We walk this earth to see the sky,but there are no stars out here tonight.I can’t deny—that’s such a shame,as I watch him fight this change.
The light once burning in his eyes flickers soft, then slowly dies. The face will go, the body too, but not the mind; it stays true.
It’s always him, though form may change, a different smile, a voice rearranged. He’s done this dance time after time. Now thirteen comes along the line.
The writing lingers on the wall as he takes his final bow. A quiet testament in fading ink,
to all that was, and won’t be now. The audience exhales, and the lights grow dim.
This is not the first,nor will it be the last. From old into new, time moves untold its lords unseen, yet never erased. Same soul, but a different face. A fresh regeneration takes its place. Ready to travel through shifting time, and then return to familiar places.
We blink once more—just like before, and everything’s new, yet somehow the same at the core. Now marked by number thirteen.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 8:36 PM UTC
The Negotiator, they once called general, A wise old soul, with so much knowledge gained. No longer a warrior, nor even a knight but now a hermit who watches.
Faith within him,steadfast and true, even as life unraveled , his devotion remains. He believes in peace, in the quiet of knowledge,
facing chaos with a steady grace.
Finding harmony in a heart that endured.
A long time ago, the light shattered beneath heavy, darkened shadows, obscured by a politician’s sly smile.
Strings were being pulled from every direction but there was nothing but lies and deception.
He watched it all turn to dust.
As liberty died to the sound of hollow cheers. There was no time for grieving, he only saw shadows gathering of an empire rising.
His heart seized at the sight of the fallen youth, and in that silence, the message became clear:
to endure, and persevere.
He fought one final battle, flames tugging at his heart, heavy smoke choking the ground.
His courage and wisdom waned as he struggled for higher ground. His strength slipped as he turned his back on the brother he once held close, leaving the boy alone.
He had nothing left to lose, and he watched over an angel who could no longer hold on,and had to let go dying of a broken heart.
Yet even in the deepening night,a new hope began to rise.
A chance to stand against evil begins to form slowly, steadily growing, yet in need of protection. It feels like an impossible task, if not for the lingering force of good that still remains. The hermit, now hidden, keeps watch over what he must protect. His loyalty remains unmatched, as purpose once again gives him a mission.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 10:56 PM UTC
I have always been big busted.
Puberty arrived like an uninvited guest, dropping off gifts I didn’t request. Two teardrop shadows, soft and bold, settling in like they’d always been trusted.
They swing in motion, always drawing attention, yet somehow remain obstructed. Trying to cover up is no easy art; sometimes you long to dissolve into the crowd, stripped of all zest. Each day I walk a fine line, tucking my two friends into the cell society calls a bra, and they always seem insulted.
The wires are hard, the straps are rigid and it always needs to be adjusted. No need for my friends to wander and offend the air,
so the bra stays fastened until I go to rest. It makes no sense,
yet still they conspire,
popping each blouse and dress button just to be confronted.
My two friends tumble and ache, but still, I can say I was never stunted. The two full, gentle orbs, soft yet strong, pull at my back, like a jest. Family reminds me that womanhood is a key, for my two wide companions are lovely and lusted.
Not everyone is the same, and when I complain, no words come out, only as if I grunted. Beauty is hard, wild and untamed, so why do we always begin with the breast? Most people just want to see the glamorous side which leaves me utterly disgusted.
I have always been big busted. I think I’m done complaining, so I’ll finally put it to rest. Young ladies aren’t allowed such passionbut I never listen, even when instructed. All I mean to confess that it’s a burden on my chest, yet I’m a woman speaking plainly, and a voice that can be trusted.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 5:54 PM UTC
We pretend to be lauded warriors. A faithful leader through and through. In our hearts we fight with aplomb, in the spirit of the battles ever true.
Some are masters of combat, others, sages with wisdom to behold. Our minds, ever reaching, just exaggerate. Shaping us into beacons of hope, or into wounds we quietly hold.
We rise in the stories we tell ourselves, forged in both shadow and night. For freedom and justice, we feign to stand tall, casting long shadows in the light.
It is our burden, our quiet design, to play the part. It is our desire to be on call, to be the voice, the hero, the sign, a role model shaped by all.
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 9:03 PM UTC
Eyes scarred and sun scorched.
Feeling nothing but worn and wasted.
As sapphire waves beat the brazen boats. Supported by shores of a thousand stains.
A breeze comes and goes.
Though, memory resides of a time before then, As the undersea flaunts its life with no end.
Breathless day and bright Sun. Slowly Walking. Party of One. Rising moon and silver tide. Walk to the dawn ,slow and far. The world is out for me to find,full of nature’s undefined.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 9:06 PM UTC
The meadows fill with sweetness. The scent swirling thick and deep. Each blooming rose red as blood.
As spring awakens with her simple touch. Cradled in the depths of her arms as life once again grows. As the carriage in the sky drags into night we watch her work.
From afar, she looks breakable and dainty. Longing for a hand to grab her through a storm. Bright buds hang precarious on their limbs. Their hundreds of digits green and supple.
The chirping of birds, Sweet songs they sing. With echoes of laughter and light. The Soft buzzing of bees
Hum happy and free. As the heavens sleep above she spends her days quite cheerful.
She holds scattered seeds which bloom like a promise. What she carries is not seen at first. It's tucked away where stillness learns to grow.
With her hidden smile, she leaves these fields dry, taking back what she once gave. Headed beneath the earth where no one can follow.
She’ll have cold days before she can truly take root, frost threading through her breath,
petals learning the language of waiting.
She has learned to carry warmth beneath winter’s quiet ache.
When the leaves start to fade and become brittle to the touch.
For she is a goddess of spring, always ready to return when the light remembers her name.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 9:34 PM UTC