trainstations - Hello Poetry

I’ve never been scared of dying. Honestly… it feels almost like an old friend in my mind a quiet thought I visit sometimes. If I imagine what would happen if I did, probably… my dad would drink too much, trying to wash away the guilt and the pain of losing me. Maybe my sister and brother wouldn’t believe I’m gone, and swear they could still hear my voice. Maybe my dog would wander in and out of my room, confused— funny, really, considering how often we slept curled up together. My presence would linger in the small bedroom of mine, caught in the fabric of my sheets. My mom would probably go through the five stages of grief, because I was obviously her most beloved. Half of her world would fade with me. My friends would be shocked—maybe even in denial, because just yesterday, I was in my rented room, still bedrotting, still watching some obscure old movie. But deep down, I know I AM scared. Because if I asked them— any of them— they’d beg me to stay just a little longer.

0

Dec 3, 2025

Dec 3, 2025 at 9:28 AM UTC

Tangerine snapped

I’ve never been scared of dying. Honestly… it feels almost like an old friend in my mind a quiet thought I visit sometimes. If I imagine what would happen if I did, probably… my dad would drink too much, trying to wash away the guilt and the pain of losing me. Maybe my sister and brother wouldn’t believe I’m gone, and swear they could still hear my voice. Maybe my dog would wander in and out of my room, confused— funny, really, considering how often we slept curled up together. My presence would linger in the small bedroom of mine, caught in the fabric of my sheets. My mom would probably go through the five stages of grief, because I was obviously her most beloved. Half of her world would fade with me. My friends would be shocked—maybe even in denial, because just yesterday, I was in my rented room, still bedrotting, still watching some obscure old movie. But deep down, I know I AM scared. Because if I asked them— any of them— they’d beg me to stay just a little longer.

29

I don’t always know what I feel. Some days, it’s as if I’m drifting into a distant dimension— watching myself drown in silence. I grow tired of feeling, tired of being, as if every breath is another thread unraveling. My mind toys with me, blurring the borders between illusion and truth. I see them— gathered in their warmth, laughing, alive. And here I am, a shadow in the corner, growing colder, layer upon layer of frost hiding the hollow beneath. I long to step closer, to feel their fire— but my own heart bars the door, and my thoughts chain me down. They whisper: *"You were never meant for warmth, for worth, for life."* So I linger on the edge, slowly withering, a ghost rehearsing its own departure. I want to feel… yet I don’t even know what I was made for, what purpose breath was meant to serve. So I walk, and walk, until the road gives way— tired, empty, a name without meaning. It’s almost cruelly comic, to know I’ll die without purpose. To die small. To die pathetic.

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Sep 21, 2025

Sep 21, 2025 at 7:53 AM UTC

the feels from other

I don’t always know what I feel. Some days, it’s as if I’m drifting into a distant dimension— watching myself drown in silence. I grow tired of feeling, tired of being, as if every breath is another thread unraveling. My mind toys with me, blurring the borders between illusion and truth. I see them— gathered in their warmth, laughing, alive. And here I am, a shadow in the corner, growing colder, layer upon layer of frost hiding the hollow beneath. I long to step closer, to feel their fire— but my own heart bars the door, and my thoughts chain me down. They whisper: *"You were never meant for warmth, for worth, for life."* So I linger on the edge, slowly withering, a ghost rehearsing its own departure. I want to feel… yet I don’t even know what I was made for, what purpose breath was meant to serve. So I walk, and walk, until the road gives way— tired, empty, a name without meaning. It’s almost cruelly comic, to know I’ll die without purpose. To die small. To die pathetic.

49

When the rain falls, our troubles fall with it. We glance to the left, to the right— everything is spinning, like a carnival cup twirling endlessly under painted lights. Our prayers weave themselves into the fabric of our existence, leading us toward a wide, green field. Even if the path bends away from us, it will circle back. Whether close or distant, we are always drawn to the same center, melting into what we know. And when the waters finally recede, your happiness will rise like a hidden sun. The current will carry you beyond the waves of your own memories. May our journey be a long one, gentle enough to bear the shadows of the past. I believe we are still sailing with the river’s true direction. And when distance comes between us, I hope all the good in me is kept alive in your mind— my name etched softly, sweetly, into the quiet chambers of your heart and soul.

