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I lost, I broke, I burned to the ground,
Yet from my ashes, my crown unbound.
Through fire and fury, I carved my way,
Not for the world, but for the price I’d pay.

With sharpened mind and heart untamed,
I faced the void and felt no shame.
I reach for heights no soul has known,
Not for praise, but to claim my throne.

Where meaning blooms through love and pain,
Where every scar is gold to gain.
I’ll fall again—that truth I own,
But in each fall, my strength has grown.

I rise for me, for kin, for fire,
To light the path and take it higher.
Not for envy, nor for fame,
But for love, for will, for the name.

So let them watch, let them see,
What man can be when truly free,
When fire transforms to endless light,
When loss becomes the fuel for might.

Golden I rise, no crown I need,
The gold within is all I’ll heed.
I build, I climb, I break the chain—
For in my soul, the gold remains.
The Golden Remains” is the next chapter in my journey, a continuation of the ideas explored in my earlier work, "Golden, I Rise." While "Golden, I Rise" spoke of embracing the struggle, forging strength from pain, and building a path fueled by resilience, "The Golden Remains" takes that journey further. It reflects a deeper understanding of the internal process—the refining of one's spirit, the realization that the true gold is the wisdom, growth, and love we carry within. It is the product of all the fire and struggle, the golden truth we earn by walking through hardship and emerging unbroken. The crown is within, the gold is earned, and the journey continues.
d m 2d
i wrote  
again.  

(a minor miracle: after  
8 years of not caring for the craft
let's call it deviceful degeneration,
unintentional uninspiration)  
                                    
the thing about  
nearly getting better  
is  
you start  
thinking you're better.  

i wrote something this week  
(it wasn’t bad)  
sat back in the chair like  
i'd just nailed  
a wasp to a wall  
with a pencil.  

but this morning—  
the poem’s still there  
and the chair still squeaks  
and the rot in my ribs  
hasn’t gone anywhere.  

eight years  
of eating my own teeth  
chewing time like  
it owed me something.  
"writer’s block"  
was a nice excuse  
for cowardice.  
so was  
"perfectionism"  
but now  
i’ve got words again.  
& i just realised
they don’t save me.  
they never did.  

the poems may come back  
but what if the fulfilment
doesn’t?
  
so what now?  
what’s left  
after the confetti  
after the applause  
dies in your own throat?

you write.  
maybe you write.  

even if  
no one  
is waiting.  

even if  
you  
aren’t either.  

& if the ache comes back  
(which it will)  
you greet it at the door  
let it crash on the couch  
pour it a drink  
& say  
fine.  
one more night
Depression is a weight you can't  see                                                                        ­                                        
 Invading every fiber of your being                                                                     ­                                        
A black cloud that you carry with you                                                  
                                                                ­                                                        
It affects all that you say & do                                                                       ­                                          
A heavy sigh can never clear                                                                    ­                                                 
The pain & hopelessness of the years                                                                              ­                                                    
It can feel so suffocatingly tight            
                                               ­                                                                   
Just to breathe is a fight for your life                                                                      ­                                                    
 I 've heard people say you can't give in                                                                              ­                                 
But dying is less painful than living                                                         
  An uphill battle that never ends                                                                     ­                                              
Climbing that, you can lose wind                                                                          ­                                                      
  I have never made it to the top myself,                                                                        ­                                                   
So for now, I live in this limbo of hell
I wonder,
I ponder,
The path I need to take.

I march my way in grassy fields,
To see what I can make.

I trod here,
Trod there,
I trod to find my stake.

For each path hurts its own,
Each path has its wake.

I hike thee,
I climb free,
A mountain I should quake.

The paths are getting harder now,
I tremble and I break.

A wall here,
A crack here?
I must find flaws I forsake.

Each wall built that blocks my path,
Brick by brick I take.

Now a bend,
Sweet end,
The last is not fake.

My journey had gone coming quick,
It is final, my sake.
A journey each takes.
Andy Mann Apr 4
The voices dwell deep in my mind
You are nobody
You are useless
You know nothing.
Beaten down,
Brought to my knees,
Gasping for air,
I cannot breathe.
I believe.
But this belief sows my destruction
I weep for the dead
Great but now fed
To the worms in the dust
The dust I will join
Sooner than I think.
What good am I among these?

I have wasted the reservoir of time
In sin, in doubt, in fear
Fear of what I left undone.
Where do I go from here?
The voices came calling again.

But I cannot continue like this.
I give up or shut up.
Shut up and act.
Act and believe.

Even if that belief is beyond reason
Beyond my mind to comprehend
The words of a lunatic.

