boleyn - Hello Poetry

i dream in limping colors purple bruises, yellow streetlights flickering out, the sickly green of hospitals where silence has a pulse. every morning i wake like a man dragged from the river cold lungs, shaking hands, still clutching some dead thing i can’t bring myself to let go of.

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Dec 10, 2025

Dec 10, 2025 at 1:33 PM UTC

the dream that limps

i dream in limping colors purple bruises, yellow streetlights flickering out, the sickly green of hospitals where silence has a pulse. every morning i wake like a man dragged from the river cold lungs, shaking hands, still clutching some dead thing i can’t bring myself to let go of.

11

it’s midnight in laredo and my shoes slap the sidewalk like a dying heartbeat. people pass by like ghosts faces painted on smoke, and i pause — am i the only real one? then loneliness crawls my back like a wet coat i can’t shake off and i keep walking.

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Aug 17, 2025

Aug 17, 2025 at 12:37 PM UTC

___ and mirrors

it’s midnight in laredo and my shoes slap the sidewalk like a dying heartbeat. people pass by like ghosts faces painted on smoke, and i pause — am i the only real one? then loneliness crawls my back like a wet coat i can’t shake off and i keep walking.

10

i drove west until gas ran out & the sky turned orange like it knew something i didn’t — the desert coughed up ghost motels, and i slept with the windows down because loneliness was warmer than the air.

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Jul 21, 2025

Jul 21, 2025 at 11:52 AM UTC

no map for this

i drove west until gas ran out & the sky turned orange like it knew something i didn’t — the desert coughed up ghost motels, and i slept with the windows down because loneliness was warmer than the air.

9

i left on a tuesday because mondays felt too cinematic. threw a bag in the backseat — socks, notebook, polaroid of no one and drove until the road forgot how to spell my name. some towns didn’t even have exits, just rusted signs and dust thick enough to bury a prayer.

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Jul 18, 2025

Jul 18, 2025 at 10:55 AM UTC

nowhere train (a beginning)

i left on a tuesday because mondays felt too cinematic. threw a bag in the backseat — socks, notebook, polaroid of no one and drove until the road forgot how to spell my name. some towns didn’t even have exits, just rusted signs and dust thick enough to bury a prayer.

6