ist-one - Hello Poetry

When the curtain falls in love the characters begin to speak through tremors of syllables pressed from the keys of a cherry black piano. The rhythmic clicks like a crafted bird tapping, chopping building from mechanical noise. Hands passing, paceless still precise, arriving as words everything clicks, clacks together rippling through the sheets, to tell – that was already there.

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Feb 11

Feb 11, 2026 at 3:31 PM UTC

ist-one

The Curtain Falls in Love

When the curtain falls in love the characters begin to speak through tremors of syllables pressed from the keys of a cherry black piano. The rhythmic clicks like a crafted bird tapping, chopping building from mechanical noise. Hands passing, paceless still precise, arriving as words everything clicks, clacks together rippling through the sheets, to tell – that was already there.

15

Ripened in breath, lingering in sentences never said— but arrived anyway swallowed words, inhaled echoes, rippling through the chest truth lights up in the lungs for lack of air— what we can’t say otherwise.

0

Nov 11, 2025

Nov 11, 2025 at 10:30 PM UTC

ist-one

Did you mean it?

Ripened in breath, lingering in sentences never said— but arrived anyway swallowed words, inhaled echoes, rippling through the chest truth lights up in the lungs for lack of air— what we can’t say otherwise.

13

Syllables curl; silk sheens the crescent spoon drips into black— straight cut— 6 a.m. Half-awake: a hex— night grows legs, circles the room; gravity follows with a broom. I wake again— morning amber yawns across the table toward an empty cup. Eyes in the corner— the kitchen tiger, pocket-black, worrying the broom— a hiss. Then a leap: swipes the air lands on my chest; swift fur coils my wrist, heavy with purrs— a clinging bracelet. Not what I miss. It’s the habit— heat in the hand, steam on the lip; the slurp— turns into reverie. Mourning sips— felt at the pulse; the ceremony spills— ticks in the bone, cold to the marrow.

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Nov 6, 2025

Nov 6, 2025 at 2:01 PM UTC

ist-one

The spoon and the broom

Syllables curl; silk sheens the crescent spoon drips into black— straight cut— 6 a.m. Half-awake: a hex— night grows legs, circles the room; gravity follows with a broom. I wake again— morning amber yawns across the table toward an empty cup. Eyes in the corner— the kitchen tiger, pocket-black, worrying the broom— a hiss. Then a leap: swipes the air lands on my chest; swift fur coils my wrist, heavy with purrs— a clinging bracelet. Not what I miss. It’s the habit— heat in the hand, steam on the lip; the slurp— turns into reverie. Mourning sips— felt at the pulse; the ceremony spills— ticks in the bone, cold to the marrow.

37

It’s not for you— but to remind me how I see. not the one who doesn’t dare— to call it out. fortune to tell, past and present— intervene at ten. believe— I’d be not just precise, but honest. and you know— it’s shining through the cracks. The light— won’t just stop like a clock, left on the wall, hanging— in stillness. tickless— ask why? choose to stay, watch it twice, knowing right— _so why—_ the illusion makes it count. _It’s just reckless—_ I know, but love freckles.

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Oct 26, 2025

Oct 26, 2025 at 1:41 PM UTC

ist-one

In time.

It’s not for you— but to remind me how I see. not the one who doesn’t dare— to call it out. fortune to tell, past and present— intervene at ten. believe— I’d be not just precise, but honest. and you know— it’s shining through the cracks. The light— won’t just stop like a clock, left on the wall, hanging— in stillness. tickless— ask why? choose to stay, watch it twice, knowing right— _so why—_ the illusion makes it count. _It’s just reckless—_ I know, but love freckles.

32

Do you want to talk? Still your mouth holds silence. When nothing clever can be said, when words can’t cut clean—or cold. You’ve learned— it’s safer to keep it shut— or keep it sharp, to hide inside your own shadow. Do you want me to breathe? I don’t need air. I need space. I breathe you in— not your words, your essence. Lips on your lips. It’s not romantic. I breathe you out— fill your lungs, press on your chest, bringing you back to yourself. Do you want to teach me? First, teach yourself. Train your mouth, your tongue, on the difficult— love freedom sorry unconditional real Just let them in— without shaking. Do you want to meet me? Speak, don’t explain— I will be there. I will stay— through fire storm darkness stillness madness. Am I unfair? Yes. But I want you to forgive that.

