not low enough, Disgust is not deep enough. You know how you feel when you see them. Sat outside because no one welcomes us in.

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Mar 18

Mar 18, 2026 at 1:11 AM UTC

Wakey29

Permanent Address

I approached the familiar chair, And sat, breathing out the stress of the day. Looking around, familiar faces with almost-remembered names Flashing back and forth on the TV. In my hand is just water, But it feels like a tell. I sit, all my possessions within reach. Everything that makes me what I thought was Unique Fearless Strong Is hidden behind my leg. Embarrassment and shame engulfs me again. Another hotel lobby, because no bed welcomes me. A bag filled with donated miscellaneous mystery meat Cans I bow down for, gratitude for something For something someone found. From Easter, or Christmas, 15-20-30 years past. No good for people, To the homeless it's passed. The chair is familiar. It is the chair I sat in when I realised - Pity is not low enough, Disgust is not deep enough. You know how you feel when you see them. Sat outside because no one welcomes us in.

26

The universe was created not with silence, But with a bang. Most people scream as they enter the world, Slipping from silence to sound. My creation was not sudden. My creation seemed infinite. My revolution Evolved From hate. I have no memories of innocence, But many swear it was there. I was born As innocence died.

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Jan 22

Jan 22, 2026 at 4:56 AM UTC

Wakey29

(R)Evolution

The universe was created not with silence, But with a bang. Most people scream as they enter the world, Slipping from silence to sound. My creation was not sudden. My creation seemed infinite. My revolution Evolved From hate. I have no memories of innocence, But many swear it was there. I was born As innocence died.

13

I identify as both and neither. I felt myself With this self. So why when I walk Is it an invitation? I do not exist for you, Or you, Or them, Or anyone. I exist for me. As my age has enlarged, So has the hubris The stares And expectations. I do not walk for you Or talk for you. So why are my steps only safe And my words valid When accompanied? Why is touching Groping Harrassing Stalking Acceptable, or brushed off. I have my identity, But the world will always expect Me to come second, And to smile while you yell.

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Jan 22

Jan 22, 2026 at 4:55 AM UTC

Wakey29

The Difference

I identify as both and neither. I felt myself With this self. So why when I walk Is it an invitation? I do not exist for you, Or you, Or them, Or anyone. I exist for me. As my age has enlarged, So has the hubris The stares And expectations. I do not walk for you Or talk for you. So why are my steps only safe And my words valid When accompanied? Why is touching Groping Harrassing Stalking Acceptable, or brushed off. I have my identity, But the world will always expect Me to come second, And to smile while you yell.

29

Card after card I lay them down As though a hand guides me. The Empress and The Emperor look on, Unamused while The Magician and The Fool regale them. Meanwhile, The Lovers ride The Chariot Hoping The High Priestess will grant them Strength. The Hierophant looks to the future of The World While The Hermit is forced to practice Temperance. Judgement and Justice go hand in hand, Some sent to The Tower, and some become The Hanged Man. Another day begins with the rise of The Sun, but Death The Moon, and The Star are the only constant. Many are victims of The Wheel of Fortune, Awaiting the day they meet The Devil.

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Jan 22

Jan 22, 2026 at 4:52 AM UTC

Wakey29

Past, Present, Future

Card after card I lay them down As though a hand guides me. The Empress and The Emperor look on, Unamused while The Magician and The Fool regale them. Meanwhile, The Lovers ride The Chariot Hoping The High Priestess will grant them Strength. The Hierophant looks to the future of The World While The Hermit is forced to practice Temperance. Judgement and Justice go hand in hand, Some sent to The Tower, and some become The Hanged Man. Another day begins with the rise of The Sun, but Death The Moon, and The Star are the only constant. Many are victims of The Wheel of Fortune, Awaiting the day they meet The Devil.

14

I pick and scratch and stretch Mutilate Infect Bleed It drives me, separate From relief Akin to hunger. Manual breathing Counting The minutes The bites The steps Call it a quirk I name it demand. Addiction What is an addict… There is no powder Or liquid But still I feel ants under my skin Until the ritual is complete. Compulsion is one thing Obsession another But when the two meet, The horseman ride And I don’t know if the end will come.

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Jan 22

Jan 22, 2026 at 4:51 AM UTC

Wakey29

OCD / The End of Me

I pick and scratch and stretch Mutilate Infect Bleed It drives me, separate From relief Akin to hunger. Manual breathing Counting The minutes The bites The steps Call it a quirk I name it demand. Addiction What is an addict… There is no powder Or liquid But still I feel ants under my skin Until the ritual is complete. Compulsion is one thing Obsession another But when the two meet, The horseman ride And I don’t know if the end will come.

25

I sit alone, lost in memories Nostalgia and what could have been circles above like vultures They circle high with the midday sun, Mocking me. Ever present, the winged harbingers of hindsight. Down below, I am bathed in shadows. The past is the night sky, each star another burn in the tapestry of time. Choices made haunt me, paths untaken breathing down my neck That seductive could-have-been, But I am left with the distending maw of what-has-been. The moon shines through windows The drapes bleached with time The room around me Vast in its emptiness Suffocating me with the reality I have to face. Some things are best left unspoken, Even if, once told, I could breathe. Utilitarianism dictates, One should be sacrificed for the many.

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Jan 22

Jan 22, 2026 at 4:48 AM UTC

Wakey29

Omission

I sit alone, lost in memories Nostalgia and what could have been circles above like vultures They circle high with the midday sun, Mocking me. Ever present, the winged harbingers of hindsight. Down below, I am bathed in shadows. The past is the night sky, each star another burn in the tapestry of time. Choices made haunt me, paths untaken breathing down my neck That seductive could-have-been, But I am left with the distending maw of what-has-been. The moon shines through windows The drapes bleached with time The room around me Vast in its emptiness Suffocating me with the reality I have to face. Some things are best left unspoken, Even if, once told, I could breathe. Utilitarianism dictates, One should be sacrificed for the many.

19

There is a moment, But it is seldom felt. It seems as though breath catches- Wind stops- And there is a pause in the relentless tide. That moment can stretch For what can seem like eternity… A blink, But an era passes… And true reflection is a possibility. Some never feel this wonder Some have never felt the tide or The ebb. They have had no heights to overcome And so no need to pause. I remember the moment I realised my make up, my core - Who I was - Was deemed abnormal, unusual And felt fear. Every moment since then I have fought so many wars Internal, external To be accepted, to be loved And lost. The wins last but a moment But the scars left are permanent Deep wounds. “Unconditional Love” a foreign concept And abstract. The unending moment does end. New, alien, acceptance And love Eventually emerges, with luck… And I smile.

0

Nov 1, 2025

Nov 1, 2025 at 7:23 PM UTC

Wakey29

The Infinite Moment

There is a moment, But it is seldom felt. It seems as though breath catches- Wind stops- And there is a pause in the relentless tide. That moment can stretch For what can seem like eternity… A blink, But an era passes… And true reflection is a possibility. Some never feel this wonder Some have never felt the tide or The ebb. They have had no heights to overcome And so no need to pause. I remember the moment I realised my make up, my core - Who I was - Was deemed abnormal, unusual And felt fear. Every moment since then I have fought so many wars Internal, external To be accepted, to be loved And lost. The wins last but a moment But the scars left are permanent Deep wounds. “Unconditional Love” a foreign concept And abstract. The unending moment does end. New, alien, acceptance And love Eventually emerges, with luck… And I smile.

35