andrew-7 - Hello Poetry

The night holds itself still, strangled of breath. I cannot... The grass rises taller than me. Not swaying, but bending inward, As if the stalks themselves are ribs, Closing around a lung that isn’t mine. Each blade scrapes raw down my arms, Whispers in a tongue of splinter and rot, Sliding along skin as though to peel it back. I run. But it is never enough. Never fast enough. The sound of them leaks through the dark Lungs wet with mucus, Breaths snagging like torn cloth. The grass parts where I never passed, Snaps and shudders under weight That is not my own. Something heavy. Something wrong. They're close. They're always close. I can feel them The way you feel lightning Before it strikes A tremor in the bones, A silence stretched Too tight. I do not look back. That is the rule. To see them is to feed them. To fear them is to bleed. But my body betrays me. My heart riots in my chest, Hammering bruises into bone. My lungs rip with each gulp, Spilling air like a split sack. My legs tear themselves raw, Fibers straining, tendons burning... Yet I never let myself run full tilt. To sprint would confess the truth... I am their prey. Above, the sky watches. Stars like needle ****** in a corpse’s skin. The moon unhinges its mouth, Grinning thinly and wide. Yellowed, Like a blade slick with fat. Time thickens With every step a drowning, Every breath a wound. And behind me: The sound of them Moving with impossible patience. Behind me, Their bodies drag. Heavy. Patient. The sound of joints bending wrong Of flesh folding wetly. Hunters who have run this path before. Hunters who will never tire. I do not know what they are. Only that they are many. Only that they want me moving. This is the nightmare. Not their chase, But the promise it is endless. It only pauses Until the grass grows high again, And their jaws close the night around me.

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Sep 3, 2025

Sep 3, 2025 at 8:19 PM UTC

A Nightmare

The night holds itself still, strangled of breath. I cannot... The grass rises taller than me. Not swaying, but bending inward, As if the stalks themselves are ribs, Closing around a lung that isn’t mine. Each blade scrapes raw down my arms, Whispers in a tongue of splinter and rot, Sliding along skin as though to peel it back. I run. But it is never enough. Never fast enough. The sound of them leaks through the dark Lungs wet with mucus, Breaths snagging like torn cloth. The grass parts where I never passed, Snaps and shudders under weight That is not my own. Something heavy. Something wrong. They're close. They're always close. I can feel them The way you feel lightning Before it strikes A tremor in the bones, A silence stretched Too tight. I do not look back. That is the rule. To see them is to feed them. To fear them is to bleed. But my body betrays me. My heart riots in my chest, Hammering bruises into bone. My lungs rip with each gulp, Spilling air like a split sack. My legs tear themselves raw, Fibers straining, tendons burning... Yet I never let myself run full tilt. To sprint would confess the truth... I am their prey. Above, the sky watches. Stars like needle ****** in a corpse’s skin. The moon unhinges its mouth, Grinning thinly and wide. Yellowed, Like a blade slick with fat. Time thickens With every step a drowning, Every breath a wound. And behind me: The sound of them Moving with impossible patience. Behind me, Their bodies drag. Heavy. Patient. The sound of joints bending wrong Of flesh folding wetly. Hunters who have run this path before. Hunters who will never tire. I do not know what they are. Only that they are many. Only that they want me moving. This is the nightmare. Not their chase, But the promise it is endless. It only pauses Until the grass grows high again, And their jaws close the night around me.

68

It comes with teeth — sharp and glinting beneath an implacable smile, sinking in slow, pressing firmly against bone until breath feels too thin and mornings blur into shadows. It waits beneath my tongue, a bitter taste I can’t spit out, curling through my chest, tight as wire, soft as fog. It knows how to be silent, until it doesn’t. Until it’s ripping through the walls, scratching at the seams, a low growl in the hollow of my ribs. And the talons — God, the talons — hooked deep in muscle and marrow, dragging me down to the cold floor of my mind, where light flickers thin as breath and silence hums like static. It pulls — slow and steady, through hours that fold into nothing, through days that taste like dust. I let it. Sometimes it’s easier that way. But there’s always a sliver of air, a crack of light under the door. And somehow, somehow — my hands find it. The teeth leave scars. The talons bruise deep. But I rise, aching, raw, breathless — still here.