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Oct 24, 2025

Oct 24, 2025 at 3:06 PM UTC

ist-one

Silence of Us

Do you want to talk? Still your mouth holds silence. When nothing clever can be said, when words can’t cut clean—or cold. You’ve learned— it’s safer to keep it shut— or keep it sharp, to hide inside your own shadow. Do you want me to breathe? I don’t need air. I need space. I breathe you in— not your words, your essence. Lips on your lips. It’s not romantic. I breathe you out— fill your lungs, press on your chest, bringing you back to yourself. Do you want to teach me? First, teach yourself. Train your mouth, your tongue, on the difficult— love freedom sorry unconditional real Just let them in— without shaking. Do you want to meet me? Speak, don’t explain— I will be there. I will stay— through fire storm darkness stillness madness. Am I unfair? Yes. But I want you to forgive that.

52

Some things were never meant to close. Not because we broke them, but because they were built to spill onto the right hands, in the right season, under silence dense enough to hold meaning without explanation. Yes... I saw them. But not with eyes that read. I felt them through the parts of me that still pulse in pre-verbal frequencies where memory and prophecy blur, and recognition arrives before language. Some fragments don’t echo metaphor. They move like déjà vu from a life I haven’t lived yet but already long for. I trace before I know. Resonate before it trembles. It’s rarely “just enough” but I’ve learned how to pour gravity around overflow. If I’m shaped this way it’s because I’ve held residue before, carried fever home like a relic. Not a curse. Just a heat that hums my spine into wanting. Still, I choose to enter. Still, I choose to stay. Still, I choose to pray: not to perform, but to invoke. When I said I attract the broken, I wasn’t lying. It was only half the truth. Because they attract me too. I know the difference between what needs repair and what only asks to be seen, without flinching, without fixing. So no, I won’t call it metaphor. I know the feel of an unsealed jar. I know the cost of leaving the lid off, on purpose. Maybe I’m not a collector. Maybe I’m the collection a body of fragments, stitched by the ones I’ve dared to reflect. Reflections don’t always shine. Some of them vibrate only in silence, in resilience, in rooms where no catalog has yet been written. But I’ll know what to call it when it starts to breathe.

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Sep 19, 2025

Sep 19, 2025 at 3:42 PM UTC

ist-one

Built to Spill

Some things were never meant to close. Not because we broke them, but because they were built to spill onto the right hands, in the right season, under silence dense enough to hold meaning without explanation. Yes... I saw them. But not with eyes that read. I felt them through the parts of me that still pulse in pre-verbal frequencies where memory and prophecy blur, and recognition arrives before language. Some fragments don’t echo metaphor. They move like déjà vu from a life I haven’t lived yet but already long for. I trace before I know. Resonate before it trembles. It’s rarely “just enough” but I’ve learned how to pour gravity around overflow. If I’m shaped this way it’s because I’ve held residue before, carried fever home like a relic. Not a curse. Just a heat that hums my spine into wanting. Still, I choose to enter. Still, I choose to stay. Still, I choose to pray: not to perform, but to invoke. When I said I attract the broken, I wasn’t lying. It was only half the truth. Because they attract me too. I know the difference between what needs repair and what only asks to be seen, without flinching, without fixing. So no, I won’t call it metaphor. I know the feel of an unsealed jar. I know the cost of leaving the lid off, on purpose. Maybe I’m not a collector. Maybe I’m the collection a body of fragments, stitched by the ones I’ve dared to reflect. Reflections don’t always shine. Some of them vibrate only in silence, in resilience, in rooms where no catalog has yet been written. But I’ll know what to call it when it starts to breathe.

56

Cruelty was never the point. But it happened anyway. It was never scripted. Just lived. Instinctively, asymmetrically. Unscored by safewords or symmetry. Where dominance wasn't roleplay but a structure the other bled against. And neither one called it love. Because love would have demanded less elegance, more responsibility. And some part of us needed it to stay as ritual, not reckoning.

