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abyss 1d
Shattered illusions.
Shattered hopes.
Shattered dreams.

A house with no structure
built from the remains of ruin.

A powerful soul
in a trembling body.

A house meant to fall.
A house that realized
it’s not a house at all -
just the memory of shelter
pretending to hold.

It asks,
"Then what am I?"

But no one answers.

And so,
what’s left
sinks into the soil,
quietly turning
back into earth.
Who are you when it all comes crashing down?
The suburb’s still a skeleton
but now I wear its bones.
I was backlit,
bored,
all drywall and divine punishment,
first names shouted through screen doors,
ceiling fans spinning
someone else’s damage.

I kept saying I'd leave.
I kept writing it down,
spending my stories on soft drinks and scar tissue,
but
there’s a difference between
nostalgia and necromancy.
Between naked and naive.
Between full of stars
and just
falling.

We said forever
like it wasn’t
a curse.
Like it wasn’t
already dissolving in the pollen.

I wrote hymns for mouths,
sloppy as mascara in rainlight,
that made meaning feel like a dare:
the emotional oversights
we let ruin us twice.

Flannel soul,
face like unfinished business.
He touched me with all the guilt
of a borrowed god.
Begging,
but never burning clean.

A slippery little eulogy
sprinting toward a dawn already
in someone else’s rearview.
He didn’t kiss me,
but he almost did.
And I’ve been sick about it
ever since.

An ode to night
that chews at the hem
of what we thought we were.

Being here now is
already retroactive.
Already haunted.
Intertwined
like seatbelt bruises.

A small canopied disaster,
still posing.
still pretending.

I was a rooftop girl,
and I meant it.
Which is worse, I think,
than being believed.

The sky never answered,
but I kept
sending poems.

The suburb’s still a skeleton.
I’m just better at burying
what I mistook for light.
visited my poem '9/8/15' and rewrote it with.a 2025 take.
abyss 3d
Dreams, so many dreams
Some forgotten, some waiting to happen

am I one of those dreams?
forgotten after the morning alarm
or waiting to come knocking?

forgotten, or waiting to happen
am I a forgotten dream,
or are you waiting for me too?

dreams, so many dreams
overflowing with them

will I reach them,
or will I have to forget them?

each day, an ache that never ends
but when —
when will it be enough?

time.
time is cruel for a dreamer.

and what am I
if not a dreamer?

a dream
or a dreamer

I guess I’ll know someday,
but not today.

time, time is cruel for a dreamer
sometimes too slow
sometimes too fast
a never-ending agony

dreams,
so many dreams

some forgotten...
just like me

and yet —
I keep dreaming.
my first poem ever.
the first two lines wouldn’t let me sleep,
and somewhere between silence and thought,
the rest found me.
People I know
Sing under trees
They follow the aroma
Of sweet honey bees
Gathering on graves
Forgotten black figures
With painful hums and hymns
Haunting sinful flowers
Creating sweet nectar
For tea sipping *******
Plantations engulfed in guilt
Wood and rope up in flames
Smelling of whiskey and ***
From the 1850's to 2020's
Still upright remains
The sentiments they built
Till present children dance's
Internet post gaining fame
For some to laugh at
Others show to shame
New bees beginnings
Is on the pink horizon
Feeding worm knowledge
Soils deep under feet
Seeds and black faces
Garden's uprising  
At last a brighter
Future song to sing
Adagio 4d
𝐹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝑜𝒷𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎  
𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁'𝓈 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓃𝓎
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓆𝓊𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈
𝒷𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝒾𝓁
𝒾𝓃 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽'𝓈 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒻𝓉
𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓊𝑒      
𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈
𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈  
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒
𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁'𝓈 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓃𝓎
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