twistedpoet - Hello Poetry

The angels come down to late, their feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes. turns out their wings are so white because they use bleach They came down from the sky, but you think they fell. The smell of ozone lingers in their skin, They promise altars and arks; You ask what god they serve. "Ours," they say, as if that should mean something they name you chosen, then count your ribs with cold fingers Their halos flicker—cheap fluorescence trying to imitate holiness. The light around them peels paint from walls. They smell like burnt sugar and something that should have stayed buried. you dream of them nightly, and wake up missing hours. They cup your face like a blessing, but their hands are too cold, too tight. You are not surprised when their throats are torn open, revealed to be hollow.

0

Feb 24

Feb 24, 2026 at 10:40 PM UTC

falling angels

The angels come down to late, their feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes. turns out their wings are so white because they use bleach They came down from the sky, but you think they fell. The smell of ozone lingers in their skin, They promise altars and arks; You ask what god they serve. "Ours," they say, as if that should mean something they name you chosen, then count your ribs with cold fingers Their halos flicker—cheap fluorescence trying to imitate holiness. The light around them peels paint from walls. They smell like burnt sugar and something that should have stayed buried. you dream of them nightly, and wake up missing hours. They cup your face like a blessing, but their hands are too cold, too tight. You are not surprised when their throats are torn open, revealed to be hollow.

16

among all the rotten choices this life threw at me like scraps to a starving dog, i still ******* chose you. i didn't think, didn't reason, didn't pray. i just did. like an instinct. like madness. i keep choosing you even when it feels like breaking my. own ribs open. even when it feels like drowning in a bathtub full of your name. you are the cigarette i can't quit, the poison that tastes like home. i light you up, breathe you in, choke on you, and still crave another hit. when the night gets too loud and the stars look like they're laughing, i still whisper your name, like some desperate curse. you've crawled into my bloodstream, into the dirt beneath my nails. i can't wash you out. i've tried. god, i've ******* tried. every day, i choose you again. not in some soft, fairytale kind of way. in the ugly way. in the bloodshot eyes, shaking hands, screaming-into-the-pillow kind of way. i choose you when i hate you. i choose you when you ruin me. i choose you when I'm lying to myself, saying i deserve peace. i don't want peace i want you.

0

Jan 17

Jan 17, 2026 at 5:36 PM UTC

It's you, always you.

among all the rotten choices this life threw at me like scraps to a starving dog, i still ******* chose you. i didn't think, didn't reason, didn't pray. i just did. like an instinct. like madness. i keep choosing you even when it feels like breaking my. own ribs open. even when it feels like drowning in a bathtub full of your name. you are the cigarette i can't quit, the poison that tastes like home. i light you up, breathe you in, choke on you, and still crave another hit. when the night gets too loud and the stars look like they're laughing, i still whisper your name, like some desperate curse. you've crawled into my bloodstream, into the dirt beneath my nails. i can't wash you out. i've tried. god, i've ******* tried. every day, i choose you again. not in some soft, fairytale kind of way. in the ugly way. in the bloodshot eyes, shaking hands, screaming-into-the-pillow kind of way. i choose you when i hate you. i choose you when you ruin me. i choose you when I'm lying to myself, saying i deserve peace. i don't want peace i want you.

7

The forbidden fruit is alcohol. Or is it cigarettes smoked by a girl who was diagnosed the other day. Is it too much sugar, too little sleep, and to many responsibilities. Scrape me clean. Pray for Eden; I offer rot to your hungered hands. I was not her. I did not steal heaven, a segment of rib. I can barely hold my own organs in their place (my lungs lap at leftovers). Confess to me, we decay alike. Cored creatures, our spilled seeds. It's stains on cigar butts, worms that wiggle wet with earth, and - I attempt to inhale, lungs rattling like rusted nails in a tin. Rebirth must hurt less than the final breath.

0

Jan 17

Jan 17, 2026 at 5:26 PM UTC

Who is Your God?

The forbidden fruit is alcohol. Or is it cigarettes smoked by a girl who was diagnosed the other day. Is it too much sugar, too little sleep, and to many responsibilities. Scrape me clean. Pray for Eden; I offer rot to your hungered hands. I was not her. I did not steal heaven, a segment of rib. I can barely hold my own organs in their place (my lungs lap at leftovers). Confess to me, we decay alike. Cored creatures, our spilled seeds. It's stains on cigar butts, worms that wiggle wet with earth, and - I attempt to inhale, lungs rattling like rusted nails in a tin. Rebirth must hurt less than the final breath.