I am greatness personified
if I believe
I am the master of my own universe
if I believe.

I am the king of dust, not its minion
And I will return to my kingdom
When I am done
But not today.
This poem was written during a moment of deep internal struggle. It’s about the voice in the mind that tells us we are nothing—and the quiet resistance that rises in spite of it.
It's inspired by Walt Whitman's “O Me! O Life!”.
You are in the corner you backed me into                                                                   ­                                              
 How does it feel to wear the other shoe?                                                                        ­                             
Tables have turned & I'm not going back                                                                         ­                                                  
 to being the rag doll in your attacks                                                                     ­                                               
Who's wearing your pants right now.              
                                                                ­                                               
Who's mouthing off, feeling **** proud?                                                                       ­                                              
Don't you just want to take control?                                                         ­                                                                 ­             
                                                   ­                                                               
 See how really deep you dug your hole?                                                                   ­                                        
I'm sure you don't know what this is                                                                    ­                                                      
  I always sat there & took your ****                                                                        ­                                                       
I think it's about time that you & me                                                                      ­                                       
Changed our shoe's permanently
Power struggles are real .
Death is a reminder that I’m alive.
Depressed, not skive.

To feel a grasp till I not,
I shall do —for what I can’t.
Seeing my tree grow with rot,
my roots shall grasp —for all has spent.
For growth in stagnation,
I have found my revelation.

For the clouds of today are swept away,
I will bathe —oh lil’ light, to find my way.
For in darkness, I crawl —inch by inch,
every single day;
The moon of dark has finally left its pitch.
Crawling— To find you, oh lil’ light, I pray.
A reminder for those who are lost.
Vida Mar 30
I've only recently been able to admit to the idea that I am depressed
No
A person with depression
I know I have things
I have a history
I think in my head an attempt isn't depression
Just a bad decision

Symptoms of depression include
• Irritability
• Difficulty concentrating
• Lack of energy
• insomnia or excessive sleeping

Obviously I don't have those
I'm not irritable I'm probably just hungry
I haven't been able to concentrate my whole life. Why start now
I'm a teenager of course i'm tired
It's not sleeping excessively I just like naps

Its that **** phone
If your room weren't such a mess
Get out more
Socialize
There's light at the end of the-

Shut up

Two years ago I tried to end my life
Downed a bottle of pain meds and a canister of albuteral
All to wake up with just a sore throat
It didn't work so here I am again
Against my own worse judgements
Too tired to try again so I'm just gonna go to sleep

So now I'm going to sleep
tomorrow I will remember how to be happy.
And then by 2pm I'll forget again
Completing the circle
I currently only have two followers on HePo
With the amount of views, my poems are getting Please help a girl out and follow me 🙏🏾
Vida Mar 30
I don't think the world would comprehend what I mean when I say I have intuitive thoughts.
When I say I think about grabbing a knife from the cupboard and
I'm not gonna finish that one
The thoughts bleed from my head.
I look like carrie
Obscene words cover me from top to bottom
Next time you get in the shower you should water board yourself
Put a fork in the microwave and watch it explode in your face
Get ready in the morning with a nice ice bath for your face, just use boiling water
Clip your nails, clean off. Keep cutting.
You should shave until there's nothing left
Bleed
Cut
Bleed
But those intrinsive thoughts aren't silly and funny
So i'm gonna stick to
You should eat that whole jar of nutella
Obviously this isnt one of my best but how do you get through a rough patch. You write
“They tell me to fear the homeless in LA but I do not. They say women alone at night should not be out, but I have my dogs, and we frequent empty parks after dark, side-by-side with encampments, and we watch (my dogs and I) the homeless cart their belongs by. Well, my dog barks.

They hand me giant jugs over chin-high fences, to ask if I would fill them; their freshest water exists from a dog park spout. Last week I saw a man struggling to press a cardboard slat into the grate of an open sewage pipe, his secret resting place. About a month before, a man with all his worldly belongings strewn along the plastic floor of a porta-***** so smeared in ****t, you’d not dare touch a square inch. Rain was pouring, and he needed to sleep with a roof.

And I think, I am not so different from them. Me, with my white skin and pretty smile; people treat you nicer when you’re pretty. When you can put a face on and say straight-sounding things, and not speak of months spent living in your car, sleeping on street-sides, praying for no cops. Or of deep pain——no, do not speak of that. Too much pain makes people afraid, makes people want to look away. How no one noticed the man hiding his face in the sewage drain, the man sleeping in the ****t-smeared porta-toilet,   because   every   person   noticed,   and   just   decided   not   to   look.

and I think about      how many false narratives are propagated by fear——“
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