hall - Hello Poetry

I would initially describe it as merely hurrying the sun, but that's untrue. I reached into my garden and tended it with unwashed hands. It becomes clear on reflection that, although mistake is an appropriate word, it is more accurate to describe it as a private ********** of the public good. I trespassed on property that was not mine and broke the quiet of others. Perhaps one, perhaps many. I breathed their air and distorted their reflection to create a verification of my own. Seeking the absolute through the profane, I believed my violation would consecrate the prize. Recently a new chemical dark has descended. Maybe it was a final wager, or maybe just a moment of hedonism. I do not know if it was intended to force the door entirely off its hinges, but I know now that the mechanism is jammed. The needle skipping on the groove leaves me stuck in the static of the immediate moment. Sometimes I assume there was one last horror in the white fog, but the tape is burnt and the reel has snapped. If there is a final sin, I cannot know its shape. The slate is wiped clean every hour. What I write upon it is smudged, then washed away. There is no use weeping for the dead self. I think pity is just another narcotic, and I have had enough of drugs. It is likely true that I am the refuse at the bottom of the river, the subhuman thing that broke the mirror. It is the truth I understand, but the sun insists on rising anyway. Sitting in the ashes is just another form of vanity. So I will hold two weights in one hand; the knowledge of the filth I have become, and the relentless necessity of hope. With no map and a compass prone to deviation, I walk forward carrying the shadow of what I broke. Not absolved, but continuing.

0

Dec 4, 2025

Dec 4, 2025 at 4:07 AM UTC

hall

broken reel

I would initially describe it as merely hurrying the sun, but that's untrue. I reached into my garden and tended it with unwashed hands. It becomes clear on reflection that, although mistake is an appropriate word, it is more accurate to describe it as a private ********** of the public good. I trespassed on property that was not mine and broke the quiet of others. Perhaps one, perhaps many. I breathed their air and distorted their reflection to create a verification of my own. Seeking the absolute through the profane, I believed my violation would consecrate the prize. Recently a new chemical dark has descended. Maybe it was a final wager, or maybe just a moment of hedonism. I do not know if it was intended to force the door entirely off its hinges, but I know now that the mechanism is jammed. The needle skipping on the groove leaves me stuck in the static of the immediate moment. Sometimes I assume there was one last horror in the white fog, but the tape is burnt and the reel has snapped. If there is a final sin, I cannot know its shape. The slate is wiped clean every hour. What I write upon it is smudged, then washed away. There is no use weeping for the dead self. I think pity is just another narcotic, and I have had enough of drugs. It is likely true that I am the refuse at the bottom of the river, the subhuman thing that broke the mirror. It is the truth I understand, but the sun insists on rising anyway. Sitting in the ashes is just another form of vanity. So I will hold two weights in one hand; the knowledge of the filth I have become, and the relentless necessity of hope. With no map and a compass prone to deviation, I walk forward carrying the shadow of what I broke. Not absolved, but continuing.

3

when I wake up there’s a puzzle on the floor. placed not last Wednesday, but the one before. I think I placed it there the pieces white, I fit them together until its close enough to right though I can’t quite see the image anymore

0

Oct 19, 2025

Oct 19, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC

hall

anterograde

when I wake up there’s a puzzle on the floor. placed not last Wednesday, but the one before. I think I placed it there the pieces white, I fit them together until its close enough to right though I can’t quite see the image anymore

9

i lay there under blinding light the drip counting seconds i cant recall something in me fried clean through some part of my mind that once reached out now nothing answers someone turned away because of something i said, or didnt a carelessness, a fevered spark i cant trace the wound but i know it came from me if this is punishment please cauterise my injury and let the burn erase whatever version of me hurt them enough to disappear

0

Oct 11, 2025

Oct 11, 2025 at 2:56 AM UTC

hall

damage from damage

i lay there under blinding light the drip counting seconds i cant recall something in me fried clean through some part of my mind that once reached out now nothing answers someone turned away because of something i said, or didnt a carelessness, a fevered spark i cant trace the wound but i know it came from me if this is punishment please cauterise my injury and let the burn erase whatever version of me hurt them enough to disappear

15

I found him late; beautiful voice, handsome face, every sound I ever wanted already sung. He seemed kind. Alive. Then I read the ending. So young. So long ago. And I just sat there, stupid, like it still mattered.

0

Jun 10, 2025

Jun 10, 2025 at 6:43 AM UTC

hall

Posthumous

I found him late; beautiful voice, handsome face, every sound I ever wanted already sung. He seemed kind. Alive. Then I read the ending. So young. So long ago. And I just sat there, stupid, like it still mattered.

13

Maybe this road leads nowhere, but it's mine to walk and the scenery's not bad.

0

Jun 9, 2025

Jun 9, 2025 at 2:08 AM UTC

hall

Road

Maybe this road leads nowhere, but it's mine to walk and the scenery's not bad.

1

I wish a day could stretch beyond its twenty-four hours; allowing dawn to linger while I savour breakfast in calm; no frantic check of time as I pour my tea; no rush to dash for transport or meetings. Morning light would flood my window long enough; for slow stretches and thoughtful planning; I'd arrive at work with minutes to spare; settle into tasks without scrambling notes. Lunch would become an unhurried affair; a proper break with laughter that lasts; afternoon hours would hum with clear focus; projects advancing at a steady, unrushed pace. Evening could unfold like a second dawn; time to practise hobbies or wander with friends; family dinners would not be a race against the clock; conversations deepening as hours drift by. Social outings need not end at curfew's chime; late-night talks stretching into starlit freedom; then at last I'd choose my rest: eight, ten, twelve hours; each second mine, reclaimed from life's tight measure.