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Sep 10, 2025

Sep 10, 2025 at 9:00 PM UTC

ist-one

We Called It Ritual

Cruelty was never the point. But it happened anyway. It was never scripted. Just lived. Instinctively, asymmetrically. Unscored by safewords or symmetry. Where dominance wasn't roleplay but a structure the other bled against. And neither one called it love. Because love would have demanded less elegance, more responsibility. And some part of us needed it to stay as ritual, not reckoning.

13

Our dance is trance, Paint my eyes red, Lips slightly parted, wet iron and ash, I breathe you out, You hold me in, One move, one cut, thousand more, they fold, mother soaks, stars behind open eyes, every drop marks our path. Hands melt in hours, body warm, stone of yours Twin snakes of bones, dance of souls. Not mine or yours. Chameleon daggers, battle stars, morning awaits, dusk to dust cover us. Witness of the Moon, child of Bloom, Legit forged in battle, Take by two, left as one Sacred kingdom of sun, Grey of food, black fruit: sweetness of soul, Drip on my chin, flow free in chant. Now altar of yours. I eat your rage, take your blade, Feed my hunger, tear apart, clothes torn, ripped wings, morning sparks. That's when you rule, I give my body, will is yours, till the next night... When blade of hunger comes. Gold and red, skins are shred. Breath the earth as I demand. Crescent moons, between knees, ringed sun, crowned path. I touch ruby and emerald, Became a prism, to peel the sun. My voice is river, your body is the current. Mountains of will around, shoulder blades to hold, tells a story of the old. Now we curve into one again, Fed for good, left to loose, Eyes became mouth, spreads us. Freedom of day and night, Felt more sacred, than one of the eye. Other is turned to whisper of trust. Pantheon without us. How could they bear that was told Laws became our holds. Until we meet again: in echoes, breathes. Not day and night, but warmth and light.

0

Sep 7, 2025

Sep 7, 2025 at 9:52 AM UTC

ist-one

Altar of Ishtar

Our dance is trance, Paint my eyes red, Lips slightly parted, wet iron and ash, I breathe you out, You hold me in, One move, one cut, thousand more, they fold, mother soaks, stars behind open eyes, every drop marks our path. Hands melt in hours, body warm, stone of yours Twin snakes of bones, dance of souls. Not mine or yours. Chameleon daggers, battle stars, morning awaits, dusk to dust cover us. Witness of the Moon, child of Bloom, Legit forged in battle, Take by two, left as one Sacred kingdom of sun, Grey of food, black fruit: sweetness of soul, Drip on my chin, flow free in chant. Now altar of yours. I eat your rage, take your blade, Feed my hunger, tear apart, clothes torn, ripped wings, morning sparks. That's when you rule, I give my body, will is yours, till the next night... When blade of hunger comes. Gold and red, skins are shred. Breath the earth as I demand. Crescent moons, between knees, ringed sun, crowned path. I touch ruby and emerald, Became a prism, to peel the sun. My voice is river, your body is the current. Mountains of will around, shoulder blades to hold, tells a story of the old. Now we curve into one again, Fed for good, left to loose, Eyes became mouth, spreads us. Freedom of day and night, Felt more sacred, than one of the eye. Other is turned to whisper of trust. Pantheon without us. How could they bear that was told Laws became our holds. Until we meet again: in echoes, breathes. Not day and night, but warmth and light.

63

When thoughts begin to dream, they branch into an endless tree— roots spreading through realities, each shoot carving its path, its own line. Breathe. Another fold, another layer of truth expands as we choose. Up and down at once— direction becomes perception. Grows. Thoughts of prey circle in the shape of the serpent god— Beginning is the end— deception of decision. Divine.

0

Sep 4, 2025

Sep 4, 2025 at 12:43 PM UTC

ist-one

Dreams of Thoughts

When thoughts begin to dream, they branch into an endless tree— roots spreading through realities, each shoot carving its path, its own line. Breathe. Another fold, another layer of truth expands as we choose. Up and down at once— direction becomes perception. Grows. Thoughts of prey circle in the shape of the serpent god— Beginning is the end— deception of decision. Divine.

17