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/ˈhɝmɪt /
A recluse; someone who lives alone and shuns human companionship.

One last promise of a kiss; but who hears the words of
someone’s misplaced lips— Memories are all archived, those
experiences, a treasure to bury deep in the chambers of a heart
And any extra time: an excuse for me to procrastinate…how I
choose to express my reasoning, is an explanation for another day

for the all the memories we had, will all remain locked away
our experiences a treasure I’ll never get the pleasure to
saviour in their worth. and any reason to chase after them
all in a day, becomes the procrastination of tomorrow…
our story ends here

In a thin book of divination; the conclusion of a love
that had the fill of a loaf of bread- here we are- with the
crumbs, holding onto what’s left. There is no grasping it.
All climaxes eventually fall into the obscurity of being
an old familiar harmony; the laughs of many, soon becomes
the quit chuckles of one who sits later alone. And all joyous
songs must play their very last chord

anticlimactic will be the story of us, painfully laughing ourselves
to sleep— those fortunate enough to sing our once beautiful song-
the words, chords, keys, and harmonies are all gone…
our story ends here

I am something inadequate; a follower to the gun,
the bullet that led me astray in its cold lead. Still don’t
lend me your sorrow; shunning the idea of love
For the gun that killed a benevolent concern, was
a gun I had pointed at myself.

a raging storm can sing a lullaby
to those, whose hearts are caught up
in the fire.
the last pursuit before they learn to fly
away, but then they'd rather keep
on trying
to be destroyed by something more
than them; oh, what a view it paints,
that burning sky.
there is no after as there's no before
for those, whose souls are not afraid
to die.

the dawn stands witness of a brand new day
and mourns, so solemn in its silent cry.
the winds keep vigil at their shallow grave
and raging storms sing them a lullaby.
[Kiss of death]
/ /
A kiss on the cheek that signifies the death of the receiver.

Thoughts that partially come; I’m feasting on someone’s time,
second by second- killing their time; as one not wanting
to be dead late on finding out the ecstasy/lust of new experiences
These are my many bad dreams: overseeing life, aboard the
devil’s huge cranes- crossing the edge of a horizon, all
driven by a decision, without a moral choice

I chose to betray your trust…

I am so hollow; yet to be comprehensive, in a spiralling ballet
of our dreams – all the better versions of our love
As I gaze at sunsets over the ocean; a perfect place for us to
make love, I’m sure. But as the shore births another call to
winter- our summer love quickly flies south. You are the
summertime to fill my heart, but my wings have slowly
fallen apart

My love mate, I’m trailing behind, lost in the clouds
I can’t see you anymore; we should have sealed our love
with a kiss right from the start. But how could you kiss someone
with a cheeky smile. Now the black clouds of death are rising,
and with that, the promising kiss of death
/ ˈɑːftəˌlaɪf/
A conscious existence after death

as the sound of drowning in a grave, quietly plays- maybe the
world is already over; and I’m failing to recognize it
anymore, or any less, of what it all was long before;
-as the love you sometimes seek will break you
the trust you rest in someone’s hand, is the hand of friends
who will betray you; some of the dreams you believe in,
will have your family reject you, and those who wish you well,
will quietly judge you- when you immediately fail

as everything tells us, time stands still when in times of grief
the silent lips of sounding out your pain in sleepless nights;
as by the few stars I visit; I sometimes hope to join them
as a host; choosing to still shine in a surrounding darkness