9

There’s a tongue in my blood that don’t sit right in my mouth— words I know in feeling but not in sound. My grandma prayed in it, soft and low, like a secret meant for someone who I never meet. She’d stir the beans slow, hum songs I never learned, and when I asked what they meant, she’d just say, child, some things ain’t meant to be told. I carry stories in me that I don’t have the voice for— songs without melody, homes without maps. My hands know more than my mouth does, my silence says more than my tongue. Some days I ache in syllables I ain’t never been taught. I dream in colors that don’t exist in this country. I write poems with ghosts in the grammar. And when I try to speak it— whatever it is— the words feel like someone else’s teeth in my mouth. But still, I keep trying. To shape the hush into music. To name the ache without breaking it. To say I am here, even if it sounds like something I ain't sure how to mean.

0

Sep 15, 2025

Sep 15, 2025 at 4:21 AM UTC

A Tongue I Never Learned

There’s a tongue in my blood that don’t sit right in my mouth— words I know in feeling but not in sound. My grandma prayed in it, soft and low, like a secret meant for someone who I never meet. She’d stir the beans slow, hum songs I never learned, and when I asked what they meant, she’d just say, child, some things ain’t meant to be told. I carry stories in me that I don’t have the voice for— songs without melody, homes without maps. My hands know more than my mouth does, my silence says more than my tongue. Some days I ache in syllables I ain’t never been taught. I dream in colors that don’t exist in this country. I write poems with ghosts in the grammar. And when I try to speak it— whatever it is— the words feel like someone else’s teeth in my mouth. But still, I keep trying. To shape the hush into music. To name the ache without breaking it. To say I am here, even if it sounds like something I ain't sure how to mean.

36

I grew up with soldiers— their boots a lullaby, their grief stitched into uniforms they never took off. I learned how to die a long time ago— not in flesh, but in forgetting how to be soft. We played with shrapnel like toys, measured time by the distance between sirens. And still— I carry their silence like a medal no one pinned on me.

0

Sep 15, 2025

Sep 15, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC

Soldier Child

I grew up with soldiers— their boots a lullaby, their grief stitched into uniforms they never took off. I learned how to die a long time ago— not in flesh, but in forgetting how to be soft. We played with shrapnel like toys, measured time by the distance between sirens. And still— I carry their silence like a medal no one pinned on me.

15

The angels come down to late, their feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes. turns out their wings are so white because they use bleach They came down from the sky, but you think they fell. The smell of ozone lingers in their skin, and Glory Glory Glory sounds like a punchline. They promise altars and arks; Their prayers sound like static, stitched together from dead languages. They hum lullabies in reverse, backwards tongues behind broken smiles. You ask what god they serve. "Ours," they say, as if that should mean something Their halos flicker—cheap fluorescence trying to imitate holiness. The light around them peels paint from the walls. They cup your face like a blessing, but their hands are too cold, too tight. You are not surprised when their throats are torn open, revealed to be hollow.

0

Sep 15, 2025

Sep 15, 2025 at 2:19 AM UTC

Sanctified Rot

The angels come down to late, their feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes. turns out their wings are so white because they use bleach They came down from the sky, but you think they fell. The smell of ozone lingers in their skin, and Glory Glory Glory sounds like a punchline. They promise altars and arks; Their prayers sound like static, stitched together from dead languages. They hum lullabies in reverse, backwards tongues behind broken smiles. You ask what god they serve. "Ours," they say, as if that should mean something Their halos flicker—cheap fluorescence trying to imitate holiness. The light around them peels paint from the walls. They cup your face like a blessing, but their hands are too cold, too tight. You are not surprised when their throats are torn open, revealed to be hollow.

16

Why is it always about Jesus' Suffering and God's Sacrifice? Where is Mary? Where is the woman whose reward for goodness and virtue was to have her baby boy tortured and killed as a warning? Do you think Mary the ****** Mary the Mother, Mary the human ever regretted being good enough to earn attention of her God? Do you think she ever quietly, privately, resented her faith? Cursed her fate to be raised on a pedestal, carved into history as beautiful, weeping, covered in gold, cradling the body of her child? How would she feel today, to step into a church and see above the pulpit, larger than life, the glossy painted likeness of her boy, thin and bleeding, looking to the heavens to a Father who would not spare him? Was it terrible for Mary? Did she hate her God, in the end? Or did she stand tall to the last breath, a reluctant but obedient witness, faithful despite everything? Was as she ever torn between her faith and her heart? Her love and her fear? The choice between loss or betrayal? It would be terrible if she was in torment, but would be terrible if she wasn't.

