loolaxox - Hello Poetry

Horses run, people work, dogs sit. I was born to run, from a family of racers, growing up from a little foal. This is all I’ve known. We run to stay alive; we praise the fastest horses. We spend our whole life trying to catch up to them. Only a few horses can escape this life — taken away by family's wealthy enough to pay, to be then kept as a pet. I've been told I’ve been taken good care of, fed with only the best food, given a luxurious place to sleep. “Better off than most of the horses,” they would tell me. They put these metal shoes on my feet to protect them, they say. I find myself thinking about my ancestors — the horses that ran barefoot, only ate what nature provided for them, and ran for exercise. Not for a living. Instead, they ran with their herd; the most running they did was to move to another location, running to a better place. That’s what I’m told I do — the race-winning horses, they live lavish lives. Maybe that’s why we run. Maybe we have always been running to a better place. This is my only way of life, so I run. For I have no choice in the matter. I run as fast as my polished hooves will take me, knowing one slip of my foot and I fall miles behind. My legs twist in unusual ways. The smell of freshly kicked dirt, cut grass hits me in my snout. It hurts, but I’ll spend my life trying to catch up. If I fall again, I’ve seen what happens. A tall figure comes, “take me to a better place.” I don’t know where horses go when they die, but maybe wherever that is, I can stop running. I don’t run to win. I run to live.

0

Nov 4, 2025

Nov 4, 2025 at 10:55 PM UTC

loolaxox

Little Racer

Horses run, people work, dogs sit. I was born to run, from a family of racers, growing up from a little foal. This is all I’ve known. We run to stay alive; we praise the fastest horses. We spend our whole life trying to catch up to them. Only a few horses can escape this life — taken away by family's wealthy enough to pay, to be then kept as a pet. I've been told I’ve been taken good care of, fed with only the best food, given a luxurious place to sleep. “Better off than most of the horses,” they would tell me. They put these metal shoes on my feet to protect them, they say. I find myself thinking about my ancestors — the horses that ran barefoot, only ate what nature provided for them, and ran for exercise. Not for a living. Instead, they ran with their herd; the most running they did was to move to another location, running to a better place. That’s what I’m told I do — the race-winning horses, they live lavish lives. Maybe that’s why we run. Maybe we have always been running to a better place. This is my only way of life, so I run. For I have no choice in the matter. I run as fast as my polished hooves will take me, knowing one slip of my foot and I fall miles behind. My legs twist in unusual ways. The smell of freshly kicked dirt, cut grass hits me in my snout. It hurts, but I’ll spend my life trying to catch up. If I fall again, I’ve seen what happens. A tall figure comes, “take me to a better place.” I don’t know where horses go when they die, but maybe wherever that is, I can stop running. I don’t run to win. I run to live.

39

I woke with strings attached to my arms and legs. I was quite young when I first saw them on others, but when I mentioned it, nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. They dismissed it — as adults do with a lot of things children say they see. But no. Now I’m older, and they’ve appeared on me. I never quite knew what the strings were for, but as I went through the day, I noticed they followed every movement I made — my arms, my legs, even my fingers. The strings moved and bent with me. If I moved too fast, without thinking, I found myself tangled in my own strings. Unable to move as smoothly as before. And when I wanted to do something drastic, it took a bit more of a tug. I always feel them there. Sometimes, when I let them, the strings move me around on their own. I have nothing to do with it. One morning, I began to wonder — does everyone have their own strings? I sat, legs crossed, on a wooden chair at the round kitchen table, staring at the black and white tiled floor. The smell of freshly made coffee filled my nose, and the strings attached to my arms started to flutter, in and out of existence. I can’t quite remember what I was thinking then. But I felt a piece of myself return. That’s when I realized: I’m in control. I’ve been in control this whole time — regardless of who or what is holding the top of those strings. I can take that small wooden “X” back whenever I want. And just like that, they disappeared. I wasn’t sure how long it would last or if it was just a fluke. But the next morning, I felt no tug at my arms. When I moved too fast, I didn’t get tangled. I could move freely through the world. Still, to this day, I see people with these strings attached to them. Some are thick ropes, some a thin thread. Everyone is different. Yet, they still aren’t quite able to see them. And if they do, I’m not sure how long it will be until they fade away — until they take back control. Do you have control?

