miss-masque - Hello Poetry

Clinging-- Closer than Snow Storms Cling to Death, Hearing the Whisper of a Crackle as The Wax Weeps Down the Wick. Clanging-- Four Chimes Ringing in the Silent Night, Searching For an Audience. Can't hide from the pain in your chest-- It's deep. It has roots. My blanket-- It used to be magic. I would come home-- Crying, My bed would greet me in its usual fashion and I would flop, pull the edges of the blanket and wrap them around me. And then I was safe. And then I was warm. I was invisible in my cloth burrito. My blanket is fluffier. More fancy. Regal even. Queens had down comforters--right? It's not the same. It's too soft. It hasn't been cried into for hours, or filled with crumbs from snacks. It isn't stained from being used as a napkin. Ringing-- In my ears, The Silence a Cold Mirror, but Every Time I get Close, my Breath Fogs up the Glass.

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20h ago

Jun 3, 2026 at 4:12 AM UTC

The Comfort of Comforters

Clinging-- Closer than Snow Storms Cling to Death, Hearing the Whisper of a Crackle as The Wax Weeps Down the Wick. Clanging-- Four Chimes Ringing in the Silent Night, Searching For an Audience. Can't hide from the pain in your chest-- It's deep. It has roots. My blanket-- It used to be magic. I would come home-- Crying, My bed would greet me in its usual fashion and I would flop, pull the edges of the blanket and wrap them around me. And then I was safe. And then I was warm. I was invisible in my cloth burrito. My blanket is fluffier. More fancy. Regal even. Queens had down comforters--right? It's not the same. It's too soft. It hasn't been cried into for hours, or filled with crumbs from snacks. It isn't stained from being used as a napkin. Ringing-- In my ears, The Silence a Cold Mirror, but Every Time I get Close, my Breath Fogs up the Glass.

42

The pawn sits Twenty-six stories up Outside my window That is nailed shut-- Watching, without eyes, Sensing, with its stone pores Absorbing everything that floats Up from the steam from the street grates to the smell of engines laced With the sweet scent of rotting garbage, all the bags lined up On the sidewalk next to scurrying And hurrying, bustle and hustle, Self-cares a bubble around each Individual, at twenty-six stories, They are ants. They travel throughout the deeply cut man-made divots in the earth and pray to the buildings that Scrape the sky that their purpose Is shared, that the buildings promise To hold their alliance, to stand tall And not fall like domino's in a game of the hereafter. The streetlamps let us peek At the night life that starts to seep Out of the shadows of the neat And tidy crossroads of the urban peak of immaculate synergy. If you squint, you see the cracks, The weary, the unfortunate, the left behind dragging their cares With them, the lingering smell of ammonia and fear, the ambition slapped from their worried bones, their tired hands outstretched For any kindness, any recognition That they are still an 'us'-- part of the human flora that blooms Even when their roots are in a crack of the sidewalk pavement. Vendors, senders, returning To their marked blocking spot Down Broadway, even the taxis Feel rehearsed, pedicabs peddle, The fake designer purses' buckles Glinting, glaring, the tourists Picking--staring, the natives Mumbling, shuffling--daring to Brave the underground Where the pawn no longer sees, Taking the people away to places, Then regurgitating them from The depths, flooding up from some other Hole in the ground. Years ago, From this spot, Construction workers sat Nine hundred feet up On a cross beam suspended With metal rope, Eating their lunches, Having a smoke, Near the new home of The Pawn, Before it understood What pigeons were. Before it was stained With flying excrement, Beaten with heavy rains, Accosted at all hours With the sound of horns And traffic and people. This is the Pawn's city, Watching over it with Cleverly disguised senses, Not a gargoyle hanging Over a precipice, But a silent narrator, Absorbing the culture, On the twenty-sixth floor, From which it never moves, And calls this place Home.

