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woolgather Jan 2022
like reuniting with an old friend;
uncovering things kept bust lost to time—
seemingly returning to whence before,
painting hurt with words and rhyme.

a fragment, still part of a whole,
perhaps losing some was part of the course;
the spark inside, still enough to combust:
neither solace nor somber, a dwelling force.
Hi, It's Nes.
It's really been a while, huh?
If no one's around to see this then, I can't fault anyone.
Here's to hoping the spark turns to a wildfire.
I need it.

I hope you all are doing okay.
woolgather Jul 2020
the walls have heard:
things you haven't,
the scars tell
more than you could ever speak.
the bruises know
more than you could ever muster;
how i cried without tears
and screamed without a voice.
i kind of regret that i found poetry to rid myself of emotional baggage; i wish i found it when i was at a happier place.

i'm kind of losing how i write, and at this point i don't know if there is anywhere else i could return to.

and it scares me.
woolgather May 2020
what transpires here
are things that have just arrived;
none of them kept baggage,
or maybe some.

might i be given
the benefit of the doubt?
why must i still hear
the very same demons?

saying too much
or too little;
or both,
different on each ear;

why must the dark
feel like soothe,
when those who i call home
fear it?

maybe time will yield,
and to good things, tell;
what there is to triumph,
what stars are there to align.
Hi, it's Nes.

It's been a while since I've actually written anything.

I'm finding it hard to say at the very least the right words.

If anyone can read me, tell me anything. So that I feel like there's anyone who listens.
woolgather Dec 2019
I guess, it's selfish:
Not going back where it first began.

So I shoot blindly, in the dark,
Hoping that anyone would remember.

I have never been complete,
But i feel like a part of home is here.
It's Nes, trying to pick up the pieces. How is everyone doing these days? I hope you all are doing well.
woolgather Mar 2019
i overthink things;
my head gives me
no other choices.

what is silence
can be a murmuring
only i cannot understand.

what is darkness
can be a monster lurking,
waiting for me to fall into bait;

what is accidental
can be a scheme
that someone planned, and planted.


what was a missed reply
due circumstance
can be just avoiding me,

what is a glance
can be a glower;
someone scheming.

what are words
can be disguised
as something sinister;

what are things
can be triggers
pulling more than the other,

what are things
can be painful
can be my death

i overthink too much.
it's sad that i see poetry as a venting for pent-up, ******-up feelings.

i'm sorry.
woolgather Oct 2018

Red ribbons.
Such as my thread of fate is malleable,
They toy with it.
Twist and bend and cut.
To their desire;
Without consideration of me;
Or what I would feel
To them, I am obsolete.
To truth, I am obsolete.
I cannot be saved.
I have accepted that fact.
All that's left of me is to suffer.
Good riddance.

What they are is unbeknownst to me.
What I am is unbeknownst to them.
They do not see the sadness behind the smiles.
They do not see the broken soul inside.
And I ponder if it is for the best.

"What makes you think I'm so special?"

If I would sail the stars,
I'll take you with me.
If I could get the world's fortune,
I'd give it to you, too.
Too bad
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