Foolish ones who strike
At a heart of gentle steel
Learn how steel returns
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 10:10 AM UTC
Two hands, soft-weathered
Cut on the blade of our teeth
Where scarlett rain blooms on paper
Bleed, bleed, O red rose of life
From your petals, we fall on rich earth
Yet tethered, close, to your blossom
In which we lowly weep
Love, love, O red rose of life
Nails of nector rise up, sullen thorns
Draw lines of love across scarred palms
Should the winds wail, we shall not falter
Bleed, bleed, O red rose of life
Till your leaves should wither
And roots rot with time
Red eyes watch over our bare heads
Love, love, O red rose of life
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 8:06 AM UTC
“Do you ever have thoughts of self harm?”
‘…’
‘No.’
[You feel your sins crawling down your back]
[Such a good liar, they murmur into your hair]
‘…I mean not really.’
[You grip your leg where the blade already left]
[Stay silent, they hum, you shameful child]
“Have you ever done it before?”
‘I… have a habit of hand biting when I’m distressed.’
[Yes, they praise, you just need to distract]
[Direct the conversation to safer grounds]
“Have you had any thoughts of committing suicide?”
‘No.’
[Just the wish to disappear to nothing]
[Just the wish to be forgotten]
“Have you made any plans?”
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 12:51 AM UTC
Stories, they all hurt
Fantasies I’ll never have
A fish thirsting air
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 8:35 PM UTC
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Bad gateway
Now forever gone
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Like there’s hope for the past to come back
For the old home to return
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 12:44 AM UTC
The
“sparkling new site”
Feels too bright
For my darkness
To feel comfortable
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 6:20 PM UTC
The air's alive with Christmas cheer
Hearts, apart, now gathered here
To celebrate this holy night
Of love and giving, hope and light
Dec 25, 2025
Dec 25, 2025 at 4:05 AM UTC
The mountains were a desolate region filled with the haunted whispers of bloodfilled wars. High above the rest of the world they watched, like gods on their frosty thrones, unconcerned with the happenings of the mortals at their feet. The villagers living at the foot of the mountain preferred it that way. Barely anyone dared to step foot on the mountain anymore, not after its blood soaked history and dangerous terrain
What then was a mere child doing, all alone, in the mountain pass?
“Are you lost, Little One?”
The child turned around at the sound of the frail voice behind them, their small hands clutching the grey coat they wore as it fluttered in the frigid wind. They had matted brown hair that fell over their face, hiding their eyes, a small nose reddening from the cold, and pale skin that glinted in the wan moon.
They nodded meekly as they peeked through their messy bangs, meeting the kind eyes of an old man who lowered himself on creaky knees to reach their level. “You’re far too young to be on your own, Little One. Where are your parents?”
The child simply shrugged, wrapping their cloak even tighter around themselves. Parents? They used to have a pair of those, didn’t they? But their mind only drew a blank when they tried remembering what these “parents” looked like. It felt like drawing water from a deep well. Except the bucket was full of holes, and the water kept leaking out.
Seeing their answer, or lack thereof, the old man frowned. “Well, perhaps we can find your parents back at the village, Little One. Come with me.”
He offered a hand to the child, who took it eagerly–small frostbitten fingers wrapping around his pinky. As they looked up at him, their hair fell away from their face, revealing two golden eyes, bright as they reflected the moonlight. The old man smiled down fondly at the child, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “You have beautiful eyes, Little One.”
“Th… thank you, sir.” They said quietly, cheeks flushing with a pleased smile on their face. Their voice was hesitant, as if the second half of each spoken word was being swallowed.
“So,” said the old man, leading the child down the path back to the village. “What's your name, Little One?”
“...name?”
“Yes, something people call you.”
“I… don't know.”
“You were never given one?”
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 9:17 AM UTC
Until I relearn how to write stories again
I'm not touching another poem
I started writing poetry because it didn't take as much time as a story
Two years ago I started to have less time
And next year I'll have even less time
But storytelling--I want it back
It was only thing that felt right and I went ahead and lost it
Or maybe murdered it with my own hands
I hate myself for that
Poetry is important to me
But storytelling is even more
__I was in love__
I want to be able to dream again
So I gotta do this
...
F-ck depression f-ck writer's block and f-ck my stupid life
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 9:12 AM UTC