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PoeticTragic Jan 2
Once we're done prancing in this world,
and our bodies are locked away and sealed
Basking in the cold autumn wind,
Two gravestones, maybe in a tulip field,
I'll use my paranormal strength,
Displacing a little more morning dew
After years, I'll make the soil nudge
My gravestone will tilt by an inch or two
Just so it can lean against yours,
Hoping your decayed eyes roll at me
I'll reach for your touch you once more,
to rest against you for eternity.
PoeticTragic Dec 2024
My mother always complained about peeling pomegranates
It was never my hate, hating them became my habit
Hard wood on the outside, blood red under the fingernails
An expedition of crimson white, trapped in the details


With blade in hand, I sit and trace a seam,
A line so faint, like an old whispered dream.
The rind surrenders, the chambers appear,
Tiny nestled jewels, so crystal clear.
I crack the shell open as daylight spills,
The seeds scatter, like stars in hidden hills.
Each one a treasure-trove, each a prize,
Hugging each other beneath fragile skies.
Took my little knife and my little time
Picked up the ruby pieces and made them rhyme
Unlike my mother, I was successful
I don't think they were that messy—you just weren't careful.


A patience found in a quieted pace.
Letting it unravel was never a race
The skin, thick as secrets, does not tear wide,
Under rough hands, it cracks and cries inside
Press it to your temple, wait for the sound,
Heed the silent rubies, waiting to be found.
But rush the patience, and the fruit will weep,
The crimson stains will soon begin to reap.
Juice on your hands, on the table, the floor,
Chaos unleashed where there was calm before.

You’ll blame the pomegranate, curse its design,
Not seeing that the fault was never mine.
Ruby seeds didn’t wish to scatter at all—
I was never messy mother, you just weren’t careful.
PoeticTragic Dec 2024
Cooking is worth the mess.  
The spices, the sauces, the sticky spoons.  
The bowls, the pots, the empty plastic wrappers.  
Fragments of me scattered across the floor.  
Dreams hiding in the crevices, fears lingering at the base.  

Maybe I’m worth the mess, too.  
I am the recipe, a dish still in progress,  
A symphony coming together, no matter the excess.
It’s in the mess that flavors are born,  
Sweetness pulled from bitterness.  
Each scrape of the spoon, each flick of the wrist,  
A step closer to something whole.  
Each spill tells a story, every stain leaves a mark.
And like the meal simmered slow,  
From inedible to flavorful, I, too, can glow.  

As I clean the stubborn flour clinging to the shelf,  
I remind myself—the meal is worth the mess.
This beautiful, messy, imperfect process—  
It’s proof that I, too, am worth the mess.
PoeticTragic Dec 2024
She said it tasted good—
the salt, the cream, the cheese—
her words like a melody
I didn’t know how to hear.
Nothing was wrong?
But that couldn’t be.
My hands, so used to trembling,
Covered in doubt and oil.
I stood there,
awkward in my victory,
trying to accept the compliment
like a rusty vending machine
taking a crinkly dollar.

Insults come by the dozen,
Sharp dimes that cut me clean,
familiar in their weightlessness,
easy to pocket.

But these **** compliments,
they are a currency I can't trust—
complicated notes with symbols and pictures,
written in a language I must decode,
pressing them to the light
for counterfeit marks
before I dare believe their worth.

They stick to me like unearned badges,
heavy, yet soft,
Meant for a self I refuse to see.
Still, I hold onto hers,
tucked awkwardly in my palm,
a note I haven’t yet learned to spend,
but one I want, desperately, to believe.
PoeticTragic Dec 2024
I didn’t break down today.
I didn’t let anyone down.
I was a little bit more of myself than I was yesterday.
I made it through the day alone,
but the girl next to me called her mother
to tell her what she ate for lunch.

Her laughter spilled into the air,
a melody I didn’t know I missed,
a warmth I could never quite touch.
I traced the edges of my silence,
wondering if it had always been this loud.
The coffee tasted bitter but I drank it anyway.
A snowflake landed on the windowsill,
I waited for it to be blown away,
but it stayed,
and I stayed.

I didn’t call anyone today.
I put a pop song deep into my ears,
silencing out the words that I never heard.
I folded my loneliness
into a paper crane
and left in at the cafe,
its fragile shape, a quiet triumph.
The weight is still there
but my feet stayed planted.
Tomorrow, maybe,
I’ll build a bridge
out of these small victories,
and walk a little closer
to the sound of my own voice
telling someone what I ate for lunch.
PoeticTragic Nov 2024
Somewhere beyond the door
You are
Here, outside, I am
Lingering
Waiting for a glimpse
A passing wave
An imagined smile
A conversation that never happened
And a love i never confessed


I saw you walk in
I dare not enter myself
So I wait with my heart
Counting the beats that sound like your name
You'll never know
Because I'll never tell
You're a color I'm too dark for
Best never meet
Best admire from afar
Best yearn
Never hold
C'est toi et moi
PoeticTragic Nov 2024
Maybe we're all just specks of dust
Lying on an old dresser
Waiting for someone to open a window
For someone to shake a bedsheet
And throw us into the air
To get our few seconds of spotlight

We rise, glinting in the sunlight's beam,
A constellation in a forgotten room,
Dancing to the rhythm of a careless breeze,
Free, if only for a fleeting moment.

Perhaps we settle back too soon,
Clinging to surfaces that never knew us,
But for that brief ascent, we were stars—
A story, if only in the eyes of light.

And maybe that’s enough:
To shimmer, instantaneously,
to let the world carry us
where it wills,
Knowing even dust
Has its time to shine.
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