0

Jul 14, 2025

Jul 14, 2025 at 2:56 PM UTC

loolaxox

Puppets

I woke with strings attached to my arms and legs. I was quite young when I first saw them on others, but when I mentioned it, nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. They dismissed it — as adults do with a lot of things children say they see. But no. Now I’m older, and they’ve appeared on me. I never quite knew what the strings were for, but as I went through the day, I noticed they followed every movement I made — my arms, my legs, even my fingers. The strings moved and bent with me. If I moved too fast, without thinking, I found myself tangled in my own strings. Unable to move as smoothly as before. And when I wanted to do something drastic, it took a bit more of a tug. I always feel them there. Sometimes, when I let them, the strings move me around on their own. I have nothing to do with it. One morning, I began to wonder — does everyone have their own strings? I sat, legs crossed, on a wooden chair at the round kitchen table, staring at the black and white tiled floor. The smell of freshly made coffee filled my nose, and the strings attached to my arms started to flutter, in and out of existence. I can’t quite remember what I was thinking then. But I felt a piece of myself return. That’s when I realized: I’m in control. I’ve been in control this whole time — regardless of who or what is holding the top of those strings. I can take that small wooden “X” back whenever I want. And just like that, they disappeared. I wasn’t sure how long it would last or if it was just a fluke. But the next morning, I felt no tug at my arms. When I moved too fast, I didn’t get tangled. I could move freely through the world. Still, to this day, I see people with these strings attached to them. Some are thick ropes, some a thin thread. Everyone is different. Yet, they still aren’t quite able to see them. And if they do, I’m not sure how long it will be until they fade away — until they take back control. Do you have control?

9

Sometimes, I hear a song through someone else’s headphones, too quiet to name but loud enough to feel. I never ask what it is. Letting it stay anonymous feels more honest. It’s not mine. I was just near it. A violin behind a closed door in an apartment I’ll never enter. Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me like a rhythm nobody meant to write. A man humming in the metro not to perform, but because he’s alone and forgot the world has ears. There are moments I’ve been completely undone by a melody I never fully heard. Half of it lost to the train. Half of it blurred by walls. But something in me was tuned just right to catch what escaped. We think music is what’s played. But maybe it’s also what passes through when we weren’t looking. When we didn’t try to hold it. Or name it. Or own it.

0

loolaxox

Jul 14, 2025

Jul 14, 2025 at 11:52 AM UTC

RastislavKnezi

accidental concerts

Sometimes, I hear a song through someone else’s headphones, too quiet to name but loud enough to feel. I never ask what it is. Letting it stay anonymous feels more honest. It’s not mine. I was just near it. A violin behind a closed door in an apartment I’ll never enter. Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me like a rhythm nobody meant to write. A man humming in the metro not to perform, but because he’s alone and forgot the world has ears. There are moments I’ve been completely undone by a melody I never fully heard. Half of it lost to the train. Half of it blurred by walls. But something in me was tuned just right to catch what escaped. We think music is what’s played. But maybe it’s also what passes through when we weren’t looking. When we didn’t try to hold it. Or name it. Or own it.

32

In my globe I call home I walk in snow, around I go. My steps are covered, never seen. My world shakes as more snow falls, Erasing my path, Forcing me to crawl. On my hands and knees, Ice burns my flesh. I ask myself, When can I rest?

0

Jul 14, 2025

Jul 14, 2025 at 10:14 AM UTC

loolaxox

snow globe home

In my globe I call home I walk in snow, around I go. My steps are covered, never seen. My world shakes as more snow falls, Erasing my path, Forcing me to crawl. On my hands and knees, Ice burns my flesh. I ask myself, When can I rest?

