sugar - Hello Poetry

That child’s scream is a stone still in my throat. Sand on the plate. Sand in her mouth. A world of difference in a single grain. I press mute. The world unmutes her. Do something, whispers my phone, a ghost in my hand. I close my eyes. She is still there. And this is my privilege: the certain knowledge that I will forget her name by dinner.

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Sep 27, 2025

Sep 27, 2025 at 8:50 AM UTC

Privilege

That child’s scream is a stone still in my throat. Sand on the plate. Sand in her mouth. A world of difference in a single grain. I press mute. The world unmutes her. Do something, whispers my phone, a ghost in my hand. I close my eyes. She is still there. And this is my privilege: the certain knowledge that I will forget her name by dinner.

11

It begins not as a wave but as a weight. A constant press against the clay and stone. the silent seep of doubt of the days that pile and turn my resolve to dust. I hold. I pack the need with desperate hands, Each thought a sandbag against the rising deep, And I feel the tremor cross the shifting lands where wakefulness refuses me my sleep. This wall I built was meant to channel, hold, and restrain. But the pressure finds the flaw and my cracks. The unseen faults that run right through my core; whispering in a language of black and endless water, “You can hold no more.” A sound then– not a crash. A shudder from the foundation of the soul. Then, the wet world, once held back, pours through the breach, assuming full control over my sanity. No more the fight of muscle, will, or mind; the current takes the pieces of the wall and shows resistance to be deaf and blind, As it beings it’s unforgiving thrall. I am dissolved. “rearranged” A mineral scattered in a furious sea. There is no single solid part of the Chaos is not in me. It is me. A brackish tide where I once stood apart. The Levee breaks to set the water free and drown the map of my own breaking heart.

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Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 1:57 AM UTC

When The Levee Breaks

It begins not as a wave but as a weight. A constant press against the clay and stone. the silent seep of doubt of the days that pile and turn my resolve to dust. I hold. I pack the need with desperate hands, Each thought a sandbag against the rising deep, And I feel the tremor cross the shifting lands where wakefulness refuses me my sleep. This wall I built was meant to channel, hold, and restrain. But the pressure finds the flaw and my cracks. The unseen faults that run right through my core; whispering in a language of black and endless water, “You can hold no more.” A sound then– not a crash. A shudder from the foundation of the soul. Then, the wet world, once held back, pours through the breach, assuming full control over my sanity. No more the fight of muscle, will, or mind; the current takes the pieces of the wall and shows resistance to be deaf and blind, As it beings it’s unforgiving thrall. I am dissolved. “rearranged” A mineral scattered in a furious sea. There is no single solid part of the Chaos is not in me. It is me. A brackish tide where I once stood apart. The Levee breaks to set the water free and drown the map of my own breaking heart.

18

Love is temperamental, exhausting. relentless. It drains you, shifts like the tide. But Hatred? Oh, hatred is sharp, malleable, a blade you can hone. Love leaves you hollow, but hatred? Oh, it holds you.

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Aug 30, 2025

Aug 30, 2025 at 7:51 AM UTC

The Hone

Love is temperamental, exhausting. relentless. It drains you, shifts like the tide. But Hatred? Oh, hatred is sharp, malleable, a blade you can hone. Love leaves you hollow, but hatred? Oh, it holds you.

11