m4yaaa - Hello Poetry

It has long amused me that mankind conducts himself as though eternity were a landlord impatient for rent. We hurry, we calculate, we tremble at delays—and yet the stars in their cold civility, decline to move an inch faster for our distress. A letter arrives late, a love falters, an ambition decays—and we call it tragedy. 'But what is urgency if not a polite rebellion against the vast indifference of time?" We knock upon doors that was never built to open and curse the silence as though it were personal. —God forbid we discover that the universe was never in a haste to begin with.

0

Mar 29

Mar 29, 2026 at 7:34 AM UTC

detached?

It has long amused me that mankind conducts himself as though eternity were a landlord impatient for rent. We hurry, we calculate, we tremble at delays—and yet the stars in their cold civility, decline to move an inch faster for our distress. A letter arrives late, a love falters, an ambition decays—and we call it tragedy. 'But what is urgency if not a polite rebellion against the vast indifference of time?" We knock upon doors that was never built to open and curse the silence as though it were personal. —God forbid we discover that the universe was never in a haste to begin with.

4

Yesternight I argued with a shadow about moral relativism. It won. Today I lit a candle just to interrogate the flame. We're not on speaking terms anymore. Time drips sideways. Calenders whimper. The clock insists on being circular despite all my petitions. Meaning flickers like a barely perceptible idea. Reason unbuttons her coat in the rain. A moth hits the glass and the night folds in on itself again.

0

Mar 7

Mar 7, 2026 at 6:11 AM UTC

absurdism?

Yesternight I argued with a shadow about moral relativism. It won. Today I lit a candle just to interrogate the flame. We're not on speaking terms anymore. Time drips sideways. Calenders whimper. The clock insists on being circular despite all my petitions. Meaning flickers like a barely perceptible idea. Reason unbuttons her coat in the rain. A moth hits the glass and the night folds in on itself again.

14

Time reshapes what we loved. Laughter turns to memory, warmth becomes a photograph. But perhaps that's what makes it real, and worthy. Even if the world remakes you in ways I can't yet see, I'll learn you all over again as gently as I did the first time.

0

Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 10:08 AM UTC

reminiscence?

Time reshapes what we loved. Laughter turns to memory, warmth becomes a photograph. But perhaps that's what makes it real, and worthy. Even if the world remakes you in ways I can't yet see, I'll learn you all over again as gently as I did the first time.

9

The sky split open and no god fell through. Only silence. The kind that presses on your chest, like a boot, and dares you to breath. I wasn't there— not when the ash fell like snowfall over rooftops or when laughter cracked beneath the boots of men who'd long buried their humanity beneath orders and uniform that reeked of rot. But sometimes I swear, my soul flinches like it was. They say time is linear. But what of this ache that folds my teenage heart into the pages of a burning diary tucked beneath floorboards in Warsaw? Why do I weep for a dog limping in the present and somehow feel the shadow of a boy limping through barbed wire, hollow-eyed, hands empty? Somewhere between the hush of a prayer and the wail of a train whistle, they vanished— leaving only their ghosts, to sit beside me on bus rides, as I pretend the cold air is the reason my eyes sting. She calls me a mistake. The world calls me too sensitive. But they don't see the wars I fight— inside quiet moments. How I want to hand lanterns to the lost, wrap bandages around the broken, even if they're shadows from 1942. This is not poetry. This is a eulogy I've been writing since I first saw a black-and-white film and something ancient in me wept for strangers whose faces I somehow knew. No, I wasn't there. But maybe my soul was. And maybe, just maybe, it's still trying to get someone home.

