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Oh no,  
it happens every time.  

History repeats itself  
in so many variations,  
and we’re trying–

not to get lost  
in the lying.  

So many faces,  
vague yet familiar,  

it’s a race to the bottom,  
and we’re barely surviving.  

There’s a ghost  
in the town we used  
to romanticize–

the shadow of a demon  
we all tried to show  
the light.  

And he pointed  
to the mirror–

to show us how  
we’ve become  
a shadow of ourselves,  

a not-so-familiar guise  
we’ve grown accustomed to,  

just to give ourselves  
a glimpse  
of what it feels like  
to be fake happy.  

The past,  
present,  
and future  
are connected–

and it’s all  
going down  
unless we  
stop it  
from happening.  

We can put on  
a facade,  
but there are cracks  
in the foundation.  

History repeats itself,  
in many variations.  
I promise you–

we’re trying.
inspired by Paramore’s “Crave” and the quiet panic of watching history glitch on repeat.

for everyone faking happy, still trying not to lose their mind while the world burns.
I must make it
Even when everything feels too much,
Even when the road is all stone.

I must make it
For the sake of my parents,
For the sacrifices, the sleepless nights,
For their unforgotten dreams—
Just to make mine.
Oi, Warrior, walking the path of hell,
Forge your soul into a blade full of will.
For heaven’s doors are like blades of steel,
Which never yield —
Until you strike them
With a blade born of hellish will.
Hope, this is going to come across like I’m being a tad bit ungrateful.
But I swear I’m not.
I know what you’ve done.
I know who you’ve been to me.
But I need you to understand that sometimes,
I think you are an absolute ****.

You are relentless.
You show up when I want to give in.
When I want to close my eyes and go to sleep,
and never wake again.

HOPE, you come to me in moments when I feel like I’m done.
This is the last battle, and I didn’t win.
I’m okay with that.
I want to lose.
Just LET ME LOSE.

Let me lay here on this cold, ***** floor.
Let me catch hypothermia, lose my toes.
Let me close my eyes and drift away.
Let me sleep for eternity.

Knock.....Knock
Who’s there??
It’s me. HOPE!
GIRL!
Why are you here? WHAT DO YOU WANT?!
They won’t stop knocking me down,
and you keep bringing me back up
just so they can knock me down harder.

I got up enough times.
LOOK AT MY KNEES.
LOOK!!!
Look at my fingers
where I’ve dug them into the earth
just to get on my feet again.

STOP!
Just stop with “there is always tomorrow.”
It WON’T be brighter.
It WON’T be better.
You’re a liar.
A ******* LIAR!!!
I hate you.
Just go away, Hope. Please.



Wait.
Wait, HOPE, I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t.
Hope… thanks for always showing up.
Thanks for being there.
Thanks for not letting me wither away.
Thanks for not letting me wallow in my misery.
Thanks for being relentless.

My dearest HOPE,
without you, they would’ve all won.
But because of you,
I get one more chance to say
*******, I’m still here.

Now,
this doesn’t mean I still don’t think you’re a **** sometimes.
Visit me soon.
I know I will need you again.
A raw conversation with the most relentless, frustrating, and necessary force in a dark time: Hope itself. This is for anyone who has ever been tired of fighting but found themselves getting back up just one more time.
I wear a love-proof vest, swallowing bullets with my face—
all my scars know their taste. My hopes are all on diet to fit
today’s problems; spray-painted days, worries tagged across
the night— each thought a vandalism I can’t scrub away.

Fruitful passions, I can’t stomach passionfruit in my punch.
Life loves to punch back harder— each sip a reminder that
sweetness still bruises. Young & depressed: insecurities
overdressed, confidence underdressed, thoughts pressed
into stress.

Life asks you for a ruler, to lay it down smoother, measuring
the depth of your love. But... it doesn’t apply so well to me,
when I bunked a few lessons as a day-schooler. Always trying
to fit in by being cooler, amongst a circle of friends, but really,
we were just squares— boxed in by our insecurities; angles
sharper than the bonds we bent. And I try to pray long—
but sometimes, I digress. Sorry… what were we saying?

So much emptiness, schemes plotted against me, reality
never stretching as far as dreams. Illuding the fact, illusions
often feel more real. Interluding between horizons: am I ahead,
or beneath the dark where even stars are too shy to come out?

Hope still comes as a guest. Still wishing for superpowers:
invisible to pain, invincible to scars, shapeshifting to belong.
Force fields to block their touch. Time manipulation— just to
keep up with the times. X-ray vision to see through their false
intentions. Superspeed to outrun the pain. Healing to undo my
shame.

