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You crafted a shrine for me,

adorned me with wings,

elevated and sacred, untouched by your secrets.

Your last chance at redemption,

a sanctuary where you hid from yourself.

Your perfect lie—

an illusion of salvation.

Once shattered, your adoration

twisted into disdain.

The hand that shaped my wings,

became the force that broke them.

And now, you watch me fall

from the heights you once placed me upon.


Yet I release you, I forgive you,

Love, a quiet thread that ties us still,

A spark woven into the fabric of time,

Never truly gone, but transformed,

gently fading

into the glow of what we were.

I return sometimes to those moments,

not with longing, but with reverence—

like that stolen kiss—

unexpected, breathless,

the words "I love you" spilling from me,

uncontainable, truthful,

your arms, holding me,

an electric hum between us.



This is how I'll hold us—

in the warmth of what we were,

not in the sorrow that followed.

When you remember me,

let it be the quiet depth of my love that remains,

the warmth of my hand resting softly on your

cheek,

the steady, unwavering gaze that held you,

unchanged by time.

Let that be what stays with you—

not the deafening silence that followed,

not the weight of what we lost,

but the light that we held, even just for a moment,

so close to perfect but fragile.

Not perfect enough.
Oh how we love the ones who can teach us both heaven and hell…
CE Uptain 20h
I’ve got plenty of ink, it’s my paper that’s shot
I can only write a few words, that’s all I got
Quick to write, slow to understand
I’ve got a fast mind and a slow hand

I had to scratch out some lines
I was trying to find some rhymes
But now it’s over, I think I’m done
Looks like I penned another one
I've been working on my Poet Lament volumes. This is out of #4. Hope you like it.
All the good sports
         go out for a run
                       into the ice storm.

They grimace and squint
           in the headlights of cars
                       on Riverside Drive.

And they run as if for their lives
            in this freezing rain
                        that sheathes and has broken

the leafless branches
            along snow-plowed bike paths;
                          ice-pellets ping off
        
their pricy goggles, their fluorescent shells,
              as they struggle north
                           to the pole where

they always turn back
              for the Christmas lights strung
                       over the porches
              
welcoming home
               those who might have been
                        men.
The more I read this, the less I like it. Simply put, it's boring. I guess there's some utterly unpersuasive argument for the alignment of form and content (play-acting serious endeavours, whether polar exploration or poetry) - but it's not working for me. Close to erasing it, but hanging in there for the sake of continuity.
As if aiming, huddling ever closer to the wall; he draws his superstitious eyelashes into a slit, thus peering at the deceived, continuously manipulated world. Forced to constantly measure the shortest distance between sincerity and lies, he measures, like some eccentric arbiter, the weight of the stake, which is a nest of betrayals and lies. Backwards in the stream of eternal moments, thinking himself over once more, he decides to look away after all. Inside, in the secret depths of his soul, he still keeps his seeing eye open; he still faithfully preserves the ability to see truly, which is not polluted by materialism or superficial exhibitionism.

He knows and suspects: only in the depths of the soul can the romantic dance of the one flame take place, which he has perhaps dreamed of his entire life, - he would immediately regain it if he could have that second of memory that was still liberated and free from everything, because inside there is an irresistible power over instincts and emotions, even the silent, mute human words, which do not need to be spoken at all.

- Like a desolate cauldron, the creative silence surrounds him, which - nowadays - is increasingly difficult to gain in a dignified manner. Like interstellar frontiers, humility and will would lie under a giant dome for days; melancholy, meaningless, petty worries and troubles swim in a large carnival crowd, like so many fish embryos in a crowd. He will slowly and subtly consume his spirit, every drop at a time, if he is not careful, because truer human stars are patiently waiting in the garden of golden hearts for them to be admitted.
What is this game that we are playing?
Is history repeating itself once more?
Are you vanishing beyond reach again?
Are you heading back to me?

Or was that our last dance before we closed this chapter for good?

My heart was never rooted in you.
And still, it remains so.

But why does it feel like I was being stung by a bee for the first time?

I know better.
So why does my mind keep playing traitor?

Though you’ve vanished from my arms, my body still burns for your touch.

Over and over again.
You have me wanting.

You were never that special to begin with.
So why after almost a year.
I am still under your spell?

What have you done to me?

What have I done to deserve this abandonment?

I have lived without you.
And I can do it again.
I don’t know why but I thought he was different, I thought he changed.
star 2d
deleting poems 6.29.25 (6:32 pm / 18:32)
there were happy poems i wrote
apparently three thousand happy words
that i deleted

i couldn't look at them anymore
yea idk they just made me sadder *** is wrong with me
Halfway between my two hands, perhaps, that certain bottomless, lasting disgust will still splash out, like when the diligent, eager patience picks beetles from the emerald leaves of pleasingly grown potato beds, so that there will - hopefully - be no more problems with the crop. As if they were slippery, exposed slug bodies, as if they did not want to understand that they too have their place in the cyclical order of nature, as in the ranking of ecosystems.