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Apr 17, 2025

Apr 17, 2025 at 12:56 PM UTC

That Familiar Pain

It comes with teeth — sharp and glinting beneath an implacable smile, sinking in slow, pressing firmly against bone until breath feels too thin and mornings blur into shadows. It waits beneath my tongue, a bitter taste I can’t spit out, curling through my chest, tight as wire, soft as fog. It knows how to be silent, until it doesn’t. Until it’s ripping through the walls, scratching at the seams, a low growl in the hollow of my ribs. And the talons — God, the talons — hooked deep in muscle and marrow, dragging me down to the cold floor of my mind, where light flickers thin as breath and silence hums like static. It pulls — slow and steady, through hours that fold into nothing, through days that taste like dust. I let it. Sometimes it’s easier that way. But there’s always a sliver of air, a crack of light under the door. And somehow, somehow — my hands find it. The teeth leave scars. The talons bruise deep. But I rise, aching, raw, breathless — still here.

41

The petals cling— not out of need, but by nature. Crushed silk beneath my boots, they rise with each step, trailing inside like secrets. I didn’t mean to bring the outside in, but they hitchhike on rubber treads, on the hush of my leaving. Now they scatter across tile and rug, bright bits of ruin that refuse to stay buried. They mark where I’ve been— not loudly, just enough. A quiet bloom in the hallway, a whisper of red by the door. Nothing dies, it just follows.

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Apr 16, 2025

Apr 16, 2025 at 11:06 AM UTC

A Quiet Bloom

The petals cling— not out of need, but by nature. Crushed silk beneath my boots, they rise with each step, trailing inside like secrets. I didn’t mean to bring the outside in, but they hitchhike on rubber treads, on the hush of my leaving. Now they scatter across tile and rug, bright bits of ruin that refuse to stay buried. They mark where I’ve been— not loudly, just enough. A quiet bloom in the hallway, a whisper of red by the door. Nothing dies, it just follows.

26

The callouses on my palms speak of daily labor, the weight of tools and hours stretching long, hands that ache but keep moving, gripping, pulling, lifting— muscles sore, skin raw, yet there is something simple in the rhythm of this work, a quiet certainty in the bending of wood or the turning of a ***** But inside, the mind churns— thoughts collide like a thousand hammers, clanging against each other in the silence. I cannot hold them, cannot grasp or shape them the way I do with my hands. Each thought is a jagged piece that shifts just when I think I have it. The struggle in my hands is known, familiar, tangible. The struggle in my mind is endless, slipping through my fingers like water, pulling at me with no end in sight, a puzzle with no solution that I’ve learned to carry but never set down. When I walk away from the work, my hands are sore but satisfied. I can see what I’ve built, what I’ve touched, the progress of my labor marked in the world around me. But the mind— it never stops, never rests. The weight of its questions hangs in the air like smoke and I breathe them in again and again, wondering if I'll ever be free from the things I cannot fix with my hands.

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Apr 12, 2025

Apr 12, 2025 at 1:17 PM UTC

Never Rests

The callouses on my palms speak of daily labor, the weight of tools and hours stretching long, hands that ache but keep moving, gripping, pulling, lifting— muscles sore, skin raw, yet there is something simple in the rhythm of this work, a quiet certainty in the bending of wood or the turning of a ***** But inside, the mind churns— thoughts collide like a thousand hammers, clanging against each other in the silence. I cannot hold them, cannot grasp or shape them the way I do with my hands. Each thought is a jagged piece that shifts just when I think I have it. The struggle in my hands is known, familiar, tangible. The struggle in my mind is endless, slipping through my fingers like water, pulling at me with no end in sight, a puzzle with no solution that I’ve learned to carry but never set down. When I walk away from the work, my hands are sore but satisfied. I can see what I’ve built, what I’ve touched, the progress of my labor marked in the world around me. But the mind— it never stops, never rests. The weight of its questions hangs in the air like smoke and I breathe them in again and again, wondering if I'll ever be free from the things I cannot fix with my hands.

