It's so tiring having to wake up everyday
I only do at the point for him and you
Im so ******* over feeling sad when I'm alone
Scars are like natural tattoos
in a way it's a art
one that shouldnt be done
yet is by those who hurt
each one tells their own story
while others bask in glory
some people will find more gore
the more their blood pours onto the floor
i do it in a hurry
looking for a way out of this one way hell
death is better than life
one that i strive to find
somedays i hope to surivive
others i hope to die
it depends because
no one really know what's happening inside
i spent each night crying planning my own demise
watching the clock tick by
every sigh, every lie, every "Hi"
was my own mask in hopes of a better life
one where i live without sadness, one without pain, or agony
just one time i want to be happy
i want to know what t's like to not overthink, i want to know what it's like to be able to hold the one you love, i want to know what it's like to know your family doesn't just put up with you because they have to like they love you because youre their child but they hate you as a person and manipulate them into thinking every you they say is true
just one time i drew a paper where everyone was holding hands and smiling as bright as the sun
yet that day wont come as it has already past
one that wont last
it was the final line of happiness we saw before it went wrong
does this count as a poem
Apr 19
Apr 19, 2026 at 3:06 PM UTC
The sky is bruised, a heavy, sightless gray,
That weeps in silence o’er the cobblestone.
It drinks the light and steals the heat of day,
To leave us shivering, naked, and alone.
You call it mercy—this relentless fall—
This silver shroud that wraps the world in sleep,
But I can hear the hollow, rhythmic call
Of secrets that the rising waters keep.
We are but vessels cracked by ancient thirst,
Who pray for storms to fill our empty wells,
Until the clouds in jagged anger burst
And ring the iron toll of funeral bells.
I stand beneath the torrent, drenching skin,
To wash away the girl I might have been.
--- [ 2 2 2 ]
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 12:00 AM UTC
Fie on this dross! My wit is dull’d and spent,
Like rusty blade that bites not at the foe.
Where is that fire from Heav'nly regions sent,
To make the muddy waters clearly flow?
Thou art the sun that gilds my darkest thought,
Yet shroud'st thy face in clouds of sullen grey;
By thy decree is every wonder wrought,
Or by thy scorn, my spirit cast away.
Pluck from my tongue this heavy, silent stone,
And tune my voice to match the morning lark;
I’ll sing a song for thy perfections known,
And strike a light within the biting dark.
For though the world may mock this humble rhyme,
Thy name shall outstep even greedy Time.
[ 2 2 2 ]
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 11:05 AM UTC
How Sweet the Hour when Twylight’s Purple Shade
Doth wrap the Grove where erst our Vows were made;
When ev’ry Flow’r bows down its Dewy Head,
And Silence walks where’er the Mortals tread.
Tis then, Clarissa, that thy Form appears,
To chase the Gloom of all my waking Fears;
No Gemm from India’s Mine can e’er compare
To One soft Ringlet of thy Golden Hair.
The World may Boast of Empire and of Gold,
Of Conquests won by Warriors, Fierce and Bold;
But I, more Blest, find Scepters in thy Hand,
And bow to Love’s most Soveraign Command.
Tho’ Tempests rise and Angry Billows roar,
To cast my Vessel on a Desart Shore,
Thy Constancy shall be my Magnet True,
For All my Hopes are Center’d, Dearest, in you.
--- [ 2 2 2 ]
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 9:21 PM UTC
O, let the lamp burn low and dim,
And cast a shadow o'er the lie;
If truth be cold and gray and grim,
I’d rather let the phantom fly.
If kindness dwells within his gaze,
Though forged in furnace of deceit,
I’ll wander through these hallowed days
And find the bitter honey sweet.
I crave no torch to light the dark,
To show the cracks within the stone;
I would not see the dying spark,
Or wake to find I bide alone.
For truth is but a cruel blade
That severs soul from hope’s embrace;
I’d rather haunt this masquerade
Than see the ghost behind his face.
Let 'Forever' be the oath we keep,
A vow inscribed in shifting sand;
I’ll lull my restless mind to sleep
And hold the specter of his hand.
For heartbreaks past are wounds that stay,
No balm can mend a spirit torn;
So let the falsehood lead the way
Until the breaking of the morn.
Stay near, my love, and speak the part,
Though every word be hollowed gold;
I’ll lock the doubt within my heart,
To have and, evermore, to hold.
--- [ 2 2 2 ]
Mar 20
Mar 20, 2026 at 10:07 PM UTC
There’s a specific kind of haunting in a Long Distance Relationship.
It’s the way my heart lives in a timezone that isn't mine.
It’s the way I’m memorizing the curve of your smile through a 1080p lens
while my actual room feels like an empty stage.
You’re "just a text away," they say.
But "just a text" doesn't have a heartbeat.
"Just a text" doesn't have arms to hold me when the "what-ifs" start their riot.
So I sit here,
with that barbed wire tightening around my throat.
It’s a physical stabbing in my lungs because I can’t just walk over
and see for myself that we’re okay.