0

Dec 11, 2025

Dec 11, 2025 at 4:50 AM UTC

The Ones I was Too Late For— A Holocaust Tribute

The sky split open and no god fell through. Only silence. The kind that presses on your chest, like a boot, and dares you to breath. I wasn't there— not when the ash fell like snowfall over rooftops or when laughter cracked beneath the boots of men who'd long buried their humanity beneath orders and uniform that reeked of rot. But sometimes I swear, my soul flinches like it was. They say time is linear. But what of this ache that folds my teenage heart into the pages of a burning diary tucked beneath floorboards in Warsaw? Why do I weep for a dog limping in the present and somehow feel the shadow of a boy limping through barbed wire, hollow-eyed, hands empty? Somewhere between the hush of a prayer and the wail of a train whistle, they vanished— leaving only their ghosts, to sit beside me on bus rides, as I pretend the cold air is the reason my eyes sting. She calls me a mistake. The world calls me too sensitive. But they don't see the wars I fight— inside quiet moments. How I want to hand lanterns to the lost, wrap bandages around the broken, even if they're shadows from 1942. This is not poetry. This is a eulogy I've been writing since I first saw a black-and-white film and something ancient in me wept for strangers whose faces I somehow knew. No, I wasn't there. But maybe my soul was. And maybe, just maybe, it's still trying to get someone home.

46

To what extent must I endure myself? Why was I born with such tender bones, only to walk through a world of knives? Give me proof— or I'll renounce all sense, all saints, all science, and **** every clock that has ever ticked against me.

0

Dec 11, 2025

Dec 11, 2025 at 1:39 AM UTC

No Saints Left to Betray

To what extent must I endure myself? Why was I born with such tender bones, only to walk through a world of knives? Give me proof— or I'll renounce all sense, all saints, all science, and **** every clock that has ever ticked against me.

8

Sanity is a fragile illusion, and I am its last question mark.

0

Dec 11, 2025

Dec 11, 2025 at 1:22 AM UTC

Untitled

Sanity is a fragile illusion, and I am its last question mark.

1

What is love, if not the urge to hand someone your ruin and beg them to call it art? What is longing, if not waiting behind your own silence because theirs feel more sacred? What is devotion, if not dying every day in silence, just to see her rise untouched?

0

Dec 10, 2025

Dec 10, 2025 at 1:22 PM UTC

What Is It?

What is love, if not the urge to hand someone your ruin and beg them to call it art? What is longing, if not waiting behind your own silence because theirs feel more sacred? What is devotion, if not dying every day in silence, just to see her rise untouched?

9

Sometimes, I think you were sent to ruin me— Beautifully, majestically. Like art hung in a gallery of pain where I pay for the view with pieces of myself, gladly.

0

Dec 10, 2025

Dec 10, 2025 at 1:12 PM UTC

Untitled

Sometimes, I think you were sent to ruin me— Beautifully, majestically. Like art hung in a gallery of pain where I pay for the view with pieces of myself, gladly.

8

Where do I begin? If I were to write this, I'd have to end it somewhere. But my train of thoughts do not cease. It flexes it's fingers finding ideas, unpleasant or not disconcerting or rarely comforting, intriguing or wistful, it makes no matter as it gladly latches on and refuses to let go, while I slowly die at the hands of myself.

0

Dec 10, 2025

Dec 10, 2025 at 1:05 PM UTC

Self- Inflicted

Where do I begin? If I were to write this, I'd have to end it somewhere. But my train of thoughts do not cease. It flexes it's fingers finding ideas, unpleasant or not disconcerting or rarely comforting, intriguing or wistful, it makes no matter as it gladly latches on and refuses to let go, while I slowly die at the hands of myself.

14

Mock pretend, time slips by agonizingly. Each hour as pointless as the one before. Yet I grieve the passage of time, for it is as cruel as it is fair. Bureaucratic rituals continue. Joy is a rumor I can't substantiate. Sanity slipped between sentences. Sadly there are no heavens. Only ceilings, and I, ridiculously enough, have outgrown them all.

0

Dec 10, 2025

Dec 10, 2025 at 12:53 PM UTC

Existential Dread

Mock pretend, time slips by agonizingly. Each hour as pointless as the one before. Yet I grieve the passage of time, for it is as cruel as it is fair. Bureaucratic rituals continue. Joy is a rumor I can't substantiate. Sanity slipped between sentences. Sadly there are no heavens. Only ceilings, and I, ridiculously enough, have outgrown them all.

12