43

I stand before the mirror, and I know the face. Calm, composed, eyes carrying only what they’ve lived, no more. But behind it, the glass keeps going— reflections trailing into the dark, a long corridor of me becoming me becoming me. At first, they follow faithfully. A lifted hand. A turning head. Perfect mimicry, clean as water mirroring sky. But the further they go, the more they soften— not all at once, not enough to alarm. A hesitation. A fraction too long between blinks. A smile that holds for a moment after I’ve let go. The next face seems just slightly dimmer— as if the light can’t quite reach it, or it doesn’t want to be seen too clearly. The eyes are the same, but they don’t land on mine so easily. They graze past me, settle somewhere just beyond. And further still, the faces forget their place. One tilts before I do. One breathes when I don’t. Some begin to still altogether— perfectly motionless, like portraits remembering how to be alive. The change is never sharp. It is a slow turning of a wheel beneath still water, a quiet drift in a long dream. Each face is mine, but less so. Each carries something in the eyes I haven’t earned yet— or never will. Deeper down the glass, the faces seem older not in years but in silence. They wear composure too tightly, like masks that forgot how to come off. And at the furthest depth— so far the glass hums with distance— one face no longer mimics at all. It only watches, calm, unmoving, as if it has been here far longer than I have been looking. And I don’t know if it waits for me to catch up, or to leave.

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Apr 10, 2025

Apr 10, 2025 at 9:00 PM UTC

The Thin Drift

I stand before the mirror, and I know the face. Calm, composed, eyes carrying only what they’ve lived, no more. But behind it, the glass keeps going— reflections trailing into the dark, a long corridor of me becoming me becoming me. At first, they follow faithfully. A lifted hand. A turning head. Perfect mimicry, clean as water mirroring sky. But the further they go, the more they soften— not all at once, not enough to alarm. A hesitation. A fraction too long between blinks. A smile that holds for a moment after I’ve let go. The next face seems just slightly dimmer— as if the light can’t quite reach it, or it doesn’t want to be seen too clearly. The eyes are the same, but they don’t land on mine so easily. They graze past me, settle somewhere just beyond. And further still, the faces forget their place. One tilts before I do. One breathes when I don’t. Some begin to still altogether— perfectly motionless, like portraits remembering how to be alive. The change is never sharp. It is a slow turning of a wheel beneath still water, a quiet drift in a long dream. Each face is mine, but less so. Each carries something in the eyes I haven’t earned yet— or never will. Deeper down the glass, the faces seem older not in years but in silence. They wear composure too tightly, like masks that forgot how to come off. And at the furthest depth— so far the glass hums with distance— one face no longer mimics at all. It only watches, calm, unmoving, as if it has been here far longer than I have been looking. And I don’t know if it waits for me to catch up, or to leave.

76

The waves come, slow at first — a soft hiss against my ankles, salt threading through the cracks of my skin. I stand there, breath shallow, the tide licking at the edges of my bones. But it doesn’t stay soft. The water rises, crashing hard against my chest, a cold weight driving into muscle and marrow. It pulls — dragging sand from beneath my feet, stealing fragments of ground until I’m sinking inch by inch into the hollow it leaves behind. I try to stand tall, shoulders squared against the surge, but the waves don’t stop. They break harder, white foam tearing through breath, the sharp bite of salt in my throat burning as I gasp for air. The undertow pulls. The current sinks teeth into my calves, dragging me toward the dark depths, and I know — there is no fighting this. No shore to reach for, no hand to pull me free. So I stay. I let it crash. Let the salt carve new lines into my skin, let the water smooth me down until I’m nothing but raw stone and sea glass gleaming beneath a broken sky. I know I am smaller now — shaped by the ebb and swell, etched thin by salt and time — but I am still standing. Even as the tide returns, even as the waves rise again, I remain.

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Apr 4, 2025

Apr 4, 2025 at 10:01 PM UTC

Gleaming Beneath a Broken Sky

The waves come, slow at first — a soft hiss against my ankles, salt threading through the cracks of my skin. I stand there, breath shallow, the tide licking at the edges of my bones. But it doesn’t stay soft. The water rises, crashing hard against my chest, a cold weight driving into muscle and marrow. It pulls — dragging sand from beneath my feet, stealing fragments of ground until I’m sinking inch by inch into the hollow it leaves behind. I try to stand tall, shoulders squared against the surge, but the waves don’t stop. They break harder, white foam tearing through breath, the sharp bite of salt in my throat burning as I gasp for air. The undertow pulls. The current sinks teeth into my calves, dragging me toward the dark depths, and I know — there is no fighting this. No shore to reach for, no hand to pull me free. So I stay. I let it crash. Let the salt carve new lines into my skin, let the water smooth me down until I’m nothing but raw stone and sea glass gleaming beneath a broken sky. I know I am smaller now — shaped by the ebb and swell, etched thin by salt and time — but I am still standing. Even as the tide returns, even as the waves rise again, I remain.