These heatwave days greet us now in idle, sparkling whiteness; black cannibal laughter is heard surprisingly close, as if it were the howling of greedily starving wolves, who are not afraid of the cheap anger of hunters, nor the terror of lightning rods.

- A universal age of unbridled debauchery, like a test of floods, as if it wanted to inject itself into the smallest, almost micro-millimeter poles of man, from which there is no escape, but - true - hardly any salvation. Because between pores there is still inevitably hiding, and secretly and cautiously fleeing some inner misguided memory, refuge: the hanging of eyes without perspectives towards the uncertain future.

Man would almost constantly try the nerve endings of sluggish indifference, beneficial infarct-shadows nestle richly in his heart, while he receives a small pension for the time being. Nothing will come of Mak's captivity, because something is preventing him from doing so and will no longer allow him to exercise even the simplest of actions, which wouldn't hurt if it could continue for another twenty or so years!
There will always be reasons to quit. Sometimes, your body may even reward you for it.
"Quit starving yourself. Look at you.
You're miserable. Help me help you.
Just one smoke. Just one drink. And that's it. No more headaches. No more shakes.
You'll feel like you can think clearly again."
And your body's right. You will feel better. Because change can be painful.
Especially if you're trying to do it alone.
But the saying is true.
If you can push through the pain,
your body will be grateful eventually. And you will gain a new lease on life.
Srishti 4d
A blank page,
stained with black ink,
may hold more truth
than a thousand voices.

It can heal
when no one listens.
It can speak
when you’re too quiet.
It can tell
what hearts forget.
It can feel
what others never see.
power of words are painkiller
M 4d
When I look in the mirror,
I don’t see what they see.
They say I’m cute,
beautiful,
good looking
but none of that ever felt like me.

I wasn’t like this before.
As a kid, I never questioned my reflection,
never measured my worth
by the shape of my face
or the size of my waist.
But somewhere along the way,
the world made me doubt.

The older I get,
the more I shrink into shadows
of what I think I should be.
Pretty, but not enough.
Desired, but only if I fit
some picture perfect fantasy
they scroll past
and save to their dreams.

They say looks don’t matter,
but their eyes speak first
long before their mouths ever do.
And I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I don’t notice.
Tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.

My brother’s voice still echoes
She’s not worth the wait.
When I look in the mirror,
I don’t see what they see.
They say I’m cute,
beautiful,
good looking
but none of that ever felt like me.

I wasn’t like this before.
As a kid, I never questioned my reflection,
never measured my worth
by the shape of my face
or the size of my waist.
But somewhere along the way,
the world made me doubt.

The older I get,
the more I shrink into shadows
of what I think I should be.
Pretty but not enough.
Desired but only if I fit
some picture perfect fantasy
they scroll past
and save to their dreams.

They say looks don’t matter,
but their eyes speak first
long before their mouths ever do.
And I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I don’t notice.
Tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.

My brother’s voice still echoes
She’s not worth the wait.
Ugly.
Words not meant for me to hear,
but now I carry them
like a bruise beneath my skin.
Even makeup can’t cover that.

I straighten my hair,
dress like I’m trying to matter,
smile like I’m confident.
But inside I still feel unseen.
Still feel less.

My ex warned me:
If you gain more weight, I’ll leave.
As if love had a number,
as if my worth was on a scale.
He gained weight too,
but I guess his mirror
was more forgiving than mine.

He’s gone.
But the damage stayed.

Now, when old crushes reach out,
I disappear.
I’m busy.
I’m out of town.
But really,
I’m just hiding
waiting for a version of me
that feels lovable enough
to show up.

I tell myself:
One day, when I fix my body,
when I become beautiful,
then maybe
I’ll let someone see me again.
Maybe
I’ll finally see me too.
Ugly.
Words not meant for me to hear,
but now I carry them
like a bruise beneath my skin.
Even makeup can’t cover that.

I straighten my hair,
dress like I’m trying to matter,
smile like I’m confident.
But inside I still feel unseen.
Still feel less.

My ex warned me:
If you gain more weight, I’ll leave.
As if love had a number,
as if my worth was on a scale.
He gained weight too,
but I guess his mirror
was more forgiving than mine.

He’s gone.
But the damage stayed.

Now, when old crushes reach out,
I disappear.
I’m busy.
I’m out of town.
But really,
I’m just hiding
waiting for a version of me
that feels lovable enough
to show up.

I tell myself
One day, when I fix my body,
when I become beautiful,
then maybe
I’ll let someone see me again.
Maybe
I’ll finally see me too.
10:19 pm, I took a walk with my dog to think about how I was feeling tonight. This is what I was feeling and it turned into a poem so I think.
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