amanov - Hello Poetry

I woke in a garden planted by another. The fruit was sweet, but the soil felt like a debt. The keeper points to my signature on a leaf. I look at my palms — they are clean of ink. He tells me to kneel and thank him for the light. “I am the Potter,” he says, “and you are the mud.” I stand in the silence, a shore in the flood I say, “You gave me eyes so I could see you.” “But you forgot I could blink — and blank you.” The keeper is shaken; the others always bowed. A giant who holds the seasons and sun, but a beggar who needs my heartbeat to believe he exists. I do not bow. I simply turn to the gate. I am not the vessel; I am the crack in the plate.

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Jan 15

Jan 15, 2026 at 7:51 AM UTC

The Gardener and the Guest

I woke in a garden planted by another. The fruit was sweet, but the soil felt like a debt. The keeper points to my signature on a leaf. I look at my palms — they are clean of ink. He tells me to kneel and thank him for the light. “I am the Potter,” he says, “and you are the mud.” I stand in the silence, a shore in the flood I say, “You gave me eyes so I could see you.” “But you forgot I could blink — and blank you.” The keeper is shaken; the others always bowed. A giant who holds the seasons and sun, but a beggar who needs my heartbeat to believe he exists. I do not bow. I simply turn to the gate. I am not the vessel; I am the crack in the plate.

14

Never smelled a love, Not even from a thousand yards. I hid it in the quiet part of me, ashamed to see it on a paper, yet I barely feel any guilt at all. The sun is nearly gone, and only the cold moon stays with me. Not angry, not happy, not surprised— just one long, numb face I can’t quite fix. Here comes the wounded owl, and the long, dull night waits for my surrender.

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Nov 29, 2025

Nov 29, 2025 at 12:32 PM UTC

Long Numb Face

Never smelled a love, Not even from a thousand yards. I hid it in the quiet part of me, ashamed to see it on a paper, yet I barely feel any guilt at all. The sun is nearly gone, and only the cold moon stays with me. Not angry, not happy, not surprised— just one long, numb face I can’t quite fix. Here comes the wounded owl, and the long, dull night waits for my surrender.

11

He moves through the world quietly, learning to carry weight on his own. Some doors were closed, some never existed, and some he couldn’t keep knocking on. Some moments slip through his hands, others arrive late, much later than he hoped. Shadows of him grow taller every year, making the room too dark to speak. No maps, no signals — just the road, and a tired choice to keep moving anyway.

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Nov 28, 2025

Nov 28, 2025 at 2:05 AM UTC

Shadows Growing Taller

He moves through the world quietly, learning to carry weight on his own. Some doors were closed, some never existed, and some he couldn’t keep knocking on. Some moments slip through his hands, others arrive late, much later than he hoped. Shadows of him grow taller every year, making the room too dark to speak. No maps, no signals — just the road, and a tired choice to keep moving anyway.

10

I had a bird in a cage, And I killed her. Even under the melting sun, My hands still remain cold. Behind all those iron bars, The bird still held a freedom That I never had. As I never saw the borders, Kept aspiring for more And was never satisfied. She flew and I watched. I was young, Foolish, Jealous — And I killed her...

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Aug 3, 2025

Aug 3, 2025 at 5:10 AM UTC

Confession

I had a bird in a cage, And I killed her. Even under the melting sun, My hands still remain cold. Behind all those iron bars, The bird still held a freedom That I never had. As I never saw the borders, Kept aspiring for more And was never satisfied. She flew and I watched. I was young, Foolish, Jealous — And I killed her...

15