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Apr 11

Apr 11, 2026 at 8:55 AM UTC

The Warwick Pawn

The pawn sits Twenty-six stories up Outside my window That is nailed shut-- Watching, without eyes, Sensing, with its stone pores Absorbing everything that floats Up from the steam from the street grates to the smell of engines laced With the sweet scent of rotting garbage, all the bags lined up On the sidewalk next to scurrying And hurrying, bustle and hustle, Self-cares a bubble around each Individual, at twenty-six stories, They are ants. They travel throughout the deeply cut man-made divots in the earth and pray to the buildings that Scrape the sky that their purpose Is shared, that the buildings promise To hold their alliance, to stand tall And not fall like domino's in a game of the hereafter. The streetlamps let us peek At the night life that starts to seep Out of the shadows of the neat And tidy crossroads of the urban peak of immaculate synergy. If you squint, you see the cracks, The weary, the unfortunate, the left behind dragging their cares With them, the lingering smell of ammonia and fear, the ambition slapped from their worried bones, their tired hands outstretched For any kindness, any recognition That they are still an 'us'-- part of the human flora that blooms Even when their roots are in a crack of the sidewalk pavement. Vendors, senders, returning To their marked blocking spot Down Broadway, even the taxis Feel rehearsed, pedicabs peddle, The fake designer purses' buckles Glinting, glaring, the tourists Picking--staring, the natives Mumbling, shuffling--daring to Brave the underground Where the pawn no longer sees, Taking the people away to places, Then regurgitating them from The depths, flooding up from some other Hole in the ground. Years ago, From this spot, Construction workers sat Nine hundred feet up On a cross beam suspended With metal rope, Eating their lunches, Having a smoke, Near the new home of The Pawn, Before it understood What pigeons were. Before it was stained With flying excrement, Beaten with heavy rains, Accosted at all hours With the sound of horns And traffic and people. This is the Pawn's city, Watching over it with Cleverly disguised senses, Not a gargoyle hanging Over a precipice, But a silent narrator, Absorbing the culture, On the twenty-sixth floor, From which it never moves, And calls this place Home.

75

Oh how you glisten, Your encrusted top-- Just listen for the dainty pop Out of the fire and onto my plate-- What a wholesome loaf of fate. Sing for your supper, Write for your dinner, If you can't Make the dough this time, I guess you'll be thinner. The upper crust, no muss, no fuss, Day old bread in the bin with the dust, Crumbs flung in disgust- to peck at, The People made to bow, as fowl, consuming their pittance. Try and run away with the Milk and a spoon-- Cast off into an Ocean of milk, but the small ship sinks with nothing but a spoon To row through all the cream. Drown the milk in chocolate, and maybe it'll be sweeter to choke down past the lumpy chunks.

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Apr 8

Apr 8, 2026 at 9:45 AM UTC

Buttered Toast

Oh how you glisten, Your encrusted top-- Just listen for the dainty pop Out of the fire and onto my plate-- What a wholesome loaf of fate. Sing for your supper, Write for your dinner, If you can't Make the dough this time, I guess you'll be thinner. The upper crust, no muss, no fuss, Day old bread in the bin with the dust, Crumbs flung in disgust- to peck at, The People made to bow, as fowl, consuming their pittance. Try and run away with the Milk and a spoon-- Cast off into an Ocean of milk, but the small ship sinks with nothing but a spoon To row through all the cream. Drown the milk in chocolate, and maybe it'll be sweeter to choke down past the lumpy chunks.

30

Light a candle inside me-- I'm hollow. Carve out my guts and I'll follow. Make it a new day I swallow-- But I'm empty, Carved to the core. Give me substance Or I'll snap from the moor. I see the reflection of a memory, But it's no good to me. It's no good to me. Give me something Real, My dreams-- they tear at the curtains. I remember what the warmth Felt like from the outside light, Tickles and prickles and hugs, Now it just feels Too bright. It dims the light, that you lit inside the hollow.

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Apr 1

Apr 1, 2026 at 5:27 PM UTC

Pumpkin Carved

Light a candle inside me-- I'm hollow. Carve out my guts and I'll follow. Make it a new day I swallow-- But I'm empty, Carved to the core. Give me substance Or I'll snap from the moor. I see the reflection of a memory, But it's no good to me. It's no good to me. Give me something Real, My dreams-- they tear at the curtains. I remember what the warmth Felt like from the outside light, Tickles and prickles and hugs, Now it just feels Too bright. It dims the light, that you lit inside the hollow.

27

I still smell your hair, mistake your shadow on the stairs, hear your voice from down the hall, when there is nothing there at all. I smell your cooking, hear you singing, Feel the fibers of your jacket, Tears falling, head ringing I hear your laugh, I see your smile, your voice still melts me despite the miles of space You've put between us. A punch to the face would be less abrasive than seeing your clothes still hanging there and not holding me-- and the guest book on your dresser with our names and that date-- the day we held hands with fate, the day you looked at me your eyes so simply holding onto my gaze because we couldn't let each other go, we were holding on so hard... That was before. That was before. I have to remind myself that what was mine, I thought was mine, Never really was, Never really could have been... An experiment that the tides washed and now somehow I'm missing buttons and that dress doesn't fit anymore. I'm so scared to hear your voice now, my heart breaks a thousand times every syllable, Every shard of a reflection, Lost in your inflection, Smirking because I love you, Crying for everything else.