9

I don’t exist outside the lines on this page. The physical has never been my reality. We have only circled each other.. mutually unnoticed.. mutually indifferent.. My world is bigger than this earth. Yet… so small. © Nathan A. Brock

0

loolaxox

Dec 6, 2024

Dec 6, 2024 at 2:17 PM UTC

Nabrock

Only a Shadow

I don’t exist outside the lines on this page. The physical has never been my reality. We have only circled each other.. mutually unnoticed.. mutually indifferent.. My world is bigger than this earth. Yet… so small. © Nathan A. Brock

13

Unravel me—open, bare, A ball of yarn resting in your lap. Your fingers move with purpose, finding my knots, Lingering on my curves, tugging gently at my loops. You untangle me slowly, Thread by thread, red string pooling beneath you. See me as i am— Whole, unguarded, Freed from the weight of my knots. Open for you, Soft, exposed, Yours to hold, Yours to keep. Unravel me

0

Dec 6, 2024

Dec 6, 2024 at 2:14 PM UTC

loolaxox

Unravel me

Unravel me—open, bare, A ball of yarn resting in your lap. Your fingers move with purpose, finding my knots, Lingering on my curves, tugging gently at my loops. You untangle me slowly, Thread by thread, red string pooling beneath you. See me as i am— Whole, unguarded, Freed from the weight of my knots. Open for you, Soft, exposed, Yours to hold, Yours to keep. Unravel me

15

Ghosts are real. Haunted by something long gone, Dead, I haunt myself. Ghosts, they float in my room, Bouncing off the walls, Surrounding me with what once was. Eight years old, I stand in the corner, crying, It echoes in my head— Haunted by my past. Ghosts are real. They don’t break glasses or close doors, They evoke fear much greater than an unexplainable incident. They haunt you with a cruel reality— Something far worse than floating books. The truth. I am haunted. By the truth.

0

Dec 3, 2024

Dec 3, 2024 at 6:22 PM UTC

loolaxox

Ghosts

Ghosts are real. Haunted by something long gone, Dead, I haunt myself. Ghosts, they float in my room, Bouncing off the walls, Surrounding me with what once was. Eight years old, I stand in the corner, crying, It echoes in my head— Haunted by my past. Ghosts are real. They don’t break glasses or close doors, They evoke fear much greater than an unexplainable incident. They haunt you with a cruel reality— Something far worse than floating books. The truth. I am haunted. By the truth.

17

need not do a thing to keep this love burning just breathe and live With all the love you have to give even if it's not for me let it to bloom where it longs to be I'll still be happy

0

loolaxox

Dec 3, 2024

Dec 3, 2024 at 5:56 PM UTC

starrynight

you

need not do a thing to keep this love burning just breathe and live With all the love you have to give even if it's not for me let it to bloom where it longs to be I'll still be happy

7

A box. Like water, we fill the shape in which we fall. In a box too big, water seeps in, grasping and waiting to hit the edges. We are made to think we aren’t enough—our box may be too big. In a box too small, we drip over the edges, losing pieces of ourselves. We are told we are too much. But make your own box. You’re perfectly enough. You fill its every corner. Others may have bigger boxes. They may be shaped oddly—round, curved, sharp— but the only box you will fit in is your own.

0

Dec 1, 2024

Dec 1, 2024 at 1:43 PM UTC

loolaxox

boxes

A box. Like water, we fill the shape in which we fall. In a box too big, water seeps in, grasping and waiting to hit the edges. We are made to think we aren’t enough—our box may be too big. In a box too small, we drip over the edges, losing pieces of ourselves. We are told we are too much. But make your own box. You’re perfectly enough. You fill its every corner. Others may have bigger boxes. They may be shaped oddly—round, curved, sharp— but the only box you will fit in is your own.

10

I am not living, merely alive. I lie in bed each day, waiting for my life to start. As if I'm playing a game, watching the loading screen, yet never pressing play. I am not playing, merely watching, as people complete tasks, upgrade, level up. I watch and wait to press play. What am I waiting for?

0

Dec 1, 2024

Dec 1, 2024 at 1:28 PM UTC

loolaxox

merely alive

I am not living, merely alive. I lie in bed each day, waiting for my life to start. As if I'm playing a game, watching the loading screen, yet never pressing play. I am not playing, merely watching, as people complete tasks, upgrade, level up. I watch and wait to press play. What am I waiting for?

13