snowapollo - Hello Poetry

why did i never feel love life (and) joy never came never give me this junk ever a choice makes me uneasy it never happens to say these things it takes courage live with honour to be yourself

0

Jul 1, 2025

Jul 1, 2025 at 11:33 PM UTC

stuck in a grid

why did i never feel love life (and) joy never came never give me this junk ever a choice makes me uneasy it never happens to say these things it takes courage live with honour to be yourself

6

mirrors surround me shards of a self i once believed was my own— it was just the paint i wore each morning to cover up the tears behind my eyes. a magnificent artwork i lost my true face looking for the smile that answered first and not the one that was truly mine and yet- that's the problem with mirrors they are hollow inside are they really a reflection of you if they distort what's true?

0

Jun 25, 2025

Jun 25, 2025 at 9:36 PM UTC

superficial

mirrors surround me shards of a self i once believed was my own— it was just the paint i wore each morning to cover up the tears behind my eyes. a magnificent artwork i lost my true face looking for the smile that answered first and not the one that was truly mine and yet- that's the problem with mirrors they are hollow inside are they really a reflection of you if they distort what's true?

12

There is a bus, always moving, rumbling down a road with no clear end. You’re on it—not alone, never alone. Around eight billion others ride with you, packed tight in rows of stories, of breath, of wonder and fatigue. Some sit quietly, watching the blur of life beyond the windows. Others talk, laugh, sleep, fight, dream. A few, when they get old or tired—when the motion feels too much or too meaningless—they jump off. Their silence lingers in the empty seats. But as some go, others come. Newborns blink into fluorescent light, unsure of where they are, taught quickly to sit down, buckle up, and wait. "This is how we ride," they're told. "This is what we do." Some passengers obey. Others unbuckle. They stretch, question, climb the aisles. Some fall off the bus. Some are thrown. The rules were never clear—just handed down, worn smooth by repetition. At the front of the bus, there’s a screen. Behind it, they say, is the driver. Some believe he’s real—a guide, a maker, the one who started the engine. Others think he’s just a man, not unlike us. And some… don’t think he’s there at all. The screen is scratched from hands and time. Many have tried to break it—tried to see. They’ve made cracks. Not many. Not deep. But lately, the pounding’s grown louder. The questions sharper. A quiet rebellion of curiosity and desperation. Some believe the bus is headed somewhere, a place where the ride will make sense. Others think you only get somewhere if you get off—if you leave the ride behind, leap into the unknown. No one can say which belief is true. And still, the bus moves. Forward? Maybe. Toward what? No one knows. But the ride continues. And so do you.

0

May 22, 2025

May 22, 2025 at 2:54 AM UTC

The Bus to Nowhere

There is a bus, always moving, rumbling down a road with no clear end. You’re on it—not alone, never alone. Around eight billion others ride with you, packed tight in rows of stories, of breath, of wonder and fatigue. Some sit quietly, watching the blur of life beyond the windows. Others talk, laugh, sleep, fight, dream. A few, when they get old or tired—when the motion feels too much or too meaningless—they jump off. Their silence lingers in the empty seats. But as some go, others come. Newborns blink into fluorescent light, unsure of where they are, taught quickly to sit down, buckle up, and wait. "This is how we ride," they're told. "This is what we do." Some passengers obey. Others unbuckle. They stretch, question, climb the aisles. Some fall off the bus. Some are thrown. The rules were never clear—just handed down, worn smooth by repetition. At the front of the bus, there’s a screen. Behind it, they say, is the driver. Some believe he’s real—a guide, a maker, the one who started the engine. Others think he’s just a man, not unlike us. And some… don’t think he’s there at all. The screen is scratched from hands and time. Many have tried to break it—tried to see. They’ve made cracks. Not many. Not deep. But lately, the pounding’s grown louder. The questions sharper. A quiet rebellion of curiosity and desperation. Some believe the bus is headed somewhere, a place where the ride will make sense. Others think you only get somewhere if you get off—if you leave the ride behind, leap into the unknown. No one can say which belief is true. And still, the bus moves. Forward? Maybe. Toward what? No one knows. But the ride continues. And so do you.

10

love cannot be described by words through the silence that holds us close through the soft touch of our fingers it is described through the way we give in to the longing within

0

Apr 1, 2025

Apr 1, 2025 at 10:44 PM UTC

lost words

love cannot be described by words through the silence that holds us close through the soft touch of our fingers it is described through the way we give in to the longing within

6

A momentary flicker, a dying spark in an infinite darkness. Searching for a meaning, just a fleeting thought, lost in the void. If a god existed, it would have given up long ago, weary of our insignificant struggles, Realising how insignificant he is himself. It would have abandoned us to the void, leaving us to drift, alone and unmoored, Adrift in a universe with no purpose, where our screams are drowned out by the emptiness. Our lives, a brief flash of consciousness, soon to be extinguished, Leave behind only the faintest whisper of our presence, a haunting echo that slowly fades into nothingness.

0

Mar 30, 2025

Mar 30, 2025 at 4:24 AM UTC

Humanity

A momentary flicker, a dying spark in an infinite darkness. Searching for a meaning, just a fleeting thought, lost in the void. If a god existed, it would have given up long ago, weary of our insignificant struggles, Realising how insignificant he is himself. It would have abandoned us to the void, leaving us to drift, alone and unmoored, Adrift in a universe with no purpose, where our screams are drowned out by the emptiness. Our lives, a brief flash of consciousness, soon to be extinguished, Leave behind only the faintest whisper of our presence, a haunting echo that slowly fades into nothingness.

9

Your lips, a spark that lights the fire, A flame that burns with endless grace, Each kiss ignites a fierce desire, A love that time can’t slow or chase. In tangled sheets, our hearts collide, A storm that rages wild and free, With every breath, we cannot hide, The passion coursing over us.

0

Mar 23, 2025

Mar 23, 2025 at 12:16 AM UTC

In the Heat of Desire

Your lips, a spark that lights the fire, A flame that burns with endless grace, Each kiss ignites a fierce desire, A love that time can’t slow or chase. In tangled sheets, our hearts collide, A storm that rages wild and free, With every breath, we cannot hide, The passion coursing over us.

8

You're reeling me close, A fire's soft embrace, I drift toward your warmth, And feel it burn my face. In the stillness, you type, While the stars softly weep, And with every word, I fall, in love so deep.

0

Mar 16, 2025

Mar 16, 2025 at 11:40 PM UTC

Fire

You're reeling me close, A fire's soft embrace, I drift toward your warmth, And feel it burn my face. In the stillness, you type, While the stars softly weep, And with every word, I fall, in love so deep.

8