0

Jun 8, 2025

Jun 8, 2025 at 3:27 AM UTC

hall

Long Day

I wish a day could stretch beyond its twenty-four hours; allowing dawn to linger while I savour breakfast in calm; no frantic check of time as I pour my tea; no rush to dash for transport or meetings. Morning light would flood my window long enough; for slow stretches and thoughtful planning; I'd arrive at work with minutes to spare; settle into tasks without scrambling notes. Lunch would become an unhurried affair; a proper break with laughter that lasts; afternoon hours would hum with clear focus; projects advancing at a steady, unrushed pace. Evening could unfold like a second dawn; time to practise hobbies or wander with friends; family dinners would not be a race against the clock; conversations deepening as hours drift by. Social outings need not end at curfew's chime; late-night talks stretching into starlit freedom; then at last I'd choose my rest: eight, ten, twelve hours; each second mine, reclaimed from life's tight measure.

20

A brass barometer lives beneath my ribs; its needle flutters at weather only I can feel. Thoughts wind around repairs, loops of cause & cure, tightening the unseen air. I read distress through pressure in my chest, a metric too subtle to name. Surface remains stoic; under that, doors open for the few I trust; at the deepest layer rests indifference, flat, still, holding every swell in place.

0

Jun 8, 2025

Jun 8, 2025 at 3:09 AM UTC

hall

Barometer

A brass barometer lives beneath my ribs; its needle flutters at weather only I can feel. Thoughts wind around repairs, loops of cause & cure, tightening the unseen air. I read distress through pressure in my chest, a metric too subtle to name. Surface remains stoic; under that, doors open for the few I trust; at the deepest layer rests indifference, flat, still, holding every swell in place.

10

i ask him what’s wrong i tell him i’m here that i will always support him and the silence stretches like fabric thinned by too many washes, too many wears i say i want to be there but maybe the door is locked or maybe it’s not a door at all just a wall painted to look like one sometimes i feel like a ghost in his world hovering, wishing he’d see me noticing how often i check if he saw if he’s there if i still matter funny how love turns your ribs into cages and makes you ask questions you hate yourself for asking like does he think of someone else does he laugh harder with someone else does he hold someone else closer even when no one is touching him does someone else make him the happiest boy he once said i was too much too close too everything and i try to be less to shrink, to vanish at the right times but it still hurts when he disappears before i do there are gaps in our messages and i read them like tea leaves, like grief, like maybe he’s just tired or maybe he’s tired of me but still i would sit in silence forever if it meant he didn’t have to hurt alone if it made him the happiest boy and i would leave his life you know, i would go in a breath if it made him the happiest boy if it meant he wouldn’t feel the way he does now whatever way that is whatever ache he won’t name but i wish he’d let me stay and i wish he’d tell me and i wish i knew whether i’m still someone he’d wish to stay too because even through all this he is still the one i would choose to care for over and over again even if it leaves me nowhere at all

0

Jun 5, 2025

Jun 5, 2025 at 11:44 AM UTC

hall

The Happiest Boy

i ask him what’s wrong i tell him i’m here that i will always support him and the silence stretches like fabric thinned by too many washes, too many wears i say i want to be there but maybe the door is locked or maybe it’s not a door at all just a wall painted to look like one sometimes i feel like a ghost in his world hovering, wishing he’d see me noticing how often i check if he saw if he’s there if i still matter funny how love turns your ribs into cages and makes you ask questions you hate yourself for asking like does he think of someone else does he laugh harder with someone else does he hold someone else closer even when no one is touching him does someone else make him the happiest boy he once said i was too much too close too everything and i try to be less to shrink, to vanish at the right times but it still hurts when he disappears before i do there are gaps in our messages and i read them like tea leaves, like grief, like maybe he’s just tired or maybe he’s tired of me but still i would sit in silence forever if it meant he didn’t have to hurt alone if it made him the happiest boy and i would leave his life you know, i would go in a breath if it made him the happiest boy if it meant he wouldn’t feel the way he does now whatever way that is whatever ache he won’t name but i wish he’d let me stay and i wish he’d tell me and i wish i knew whether i’m still someone he’d wish to stay too because even through all this he is still the one i would choose to care for over and over again even if it leaves me nowhere at all

75

I ache to go back but I’ve come too far. What I miss might undo who I am.

0

Jun 5, 2025

Jun 5, 2025 at 11:40 AM UTC

hall

Not-stalgia

I ache to go back but I’ve come too far. What I miss might undo who I am.

5

I feel no pull to chase or build. The life I want can’t start from here. The path was clear, but I swept it away By meddling till it disappeared. It was made to be mine, I lost it in a day I feel no pull to chase or build. The life I want can’t start from here.

0

Jun 5, 2025

Jun 5, 2025 at 11:39 AM UTC

hall

Path

I feel no pull to chase or build. The life I want can’t start from here. The path was clear, but I swept it away By meddling till it disappeared. It was made to be mine, I lost it in a day I feel no pull to chase or build. The life I want can’t start from here.

7