43

They do not whisper. They arrive with sound— a cataclysmic brass section in the cathedral of my skull, blaring without rhythm, without reason. Intrusive thoughts: not guests, but invaders storming through synapses with muddy boots and fire on their tongues. They don't knock. They kick the door in, screaming absurdities and doomsday sermons, blaring guilt like sirens in the dark. "What if you said it wrong?" "What if you’re not enough?" "What if everything you love slips through your fingers?" These thoughts crack like thunder as I’m walking through the silence— each step meant to be peace, each breath a prayer for stillness, shattered in a flash of noise and fear. Their horns shatter more than quiet. Even in calm moments—especially in calm moments— they raise their instruments to their cracked lips and unleash noise like the sky splitting open. I flinch. I brace. I try to drown them with breath, with mantras, with the soft rhythm of reality. But still they play. Relentless. Discordant. Majestic in their cruelty. And yet— somewhere beneath the chaos, a single, trembling note of defiance holds: not all noise is truth. Not every trumpet speaks prophecy. I let them play. Let them blare and blast and rage. And then I move anyway, into the next moment— not unshaken, but still standing.

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Apr 4, 2025

Apr 4, 2025 at 8:26 AM UTC

Majestic in their Cruelty

They do not whisper. They arrive with sound— a cataclysmic brass section in the cathedral of my skull, blaring without rhythm, without reason. Intrusive thoughts: not guests, but invaders storming through synapses with muddy boots and fire on their tongues. They don't knock. They kick the door in, screaming absurdities and doomsday sermons, blaring guilt like sirens in the dark. "What if you said it wrong?" "What if you’re not enough?" "What if everything you love slips through your fingers?" These thoughts crack like thunder as I’m walking through the silence— each step meant to be peace, each breath a prayer for stillness, shattered in a flash of noise and fear. Their horns shatter more than quiet. Even in calm moments—especially in calm moments— they raise their instruments to their cracked lips and unleash noise like the sky splitting open. I flinch. I brace. I try to drown them with breath, with mantras, with the soft rhythm of reality. But still they play. Relentless. Discordant. Majestic in their cruelty. And yet— somewhere beneath the chaos, a single, trembling note of defiance holds: not all noise is truth. Not every trumpet speaks prophecy. I let them play. Let them blare and blast and rage. And then I move anyway, into the next moment— not unshaken, but still standing.

45

The silence is not empty. It hums, it swells, it presses against my skin until I can hear nothing else. No voices, no distant echoes— just the weight of quiet, thick as fog, heavy as stone. And in the spaces where sound should be, my thoughts emerge. They slip from the shadows, formless at first, but then—hands, grasping, pulling, clawing their way into me. They whisper truths I do not want to hear. They twist memories into specters, turning my past into a noose, tightening with every breath. I try to hold on, to keep my grip, but they are relentless. Sometimes, they rip me away, tearing at the fragile threads of the life I’ve fought to keep together. I watch it unravel in slow motion, each strand slipping through my fingers as I am pulled deeper, farther, away. No one sees the battle. No one hears the struggle. To them, I am quiet. To them, I am whole. But inside, the silence roars, and the shadows hold me close, waiting for the next moment to take me again.

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Apr 4, 2025

Apr 4, 2025 at 8:17 AM UTC

Thick as Fog, Heavy as Stone

The silence is not empty. It hums, it swells, it presses against my skin until I can hear nothing else. No voices, no distant echoes— just the weight of quiet, thick as fog, heavy as stone. And in the spaces where sound should be, my thoughts emerge. They slip from the shadows, formless at first, but then—hands, grasping, pulling, clawing their way into me. They whisper truths I do not want to hear. They twist memories into specters, turning my past into a noose, tightening with every breath. I try to hold on, to keep my grip, but they are relentless. Sometimes, they rip me away, tearing at the fragile threads of the life I’ve fought to keep together. I watch it unravel in slow motion, each strand slipping through my fingers as I am pulled deeper, farther, away. No one sees the battle. No one hears the struggle. To them, I am quiet. To them, I am whole. But inside, the silence roars, and the shadows hold me close, waiting for the next moment to take me again.