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Aug 12, 2025

Aug 12, 2025 at 1:44 PM UTC

Back

When the rain falls, our troubles fall with it. We glance to the left, to the right— everything is spinning, like a carnival cup twirling endlessly under painted lights. Our prayers weave themselves into the fabric of our existence, leading us toward a wide, green field. Even if the path bends away from us, it will circle back. Whether close or distant, we are always drawn to the same center, melting into what we know. And when the waters finally recede, your happiness will rise like a hidden sun. The current will carry you beyond the waves of your own memories. May our journey be a long one, gentle enough to bear the shadows of the past. I believe we are still sailing with the river’s true direction. And when distance comes between us, I hope all the good in me is kept alive in your mind— my name etched softly, sweetly, into the quiet chambers of your heart and soul.

26

In silence, I carried a sin passed down to me— a curse unbroken, paid for in full just to be loved by someone who never truly belonged to anyone. It’s eating me alive, like a parasite draining the last light from my bones. It clings, slowly killing me for a mistake I never made. I feel like a lost lamb, wandering the abyss, blindfolded by the sharp remorse that was never mine to carry. For a moment, I exist in a world that never noticed I was here— like a forget-me-not, wilted by the road, meant to symbolize a love that died before it was remembered. And all this guilt... the pain... the suffering... I shall bear it— until it carves blood from my soul, and follows me into the grave’s dark cradle.

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Aug 7, 2025

Aug 7, 2025 at 12:51 PM UTC

Ingrained

In silence, I carried a sin passed down to me— a curse unbroken, paid for in full just to be loved by someone who never truly belonged to anyone. It’s eating me alive, like a parasite draining the last light from my bones. It clings, slowly killing me for a mistake I never made. I feel like a lost lamb, wandering the abyss, blindfolded by the sharp remorse that was never mine to carry. For a moment, I exist in a world that never noticed I was here— like a forget-me-not, wilted by the road, meant to symbolize a love that died before it was remembered. And all this guilt... the pain... the suffering... I shall bear it— until it carves blood from my soul, and follows me into the grave’s dark cradle.

34

The café is crowded today. The sun bleeds through the windows, Too golden, too alive. Laughter spills from warm mouths, Voices tangled in gossip and joy— Sips of “hot tea” passed like communion. They are full. Full of stories, of fire, of something. And I— I watch from the shadows, Wearing a smile that doesn’t belong to me. Why do I feel nothing? Why does the world move As if I’m not even here? Two shots of Americano sit before me, Untouched. Their black depths reflect my own— Still, bitter, And staring back. I wonder if they know That I am not whole. That half of me is elsewhere, Wandering some unseen purgatory. My body is here, But my soul? It left long ago. Perhaps in silence. Perhaps screaming. I can't remember anymore. Friends used to say, “You look like a corpse with breath.” And I laughed— The way ghosts might laugh At the echo of a joke They no longer understand. I daydream often, But dreams never stay. They float just out of reach— Like the memory of warmth Or the sound of someone calling your name After they've already gone. I was the joker once. Now, I am the joke. Some days, I wonder if I died And no one noticed. That I simply Kept living Out of habit.

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Aug 7, 2025

Aug 7, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC

empty

The café is crowded today. The sun bleeds through the windows, Too golden, too alive. Laughter spills from warm mouths, Voices tangled in gossip and joy— Sips of “hot tea” passed like communion. They are full. Full of stories, of fire, of something. And I— I watch from the shadows, Wearing a smile that doesn’t belong to me. Why do I feel nothing? Why does the world move As if I’m not even here? Two shots of Americano sit before me, Untouched. Their black depths reflect my own— Still, bitter, And staring back. I wonder if they know That I am not whole. That half of me is elsewhere, Wandering some unseen purgatory. My body is here, But my soul? It left long ago. Perhaps in silence. Perhaps screaming. I can't remember anymore. Friends used to say, “You look like a corpse with breath.” And I laughed— The way ghosts might laugh At the echo of a joke They no longer understand. I daydream often, But dreams never stay. They float just out of reach— Like the memory of warmth Or the sound of someone calling your name After they've already gone. I was the joker once. Now, I am the joke. Some days, I wonder if I died And no one noticed. That I simply Kept living Out of habit.

