Odd Odyssey Poet

Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 22

I’m in a drought for time— yet flooded with ideas.
as the sun rises with the dust, and by dusk, all hope
feels spent, or quietly scattered.

I know destiny calls— even without a map, signal
or a location marked. "Yeah, I don’t know what
I’m doing," I often confess, in quotation marks—
still walking toward the shape of who I’m meant
to become.

Pushing through bruises and bitter slights—real joy
flickers, but most smiles still feel perfectly rehearsed.
To stay above the arrows, but never ahead of myself—
sharp enough, still, to pierce through the soft fabric
of my many, many daily doubts. And I’m learning:
sometimes the cage has no door— but only the illusion
of one, built from fear.

There’s always a world just outside of it— waiting.
We’re all just finding ourselves day by day.
And life? It’s one day after another— until, finally,
you recognize the person you've been becoming
all along.

#selfdiscovery #innerjourney #emotionalstruggle #mentalhealth #growth #resilience #doubtandhope #overcomingfear #identity #poetryoflife

Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 22

Stand Out Aloud

Don’t close your eyes on your dreams—
you’ll lose sight of what you believe.
The will of your work is measured by
the work you’re willing to put in.
As I live in a house of emotions,
courting words to plead my case—
bleeding through a see-through face.
A quiet ache, always on trial.

Knowing that the high-and-mighty
Christian is the easiest target to bring down.
Careers cut short— because in short, they
never really knew the Lord.

And me?

I live like the world’s greatest plot twist,
my mind a tornado of thoughts—
every turn unexpected,
every breeze loud with questions.
I’ve known the chill of a cold finger turned
trigger. And felt the weight of a sharp tongue
used as a silencer. As it’s easy to shoot yourself
down the same way you shoot others—whether
whispered or screamed out loud.

But those who follow their worth,
instead of searching for it in the crowd—
those are the ones who stand out.
Aloud.

#introspectivepoetry #mentalhealthawareness #vulnerablewriting #emotionaltruths #poetryofthemind #healingthroughwords #silentstruggles #unspokenpain

Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 21

We are We

In a brief squeeze, my chest wheezed—
there goes my heart, falling out of itself,
into another rhyme, into another line.
Queue me up for feeling less than myself,
lost in being so lost.

Letting go of old grievances just to make
room for new ones today.
“I’m not okay”—
but I won’t say it, because you MAYBE
won’t think of me the same.

Sometimes I’m determined, other times,
indulgent. I look like I’ve got it together,
but beneath the surface,
I’m exhausted—
completely out of order.
Struggling. Sweating.
But short on words to explain what’s wrong.

I’d be seen as too much for speaking my
pain aloud— but pain is always louder
when it’s silent.

So I speak now for those who are just like
I am.
We are We:
navigating identity crises in these
stretched-out teen years of our twenties.
We are plenty— and still enough to
surround each other in love that counts,
instead of letting life count us down
or count us out. We will rise. Together.

#mentalhealthpoetry #anxietyinwords #unspokenpain #itsokaytonotbeokay #emotionaloverload #healinginpoetry #vulnerablewriting #existentialcrisis

Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 21

Tired of Remembering

Missing names in my letterbox— but mostly yours.
And I have no right to claim it, no reason to expect
your name to arrive again.

I try to write it out— all that it was between us.
A love so bizarre, so hard to define, yet somehow…
energizing. But I want to cut the ties my eyes have
to their tiredness— but I’m still oddly entangled
in the thought of falling asleep to the memory of you.

Tired! Tired!

But no rest compares to you, or the rest I see.
And maybe—
just maybe— the measure I hold love to now
is too tight, too closed, to give anything new
even a chance.

#unsentletters #heartbreakpoetry #loveandloss #emotionalfatigue #tiredofmissingyou #lingeringlove #silentgrief #lettinggoslowly

Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 21

Brushstrokes and Thorns

To each stroke of luck—these strokes run wild,
painted with ambition. Life is a wondrous garden:
to some, every bloom is beautiful, to others, the
loveliest things are guarded by thorns.