0

Aug 8, 2025

Aug 8, 2025 at 9:16 PM UTC

Where is Mary?

Why is it always about Jesus' Suffering and God's Sacrifice? Where is Mary? Where is the woman whose reward for goodness and virtue was to have her baby boy tortured and killed as a warning? Do you think Mary the ****** Mary the Mother, Mary the human ever regretted being good enough to earn attention of her God? Do you think she ever quietly, privately, resented her faith? Cursed her fate to be raised on a pedestal, carved into history as beautiful, weeping, covered in gold, cradling the body of her child? How would she feel today, to step into a church and see above the pulpit, larger than life, the glossy painted likeness of her boy, thin and bleeding, looking to the heavens to a Father who would not spare him? Was it terrible for Mary? Did she hate her God, in the end? Or did she stand tall to the last breath, a reluctant but obedient witness, faithful despite everything? Was as she ever torn between her faith and her heart? Her love and her fear? The choice between loss or betrayal? It would be terrible if she was in torment, but would be terrible if she wasn't.

10

ghost /gowst/ 1. The bleached whale teeth of your bones covered in layers of papery humanity, the blue of your Veins as they lie, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦. 2. Static white and less, a phantom haunting your own skin. You were murdered, murdered, murdered by this coffin of a house. 3. Dustless and fearfilled; can the dead die again?

0

Aug 8, 2025

Aug 8, 2025 at 4:18 AM UTC

Ghost

ghost /gowst/ 1. The bleached whale teeth of your bones covered in layers of papery humanity, the blue of your Veins as they lie, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦. 2. Static white and less, a phantom haunting your own skin. You were murdered, murdered, murdered by this coffin of a house. 3. Dustless and fearfilled; can the dead die again?

5

Cancer took you like if had the right. Like the world owed it something More precious than it deserved. ( turned out that was you) I hate it for what it did to you For the way it stole your smile And left nothing but silence behind It made your body a battlefield Then claimed victory like it had earned it. I hate it for making you smaller For the days it stole The plans we made That now feel like broken glass in my chest. It didn't just take you It left me here. Holding your name Like a wound I can't stop bleeding from, Hating somthing I can't even touch, Wishing hate could ever be enough.

0

Aug 8, 2025

Aug 8, 2025 at 4:08 AM UTC

Cancer

Cancer took you like if had the right. Like the world owed it something More precious than it deserved. ( turned out that was you) I hate it for what it did to you For the way it stole your smile And left nothing but silence behind It made your body a battlefield Then claimed victory like it had earned it. I hate it for making you smaller For the days it stole The plans we made That now feel like broken glass in my chest. It didn't just take you It left me here. Holding your name Like a wound I can't stop bleeding from, Hating somthing I can't even touch, Wishing hate could ever be enough.

18

The human thigh bone is stronger than concrete, a boy in a man's body tells me, as he ***** down a joint trying to **** himself quietly. I find it funny that we weren't built to break, our bodies are so strong it takes trucks to overturn us. the funny thing is, we were designed to survive but they forgot to make our souls strong. sometimes people talk to me about the invincibility of the human spirit, and I think that sounds really pretty but doesn't solve problems like how teenagers are taking their own lives off of shelves as if they were thieves in a seven-eleven. they say the human spirit can endure anything thrown at it, but then how come so many of us hate ourselves so hard we can't see straight? the human thigh bone is stronger than the buildings we keep killing ourselves in, And I have realised there is a big difference between being alive and living.

0

Aug 8, 2025

Aug 8, 2025 at 3:50 AM UTC

Human design

The human thigh bone is stronger than concrete, a boy in a man's body tells me, as he ***** down a joint trying to **** himself quietly. I find it funny that we weren't built to break, our bodies are so strong it takes trucks to overturn us. the funny thing is, we were designed to survive but they forgot to make our souls strong. sometimes people talk to me about the invincibility of the human spirit, and I think that sounds really pretty but doesn't solve problems like how teenagers are taking their own lives off of shelves as if they were thieves in a seven-eleven. they say the human spirit can endure anything thrown at it, but then how come so many of us hate ourselves so hard we can't see straight? the human thigh bone is stronger than the buildings we keep killing ourselves in, And I have realised there is a big difference between being alive and living.

2