The strings of distant hollows
are hearts and tangencies of reality,
knocking at heaven’s door
With colors we never seem to adore.
The static of greens and reds
truly makes me bleed
into my white robes of fantasy.
The burrowing hands crawl
through my tangent, voidless body
where emotions live and scream,
yet scarcely wither
into my empty mind.
Birds flock to my precious scars,
they peck and nick
Whenever one thing goes wrong.
Love pulls each end of my body
into its weighing gravity,
choosing paths I cannot own
yet cherish so dearly.
Words crumble
yet still linger
within the crumbs of sorrow.
The letting go of someone
who never cared,
Yet was loved so exceedingly.
The nourishment of absent mothers
who never wiped your tears dry.
These things, these feelings,
are one of a kind.
Or maybe not.
Yet no one minds.
May 27
May 27, 2026 at 9:58 AM UTC
The strings of distant hollows
are hearts and tangencies of reality,
knocking at heaven’s door
With colors we never seem to adore.
The static of greens and reds
truly makes me bleed
into my white robes of fantasy.
The burrowing hands crawl
through my tangent, voidless body
where emotions live and scream,
yet scarcely wither
into my empty mind.
Birds flock to my precious scars,
they peck and nick
Whenever one thing goes wrong.
Love pulls each end of my body
into its weighing gravity,
choosing paths I cannot own
yet cherish so dearly.
Words crumble
yet still linger
within the crumbs of sorrow.
The letting go of someone
who never cared,
Yet was loved so exceedingly.
The nourishment of absent mothers
who never wiped your tears dry.
These things, these feelings,
are one of a kind.
Or maybe not.
Yet no one minds.
pls comment n like