49

that night, i was brewing coffee in my favorite mug, then began knitting another homemade scarf while soft songs played in the background. my mind began to wander— is this the life i chose, or one that was chosen for me? this so-called unhealthy relationship... i wondered: is he thinking of me, smiling? or wearing that same blank expression he always gave whenever we had another boring conversation? i began to ask myself: have i wasted my time on something i never truly liked? have i wasted my years on something i’ll always regret? have i wasted my tears on something i could never hold or reach? or worse— have i given up my soul and freedom for something that never truly existed? and yet, i’m still sitting here with my coffee, knitting another useless scarf i’ll never wear.

0

Aug 2, 2025

Aug 2, 2025 at 11:28 AM UTC

Knit

that night, i was brewing coffee in my favorite mug, then began knitting another homemade scarf while soft songs played in the background. my mind began to wander— is this the life i chose, or one that was chosen for me? this so-called unhealthy relationship... i wondered: is he thinking of me, smiling? or wearing that same blank expression he always gave whenever we had another boring conversation? i began to ask myself: have i wasted my time on something i never truly liked? have i wasted my years on something i’ll always regret? have i wasted my tears on something i could never hold or reach? or worse— have i given up my soul and freedom for something that never truly existed? and yet, i’m still sitting here with my coffee, knitting another useless scarf i’ll never wear.

30

Hark, when the weight of this world doth press upon thy frail shoulders, and a rain of sorrows ceaseth not from thy weeping eyes, then hearken well! For the heavens themselves whisper thy name upon the winds. Divine light, it cometh not with the clang of brazen bells, but through the rustling leaves that fall even as thou bowest thy head in despair, through the gentle breeze that doth caress the wounds within thy heart. Know this, good friend, thou art celebrated not by the fleeting cheers of this mortal realm, but by the very kingdom that lies beyond the celestial sphere. Angels dance in the heavens above, rejoicing over each tear thou shedst that is not in vain. And I, though our paths diverge and our eyes meet not, I too celebrate thee, for the answer thou seekest, it knows the way back to thee. It may tarry in its journey, yet it doth always arrive when the hour is ripe and the time is right. Take heart, and fear not!

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 2:17 AM UTC

By Light Alone, Not Glory’s Cry

Hark, when the weight of this world doth press upon thy frail shoulders, and a rain of sorrows ceaseth not from thy weeping eyes, then hearken well! For the heavens themselves whisper thy name upon the winds. Divine light, it cometh not with the clang of brazen bells, but through the rustling leaves that fall even as thou bowest thy head in despair, through the gentle breeze that doth caress the wounds within thy heart. Know this, good friend, thou art celebrated not by the fleeting cheers of this mortal realm, but by the very kingdom that lies beyond the celestial sphere. Angels dance in the heavens above, rejoicing over each tear thou shedst that is not in vain. And I, though our paths diverge and our eyes meet not, I too celebrate thee, for the answer thou seekest, it knows the way back to thee. It may tarry in its journey, yet it doth always arrive when the hour is ripe and the time is right. Take heart, and fear not!

7

As I look up to the kindly skies and stars, I wonder why we were born with fire in our souls — A fire of anger, a fire of desperation. And it seems to burn through every part of our lives. But then, I remembered how love calmed that blaze. It kissed the flames that raged inside, And hope came — like a sea breeze, like waves — soothing the scorched corners of my soul. And suddenly, it all made sense: That fire, that love, That pain and peace — They are what make us human. They are what make us feel. What make us alive.

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 2:00 AM UTC

bonfire

As I look up to the kindly skies and stars, I wonder why we were born with fire in our souls — A fire of anger, a fire of desperation. And it seems to burn through every part of our lives. But then, I remembered how love calmed that blaze. It kissed the flames that raged inside, And hope came — like a sea breeze, like waves — soothing the scorched corners of my soul. And suddenly, it all made sense: That fire, that love, That pain and peace — They are what make us human. They are what make us feel. What make us alive.

16