I can’t look into your eyes to see the truth;
I have to look at a status icon.
Green means you’re there.
Gray means you’re gone.
And when it’s gray for too long, the rock in my throat grows heavy.
I start to wonder if the 1,460 days left on the calendar
are starting to look like a mountain you don’t want to climb anymore.
I saw you streaming.
I watched the frames move, saw you talking, saw you "8 laps."
And the "what-if" voice whispered:
Is he ignoring the vibration of his phone?
Is the game more interesting than my voice?
Then I see the profile—the matching monster we talked about—
and it’s different. It’s changed.
In a world where we only have pixels to claim each other,
losing a matching icon feels like losing a ring.
It feels like a step back when I’m already miles behind.
But then I remember the oil change.
I remember you telling me about the cut on your hand
and I felt the sting across the ocean, across the states, across the screen.
I don't need to be there to feel your pain.
I’m so emotionally tethered to you that your blood might as well be mine.
I’m selfishly wishing for that "Husband and Wife" future
because I want a world where I don't have to "log in" to love you.
I want a world where I can just... reach out.
Then the notification pings.
"HIIIIIIIIII."
Six letters that bridge the gap of a thousand miles.
The barbed wire uncoils.
The rock in my throat dissolves into a breath of relief.
I’m sorry if I’m "too much."
I’m just trying to build a bridge out of movie nights and Discord calls
to reach you on the other side of this four-year wait.
I put my heart in your hands.
I know they’re far away, but please...
Don't let go.
I’m still here.
I’m still yours.
I’m just waiting for the day the screen finally turns off
and I can see you for real again.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 8:04 PM UTC
I can’t bear the weight,
nothing to be proud of,
my chest, a stone,
stabbing at night,
panic grips,
thoughts of relief,
not death,
but a quiet escape.
I swallow words,
the wrong ones linger,
a constant burden,
doubt drapes my heart,
trust slips through fingers,
in shadows I dwell,
a ghost in my own skin.
Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 12:19 PM UTC
A normal person says, "I love you."
A poet says:
I. "You are the hearth where my spirit finds rest, the silent prayer that beats in my chest. I have studied your heart like a sacred line, and found every rhythm an echo of mine."
II. "My regard is a compass, unmoving and true; it points through the tempests and shadows to you. Though seasons may weary and empires depart, you are the permanent map of my heart."
III. "I have written your name in the marrow of time, in a language of longing that borders the sublime. To know you is music, to stay is the grace of finding the world in the light of your face."
IV. "The distance is nothing, the silence a lie, for you are the earth and the arch of my sky. In the quietest hour, when the lights lose their gold, it is your hand alone that I’m reaching to hold."
V. "I choose you in daylight, I seek you in sleep, in a promise the stars were intended to keep. You are the courage that conquers my fear—the only 'forever' I’m desperate to hear."
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 6:03 PM UTC
The winter wind may chill the soul,
And clouds may veil the sun’s bright role,
Yet constant as the morning tide,
A steady hand walks by your side.
Though distance keeps the form from view,
A spirit keeps its watch for you;
No heart is bound to stand alone,
While kindness is a seed still sown.
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 5:52 PM UTC
There is a room in the back of your mind
where the wallpaper is peeling in long, beige strips,
and the air smells like the cedar chest of a woman
who has been gone for twenty years.
You don’t go there often; the floorboards groan
under the weight of everything you promised to remember
but let slip through your fingers like dry sand.
Do you remember the way your father’s hands looked?
Not the way they looked at the end—thin and paper-pale—
but when they were vast enough to hold the whole world,
rough-calloused and smelling of woodsmoke and salt.
You thought those hands were a permanent geography,
a map that would always lead you home.
But maps tear. The ink fades in the rain.
And one day, you look at your own hands in the light
and see his knuckles, his veins, his ticking clock
starting to pulse beneath your own skin.
We spend our youth trying to outrun our shadows,
slamming doors on the people who only wanted to love us
until their voices became a background hum,
like a refrigerator in a kitchen we no longer visit.
We trade "I love you" for "I’m busy,"
and "Tell me that story again" for "I’ve heard this before."
We think time is a river we can swim in forever,
not realizing it is a waterfall we are all leaning over.
And then comes the morning when the phone doesn't ring.
The silence in the house is a physical weight,
a coat that is three sizes too big and twice as heavy.
You sit in the chair where they used to sit,
and you finally understand that the greatest tragedy
isn't that we die—it’s that we stay.
We stay to fold the laundry they’ll never wear again.
We stay to find the half-finished grocery list in a drawer:
Milk. Bread. Eggs. Apples.
A mundane poem of a life that was still expecting a Tuesday.
You would give every dollar, every achievement,
every breath you have left just to hear that one voice
say your name incorrectly, or complain about the draft,
or tell you that the soup needs more salt.
But the air is empty.
The echo is the only thing that answers.
And you realize, with a sob that breaks your ribs,
that you are now the one holding the map,
standing in the dark,
waiting for someone who is never coming home.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 8:31 PM UTC