haimonkey - Hello Poetry

Monica, Phonica— can we all just be follicles, little, too little? Lilies that grow through winter’s passing and into spring. No matter how we bloom, we’re still just follicles. So Monica, Phonica, please— stop plucking them.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 10:50 PM UTC

Monica, Phonica, Follicles

Monica, Phonica— can we all just be follicles, little, too little? Lilies that grow through winter’s passing and into spring. No matter how we bloom, we’re still just follicles. So Monica, Phonica, please— stop plucking them.

11

Somewhere along the way your feet will lose their strength, your vision will blur with tears that rush, then drizzle and gather at your feet. Somewhere along the way not a single soul will understand— or seem to care, or quietly move to help you rise. Somewhere along the way your gaze will steady, the sniffles will fade, and your fingers will tighten around the edges of reality. Because somewhere along the way you will realize there was never truly anything that deep.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 10:46 PM UTC

Somewhere Along

Somewhere along the way your feet will lose their strength, your vision will blur with tears that rush, then drizzle and gather at your feet. Somewhere along the way not a single soul will understand— or seem to care, or quietly move to help you rise. Somewhere along the way your gaze will steady, the sniffles will fade, and your fingers will tighten around the edges of reality. Because somewhere along the way you will realize there was never truly anything that deep.

21

Hey, girl—hey. Tomorrow comes. Youth folds in on itself. Win, win, win— the drum for men like you. Stay, stay, stay the melody for girls like us. I trace the steps yet they blur A duck on thin water— one foot brave, both feet wrong. When one rises everything loosens, wax in warm hands, shape forgetting itself. Maybe not me. Not for long. Not for this. Not for much. No path. No clear horizon. No small fire to follow— only a sky that keeps its sun. Today I am only a girl. Tomorrow something heavier answers to the word woman.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 10:34 PM UTC

Only A Girl

Hey, girl—hey. Tomorrow comes. Youth folds in on itself. Win, win, win— the drum for men like you. Stay, stay, stay the melody for girls like us. I trace the steps yet they blur A duck on thin water— one foot brave, both feet wrong. When one rises everything loosens, wax in warm hands, shape forgetting itself. Maybe not me. Not for long. Not for this. Not for much. No path. No clear horizon. No small fire to follow— only a sky that keeps its sun. Today I am only a girl. Tomorrow something heavier answers to the word woman.

31

He moves quietly, walking on the same two feet as I, yet in a rhythm entirely his own-- negative, timid, nervous, lips rarely curling, s that even the smallest smile feels like sunlight breaking through walls, He names the space around him, turning empty rooms into home, making walls, corner, and air tangible, molding comfort in the hands of mine, filling a room even when it is only halfway full. Where he stands, the world takes shape; presence becomes form, and form becomes presence. He is the pulse of thought, an idea that makes the heart stumble, sparking warmth in the coldest nights, hinting at certainty when the world offers only instability, holding possibility quietly in the spaces between breaths. He is the weight of feeling, a presence that reminds me of my own humanity. simple, essential, but also a thing-- something tangible, something held, carrying meaning without words, a quiet insistence that some forms contain whole worlds, that some things--just a thing-- can hold everything we reach for.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 7:49 PM UTC

A Tangible Place

He moves quietly, walking on the same two feet as I, yet in a rhythm entirely his own-- negative, timid, nervous, lips rarely curling, s that even the smallest smile feels like sunlight breaking through walls, He names the space around him, turning empty rooms into home, making walls, corner, and air tangible, molding comfort in the hands of mine, filling a room even when it is only halfway full. Where he stands, the world takes shape; presence becomes form, and form becomes presence. He is the pulse of thought, an idea that makes the heart stumble, sparking warmth in the coldest nights, hinting at certainty when the world offers only instability, holding possibility quietly in the spaces between breaths. He is the weight of feeling, a presence that reminds me of my own humanity. simple, essential, but also a thing-- something tangible, something held, carrying meaning without words, a quiet insistence that some forms contain whole worlds, that some things--just a thing-- can hold everything we reach for.

34

We are destined to die But we are descendants of what refused to die You may not feel it the aching feeling that breathes, seeks and thrives But time is the only way you'll understand it Maybe not today, Perhaps not tomorrow, And Lord knows when Yet it's there. So live Be as selfless as you like Take what you want Just don't take your last I humbly ask this, As your descendant who refuses to die.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 7:32 PM UTC

Refuse To Die

We are destined to die But we are descendants of what refused to die You may not feel it the aching feeling that breathes, seeks and thrives But time is the only way you'll understand it Maybe not today, Perhaps not tomorrow, And Lord knows when Yet it's there. So live Be as selfless as you like Take what you want Just don't take your last I humbly ask this, As your descendant who refuses to die.

18