alas, I’m more so a falling star- clad in gravity, my stellar
bones are each pulled apart- but apart from feeling an aversive disgrace;
the picture of your face, does fill me with grace- that even in
this life’s grave, I could die a pretty smile- as the one you always
showed, for in my afterlife, it would be something special to behold
"One firm step," she said. As shallow as she must be, one could think she radiates midnight, and while no one is looking, her lips are similar to Burgundy—soaked in wine and in her drunken state; resting her body as she sat mellowly where no one would choose those seats made for her—deluding herself that there's just too much space in between, and they danced around each other's thick skin while their gazes were fixed on her. "One firm step," she says, straightening her back.
Every day, she'd meet her own grim reaper in the shade of the earth's brown mist, kissed by her long, thick lashes as she closed her eyes, surrounded by the people she considered dead. As strange as it was, they didn't know her. There's one string of luck hanging side by side in hopes that she'll live another day.
At dusk, she'll attempt to accompany the earth's body at her expense. She'll whisper nice things, and they'll blush at the thought of her noticing them. She'll offer her hand and kiss the molds, and her lips, the tint of burgundy, will now be the same pigment as the earth's body, and they'll chuckle at the sight of her.
When the world is laughing at her, death stands still in front of her, waiting for her presence, but she remains still. When the sky cries for her, she gives him rainbows and butterflies, even though he hates them. And when she's alone at night, she kisses the flies roaming around her bed while he thinks of her—but then again, the expression of death is inevitable. It seems like he doesn't want her to be happy. She lets Earth do what he wants with her, even if her skin glows like ivory. She lets him soak her in his dark mists and long-tailed veins, and death starts to interfere again.
He shows up in a crowded room with his thousands of soldiers, pretty faces, and partygoers. In his simple armor and at the grocery store, in his childlike appearance and beggar state. She must have been so exhausted from showing up minutes later or arriving at his usual business hour—midnight. Even with the screen, she usually spends the rest of her day. He shows up. Death was persistent. He signifies everything she could've had, even the voices implanted inside her. They named him Death. Sometimes he's a song, a lyric, or an instrument she could not quite understand; the ring before the call was answered; the tap before the keyboard; the lump before it washes down by the water; the movement before she lays her eyes on.
He was once a person she grew tired of—but now a metaphor she'll always keep in the back of her notebook. And sometimes, he is an anecdote every old person mentions in their hospital bed. She was shallow, but he was a willow tree.
A swamp.
A locust.
A lover once.
Hi, it has been a while. It’s been months since I wrote something that I’d like to read. Now, I’m just rereading every piece that I scratched from the back of my notebook. I don’t feel like writing anymore. I don’t think it’s coming back, and I don’t think I’ll give it a chance again. There's not a day that I don’t think about it. At the back of my heart, I know it calls on me—in total solitude, in the noise of the world. I haven’t forgotten about it, but I’m tired of pretending that I still love writing. I’m often a wanderer, and a wanderer gets tired too—we get lost in the woods, in an empty grave, or on a blank page.

A wanderer sometimes loathes herself. I’m exhausted.

On the other hand, here’s a piece that I wrote back in 2022. 
I won't leave this page. I know I'll be able to bleed ink again. Maybe I'd write my next piece on my skin—or on an old tree, or maybe in a dream where my words are limitless and in total sonder.
Zelda 7d
Never have I ever seen you cry.

"Truly a sweet soul,
Such a sad soul."

Never have I ever heard your voice,
Soft, Strained, Shattered.

"...because you're suffering.
...I'm also sad...
Doesn't mean we're bad for it,
It's just a state of mind."

Hopeful or desperate?
I can't decide.

"Maybe one day,
we'll dig ourselves out of this hole."

What if this hole is the end?
We could illuminate the skies above

it's sad, so sad

"I've never known you like this.
You gotta find peace of mind."

Such a sad soul,
Truly a sweet soul.

I don't know if it's the right title
I may edit later
Styrofoam around my heart; a cardboard box around it,
To pack away memories of love. Crustacean lips, for every after
Taste of kissing; once of fishing for the one- that illusive catch
Still with the selfish desire to claim someone as my own, alone-
A greed like cigarettes staining fingers; crying only to myself
But never counting those tears in the broken mirror, of a bathroom

As this hubris of a man, is quite humorous;- truly starved of direction;
Yielded in such a dishonest method. A chance of, “shooting your shot,”
A posing act of perhaps creating your own weapon to **** yourself
Parlour tricks, for the conformality of society- a human preference
At this point. These unspoken rules, carefully set down: find someone,
Get married, do your purpose to multiply, work diligently to maintain
Appearance/experience memories together; as from finding love as
One being single, to leave those you loved mournfully single;
As only those set apart, ironically get to die together. Oh, how
Wonderful would such a pension to love be- but not often given freely.
Mrs Timetable Jul 11
There is no why
For now
Only goodbye...
For now
For Logan. Rest well young man
Traveler Jul 11
Hate is dangerous.
Love is safe.
Time is a line
Limited by fate

On the other side
Nothing exists
Accept of course
An infinite waiting list

You don’t want to end up there
So enjoy your life
While you’re still here
Traveler 🧳 Tim
By my life’s imposing conclusion;-
My poetry will all be an additional storyline
It’s words remembered; my memory but forgotten
Surely the beginning of someone else’s inspiration
-Of course, in the middle of their new found saga
     And by that, I shall be content.
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