But in the end, I have no cape, no mask, no trick of the pen—
I'm only human. And I’ll be human to the end, recalling the
feeling of being young & depressed.
There is a quiet beauty
in those souls society has deemed 'not enough'.

A beauty that glows in the eyes,
pooled with the depth of pain—
a soul that was wounded,
but never broken.

The world sees only their quiet treading.
But I see—
a warrior in rest.

Where can you go
when your mind is the battleground?
Not of ideas,
but of your very existence—

when the judge,
the jury,
and the executioner
all live within.

Does society not see?
No flesh could ever contain
such a fearless warrior,
hiding in themselves
from
themselves
just to walk among us,
mere mortals.
This poem is for the quiet fighters, the ones who have made a home in the battleground of their own mind. You are seen🫂
And I know time isn’t in our hands.
Still move with life, or watch it move
on without you. Either you walk with
time, or time walks away from you.

They gave you a one-star review for
your love, judged your heart, spat into
your scars, dragged your name through
the mud. Still, don’t paste their words
onto your heart.

Because when you live a better life, they’ll
circle back to copy. You’ll ask yourself,
“why do the ones who once overlooked
me now want to over-book me… or cop me?”

All the seconds you felt like sloppy seconds
will become the taste of their main course.
And what they called leftovers is the meal
they'll hunger for the most.

Remember:

Time is a thief, it steals your hours, your hope,
your years. But don’t let wasted time rob you  
of what’s real. Don’t let it steal the reason you live.
My heart is torn, both caught and worn,
My thoughts collide—can hope be born?
Emotions race, I’m lost in space,
As reason breaks in fear’s embrace.

My dreams ignite, then burn through night,
They curl to ash in moonless light.
I ask myself: Should I take flight,
Or stay and rise, prepare to fight?

Hope sways like wind, then slips away,
While fear would lead my soul astray.
Will care reach out, or will it fall?
Do I dissolve, or brave it all?

What’s real can bend, can fade or fold;
Still leaves its chill within my bones.
Like dusk and dawn, I bend and break—
Half-light, half-dark, I lie awake.

And truth may come through quiet speech:
It calls me still, just out of reach.
Do I collapse or play my part?
Do I drown, or chase the stars?

If the end draws near, must I fear?
My chest is tight, my thoughts unclear.
Yet from the storm, I steal a spark,
A borrowed flame to light the dark.

They speak of ends in heavy tones,
But breaking shows me what I've known:
I long for touch, a vow to keep,
A hand to hold, a soul to meet.

So if all must fall and skies descend,
Let not the fall be where I end.
Let breaking shape a softer heart,
Not built of shields but set apart
With one who stands, hand in hand,
When none but silence filled my land.

No hand reached through, no form held true,
No thunder cracked, no heavens split.
Yet still I breathe, I do not quit.
And that, perhaps, is enough—
To stand.
This poem came from a tough time when I was trying to hold on and find a bit of hope. It’s about choosing to keep going, even when things feel like they might fall apart.
Joshua Phelps Sep 25
oh sad eyes,
look up,
try to see—

it’s not over.

you didn’t break,
you didn’t falter.

i know it’s hard,
harder to deny—

sometimes you
have to let them go
before your soul dies.

you can’t carry two worlds
when only one is yours.

look at me,
sad eyes,

i promise
it’ll be okay.

sometimes you
have to build walls,
draw a line in the sand.

sad eyes,
please understand—

it doesn’t mean hate,
it means you chose peace
over conflict.

maybe one day
you’ll cross paths again,
and both of you
will understand.

sad eyes,
look up,
try to see—

this is not
the end of you.
A poem I wrote to remind myself that choosing peace doesn’t mean failure. Sometimes protecting your soul means letting go, even when it hurts.
Right here: surface level regrets— a smile rehearsed hides too many
oceans underneath. To lose the mark of a purpose, drowning in
the weight of it, falling asleep too far from tomorrow, and begging
the clock for hours to borrow.

I was almost crushed, a branch torn from its root— still green,
still alive, but already withering in the dirt. Among circles of people,
most days stack like square bricks; I fly too low, chasing reflections,
the heron staring back from water’s despair.

Fresh lipstick still stings— beauty sharpened into a lethal injection.
Kindness can be your only mistake, forcing a straight smile onto a
crooked day. Faith rubs raw against friction; love can be a salvation,
but fatal is it's attraction.

But to stay still, makes a silhouette pinned to the wall, lonely but
lovely in outline— as the shadows above become surface level
regrets. But tomorrow, I’ll trace the same lines again, hoping each
cycle might end better than the last.
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