33

I walk, but I do not move. The floor is solid, unyielding, cold concrete pressing against my bare soles. I do not remember when I began, only that I cannot stop. Above, a ceiling I have never seen hanging like a sky too weary to hold itself up. A sky of heaving darkness. Thick as tar. Clouds so thick they devour the light, so heavy they press against my thoughts, shaping them into something I cannot hold. The silence here is a living thing. It slithers through the cracks of my mind, settling into the spaces where hope once bloomed. No whispers, no voices— only the sound of my own footsteps, dull, lifeless, never echoing, never answering. Pillars rise from the concrete. Monolithic, ancient, marble treaked with veins of shadow. They stand like forgotten gods, spaced far apart, too vast to be real, too distant to be touched. And yet, they are nothing here. Swallowed whole by the endless height, dwarfed by the great and hungry dark. They reach upward, but they will never find the top, just as I may never find a way out. I call out, but the walls refuse to answer. Are there walls? Or is this an endless void, a cage without edges, a prison without a door? I keep walking, circling the same unseen pain, dragging my thoughts like chains across a floor that does not care. And somewhere, in the thick of the silence, something watches— or maybe, nothing does. And maybe that is worse.

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Apr 4, 2025

Apr 4, 2025 at 8:15 AM UTC

In the Thick of the Silence

I walk, but I do not move. The floor is solid, unyielding, cold concrete pressing against my bare soles. I do not remember when I began, only that I cannot stop. Above, a ceiling I have never seen hanging like a sky too weary to hold itself up. A sky of heaving darkness. Thick as tar. Clouds so thick they devour the light, so heavy they press against my thoughts, shaping them into something I cannot hold. The silence here is a living thing. It slithers through the cracks of my mind, settling into the spaces where hope once bloomed. No whispers, no voices— only the sound of my own footsteps, dull, lifeless, never echoing, never answering. Pillars rise from the concrete. Monolithic, ancient, marble treaked with veins of shadow. They stand like forgotten gods, spaced far apart, too vast to be real, too distant to be touched. And yet, they are nothing here. Swallowed whole by the endless height, dwarfed by the great and hungry dark. They reach upward, but they will never find the top, just as I may never find a way out. I call out, but the walls refuse to answer. Are there walls? Or is this an endless void, a cage without edges, a prison without a door? I keep walking, circling the same unseen pain, dragging my thoughts like chains across a floor that does not care. And somewhere, in the thick of the silence, something watches— or maybe, nothing does. And maybe that is worse.

44

The Leviathan is long gone, Its colossal form swallowed by the sea, A shadow in the abyss that even the depths cannot contain. Its scales, once glimmering like moonlit armor, Now slide against the walls of time, Their echo reverberating in forgotten halls, Where memory lingers Like dust in the corners of an old room. The air still trembles With the ancient hum of its presence— A song of weight and gravity, Of something vast and untouchable, A pulse beneath the skin of the earth. Beneath the surface, the walls remember: How the Leviathan carved its path through the dark, How its breath made the waters part like curtains, How its voice, low and rumbling, Shook the stars from their quiet homes. And though the creature is gone, Its scale-streaks remain. They sing in the wind, Whisper in the waves, Speak in the silence between each breath— A haunting reminder of what was, Of what still slips through the cracks of the world, Echoing into the bones of all who listen.

0

Apr 3, 2025

Apr 3, 2025 at 7:04 PM UTC

A Song of Weight and Gravity

The Leviathan is long gone, Its colossal form swallowed by the sea, A shadow in the abyss that even the depths cannot contain. Its scales, once glimmering like moonlit armor, Now slide against the walls of time, Their echo reverberating in forgotten halls, Where memory lingers Like dust in the corners of an old room. The air still trembles With the ancient hum of its presence— A song of weight and gravity, Of something vast and untouchable, A pulse beneath the skin of the earth. Beneath the surface, the walls remember: How the Leviathan carved its path through the dark, How its breath made the waters part like curtains, How its voice, low and rumbling, Shook the stars from their quiet homes. And though the creature is gone, Its scale-streaks remain. They sing in the wind, Whisper in the waves, Speak in the silence between each breath— A haunting reminder of what was, Of what still slips through the cracks of the world, Echoing into the bones of all who listen.

26