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Mar 14

Mar 14, 2026 at 5:04 AM UTC

I Can't Throw Your Vegemite Out of the Pantry

I still smell your hair, mistake your shadow on the stairs, hear your voice from down the hall, when there is nothing there at all. I smell your cooking, hear you singing, Feel the fibers of your jacket, Tears falling, head ringing I hear your laugh, I see your smile, your voice still melts me despite the miles of space You've put between us. A punch to the face would be less abrasive than seeing your clothes still hanging there and not holding me-- and the guest book on your dresser with our names and that date-- the day we held hands with fate, the day you looked at me your eyes so simply holding onto my gaze because we couldn't let each other go, we were holding on so hard... That was before. That was before. I have to remind myself that what was mine, I thought was mine, Never really was, Never really could have been... An experiment that the tides washed and now somehow I'm missing buttons and that dress doesn't fit anymore. I'm so scared to hear your voice now, my heart breaks a thousand times every syllable, Every shard of a reflection, Lost in your inflection, Smirking because I love you, Crying for everything else.

45

I can hear a hummingbird blink in the stillness of the moment before the sunrise. The light beckons, yawning with the twilight, Dew refracting the rainbows. As watchful as I am, Sleep pulls at me like a hungry lover beckoning me into becoming a burrito. Dark fur purring beside me as I contemplate the moments between solace and silence, the hummingbird gone, to be left alone with my thoughts and the purring.

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Aug 6, 2025

Aug 6, 2025 at 7:16 AM UTC

Silence at Sunrise

I can hear a hummingbird blink in the stillness of the moment before the sunrise. The light beckons, yawning with the twilight, Dew refracting the rainbows. As watchful as I am, Sleep pulls at me like a hungry lover beckoning me into becoming a burrito. Dark fur purring beside me as I contemplate the moments between solace and silence, the hummingbird gone, to be left alone with my thoughts and the purring.

19

I'm meant to hold your hand-- the way it curls over mine with such a tenderness that's enough to make me smile and leak tears onto the bundled scarf. The wind sweeps them away, I blink up at you and know the warmth your smile pours-- liquid amber honey that holds me steady in your gaze, and yet-- this is a new place. We have been here for days, Rushing around on trains and buses and cabs and subways to all the places humanity treasures-- and I want to experience every moment with You. The culture in new places always feels like a theoretical until it's experienced...like an outline, a sketch, a diagram even-- but diagrams don't reflect the life in your eyes when you quietly whisper a pun while the tour guide is guiding and I have to cover my mouth or risk the ire of a librarian stare from whomever might be offended by a little burst of joy being born. It started raining on the cobblestone as we were walking to brunch, but you brought an umbrella and sheltered us from being soaked as some less fortunates skittered through the streets like animals seeking shelter... but we are in no rush; We enjoy the rain, the sound, the smell, as it melts the scene that should be painted in watercolor. I don't imagine I would-- Or even that I could forget all the little things. I collect them like seashells or shiny little rocks, and I put them in my pockets and they lift me up as if they weren't little rocks at all but balloons not letting my feet ever touch the ground floating forever in this love we've found.

0

Apr 12, 2025

Apr 12, 2025 at 6:03 PM UTC

Pocket Treasures

I'm meant to hold your hand-- the way it curls over mine with such a tenderness that's enough to make me smile and leak tears onto the bundled scarf. The wind sweeps them away, I blink up at you and know the warmth your smile pours-- liquid amber honey that holds me steady in your gaze, and yet-- this is a new place. We have been here for days, Rushing around on trains and buses and cabs and subways to all the places humanity treasures-- and I want to experience every moment with You. The culture in new places always feels like a theoretical until it's experienced...like an outline, a sketch, a diagram even-- but diagrams don't reflect the life in your eyes when you quietly whisper a pun while the tour guide is guiding and I have to cover my mouth or risk the ire of a librarian stare from whomever might be offended by a little burst of joy being born. It started raining on the cobblestone as we were walking to brunch, but you brought an umbrella and sheltered us from being soaked as some less fortunates skittered through the streets like animals seeking shelter... but we are in no rush; We enjoy the rain, the sound, the smell, as it melts the scene that should be painted in watercolor. I don't imagine I would-- Or even that I could forget all the little things. I collect them like seashells or shiny little rocks, and I put them in my pockets and they lift me up as if they weren't little rocks at all but balloons not letting my feet ever touch the ground floating forever in this love we've found.

54