What looks like harmony can be smeared on
an ugly wall. The signature of familiar pain—
it’s often signed as a lover.

Two met by eyes, blush.
Two lips in love, brush.
Two weights of emotion, crush.
And the quickest reason to fall? A rush.

And long indulged is the ego— eager to rise
above itself, but low on accepting its flaws.
We are a world painted in delicate watercolours,
slowly dripping away from this life, until we no
longer remain as unique colours to paint this world.

Still—they will remember our impression, through
the force of our expression. And when we’re gone,
on the great canvas in the sky, we shall hang up
there instead.

#lyricalpoetry #symbolicwriting #deepmetaphors #reflectiveverse #modernpoet #spokenwordready

Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 20

The Hunt and the Hand

My hands grow tired
trying to hold onto sleep—
gripping fragments of tension
while my thoughts drift too deep
to be attentive, to pay attention
to what the world calls worthy.

I swim in the farthest corners
of thought—beyond my depths—
yet I never run out of breath.
There’s freedom in this dive,
in expressing all I feel.
This pen is the extension
of my soul’s most honest reach.

Above a mantelpiece,
I search for a worth I could call
my dear—starstruck like a deer
beneath hunting lights.
And though *******, the trophy
hunter loves the chase
more than the prize.
That, too, is a kind of art.

By genuine reflection,
I still call myself an artist—
one still learning the form,
still finding the lines
between vision and mastery.
The lessons are never done.

What I hold in my hand
feels like something from a
Divine hand— a gift placed gently
by a hand not my own.

Art is adamant progress:
unyielding, sacred, slow—
but still,
I move.

#iamanartist #artisworship #spiritualartistry #chasingmeaning #notforthetrophy #artandsoul #worthinthework #madetomake

Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 20

Premium Type

A thought worth believing in: that all of creation is alike — made
of the same breath and dust — though many still pretend we are
not the same. I see it in the quiet places, the soft golden glow people
follow like it’s salvation. My eyes, like old cracks in a hallway, have
watched footsteps ascend toward that light — sometimes blindly,
sometimes beautifully. I remember goosebumps rising when I once
felt the shape of love not through words, but through Braille
fingertips — a language of touch, not talk.

Life is a beautiful kind of horror — man’s power to create always
shadowed by his capacity to destroy. And too often, women —
aching to be seen — to throw themselves into nets that were never
meant for them. But the fish that swims willingly into the trap is the
one that’s easiest to catch… and just as easily discarded. Know
your worth! Don’t offer yourself as convenience. The one worth
having you, will search for you. He will wait. He will chase, not out
of ego, but because your absence will echo louder than any sea full
of options.

The kind of man who feels your loss as a hollow space is not the
one who tells you, “there’s plenty of fish in the sea.” He’s the one
who dives into THAT sea, because it’s you he’s trying to find.

But these days, wild tenacity has turned inward. People want love
just to say they have it — to wear it like a badge, a filter, an accessory.
They want the treat of love, not the truth of it. Just someone to
sweeten their image — arm candy for the soul’s sugar rush. But love
that’s only a treat will melt under heat. It won’t last past the craving.
It won’t survive the unsweet moments.

And beneath love’s gloss, beneath its shining underside, lies
something raw, something more — not always pretty, but worth it.
A love that doesn’t just sparkle on the surface, but endures the
sanding, the softening, the polishing. The kind that shines brighter
after it’s been tested — not replaced at the first crack.

This love isn’t a free trial. It isn’t a game or a placeholder. It is sacred.
It is earned. And it demands your best — not just your best look.
Because not everyone is ready for the Premium type.

#knowyourworth #realloveonly #sacredconnections #lovewithintention #vulnerabilityisstrength #selfworthmatters #healingthroughlove #emotionalwisdom #poetry