#chooselife - Hello Poetry

Part 3 - H 07 April 2025 "The Last Goodbye (Love Like Wounds)" You were the kind of love they write tragedies about. A wild, aching secret I kept buried beneath my ribs, like a song I wasn’t allowed to sing— but did, anyway. I loved you with every shattered part of me. With hands that never stopped trembling. With a heart that kept returning to your fire, even when it knew I’d be left in ashes. You were the silence after the scream. The hush of pain disguised as comfort. The wound that cut deep so deep— but never stayed. You hurt me in ways I still don’t have names for. Left traces of yourself in my skin like bruises shaped like promises. And still, I loved you. Like I didn’t know better. Like I didn’t know how not to. You touched me and the world disappeared. Not in light— but in shadow. And I swore it was beautiful because I couldn’t bear to call it what it was: lonely. Hollow. Dangerous. I miss you like an addict misses the ache. Like a ghost misses the body it once haunted. I miss you in that quiet, trembling way people miss what destroyed them. And oh— how I remember your crimson red kiss. Forbidden. Fierce. A sacred wound I kept reopening. It tasted like surrender, like sorrow, like the end of the world wrapped in silk. I wore your love like a secret— and bled for it in silence. I still wake up with your name caught between my teeth. Still feel the phantom of you in every breath I take. Still ache for the way you made even pain feel like intimacy. But love should not be something I survive. It should not ask me to trade myself in pieces just to be held. You were my forbidden. My undoing. The ache that sang lullabies in a language only I could understand. But I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep kissing knives and calling it devotion. I can’t keep breaking just to feel something. This— this is my goodbye. Not soft. Not easy. But final. Because I may still grieve you— may still wake up missing the way you held my chaos— but I will not go back. I deserve mornings that don’t start with aching. Hands that touch me without burning. Love that doesn’t leave me emptier than before. I still carry your name in my bones, but it no longer commands me. I still dream of you— but I no longer beg the dream to stay. I loved you with everything I had. And now I let you go with everything I’ve become. You were never forever. You were a wound that taught me what healing could feel like. This is my last goodbye. Not a whisper— a promise. Because I once let you carve yourself into me— but now, I reclaim the space. And that— that is the most beautiful thing I have ever done. My healing journey over the years. It's very long but trust me. It is worth it.

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May 18, 2025

May 18, 2025 at 6:44 AM UTC

Glasshousesystem

The Forbidden Love Series (Part 3)

Part 3 - H 07 April 2025 "The Last Goodbye (Love Like Wounds)" You were the kind of love they write tragedies about. A wild, aching secret I kept buried beneath my ribs, like a song I wasn’t allowed to sing— but did, anyway. I loved you with every shattered part of me. With hands that never stopped trembling. With a heart that kept returning to your fire, even when it knew I’d be left in ashes. You were the silence after the scream. The hush of pain disguised as comfort. The wound that cut deep so deep— but never stayed. You hurt me in ways I still don’t have names for. Left traces of yourself in my skin like bruises shaped like promises. And still, I loved you. Like I didn’t know better. Like I didn’t know how not to. You touched me and the world disappeared. Not in light— but in shadow. And I swore it was beautiful because I couldn’t bear to call it what it was: lonely. Hollow. Dangerous. I miss you like an addict misses the ache. Like a ghost misses the body it once haunted. I miss you in that quiet, trembling way people miss what destroyed them. And oh— how I remember your crimson red kiss. Forbidden. Fierce. A sacred wound I kept reopening. It tasted like surrender, like sorrow, like the end of the world wrapped in silk. I wore your love like a secret— and bled for it in silence. I still wake up with your name caught between my teeth. Still feel the phantom of you in every breath I take. Still ache for the way you made even pain feel like intimacy. But love should not be something I survive. It should not ask me to trade myself in pieces just to be held. You were my forbidden. My undoing. The ache that sang lullabies in a language only I could understand. But I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep kissing knives and calling it devotion. I can’t keep breaking just to feel something. This— this is my goodbye. Not soft. Not easy. But final. Because I may still grieve you— may still wake up missing the way you held my chaos— but I will not go back. I deserve mornings that don’t start with aching. Hands that touch me without burning. Love that doesn’t leave me emptier than before. I still carry your name in my bones, but it no longer commands me. I still dream of you— but I no longer beg the dream to stay. I loved you with everything I had. And now I let you go with everything I’ve become. You were never forever. You were a wound that taught me what healing could feel like. This is my last goodbye. Not a whisper— a promise. Because I once let you carve yourself into me— but now, I reclaim the space. And that— that is the most beautiful thing I have ever done. My healing journey over the years. It's very long but trust me. It is worth it.

111

Upon each step as I walk this earth, mud lies deep beneath my feet. Weather climbing a rocky mountain, to admire a far reaching view within horizons askue. Mud lies deep beneath my feet. weather running as fast as I possibly can, after the last train as it departs the station, under concrete platforms. Mud lies deep beneath my feet. weather walking fields of plains, within sun kissed meadows on a summers day. Mud lies deep beneath my feet. weather rowing a small boat, within the cradle of the river. Under silty bottoms spilling fresh water. Mud lies deep beneath my feet. Weather climbing weathered branches of the mighty oak. Standing strong upon the valleys edge, mud lies deep beneath my feet. Weather running cycling flying or gliding, mud lies deep beneath my feet. Weather running late or running on time, mud lies deep beneath my feet. When my steps are smaller and less than few, mud lies deep beneath my feet. As I draw my last breaths then placed within this earthern ground. Mud lies deep beneath my feet. For all of eternity back to the earth, from which we were all once born. Mud runs deep beneath our feet.

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Aug 10, 2017

Aug 10, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC

I'll never understand how they live with themselves. They condemn death only when it suits them. They judge those who speak their minds While embracing a nation of child-killers. I'll never understand how they live with themselves. Sleep must be hard to come by when you Endorse the murders of millions of children With no more thought than a gardener pruning a pesky **** I'll never understand how they live with themselves. They extinguish the fragile flames of would-be daughters and sons And explain that this heinous crime is Not only acceptable, but essential. I'll never understand how they live with themselves. It must be nearly impossible to stand up straight When the burden of innocent lives swings from your shoulders. Death is so heavy, even if the souls are small.

0

Mar 15, 2017

Mar 15, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC

thirdchild

In Rememberance of Morality

I'll never understand how they live with themselves. They condemn death only when it suits them. They judge those who speak their minds While embracing a nation of child-killers. I'll never understand how they live with themselves. Sleep must be hard to come by when you Endorse the murders of millions of children With no more thought than a gardener pruning a pesky **** I'll never understand how they live with themselves. They extinguish the fragile flames of would-be daughters and sons And explain that this heinous crime is Not only acceptable, but essential. I'll never understand how they live with themselves. It must be nearly impossible to stand up straight When the burden of innocent lives swings from your shoulders. Death is so heavy, even if the souls are small.

16

Some people make me feel heavy... They carry their woes chained to the past -- Eyes low, downcast. Stressing each breath as though it were their last. And I wonder how long it takes to be comfortable with the weight of dead dreams. How do they walk around With the burden of unburied bones on their backs? Held by conditions of the mind. Burdened by the size of their gravitas And they’re falling... Into themselves crushed by the weight of their own contentment. That fatal attraction to complacency -- A gravity to destruction -- A psyche made of black holes. Their thoughts are collapsing When their microcosms meet reality Imploding delusions radiating that hopeless flare. A signal for help. The meltdown, a mental Chernobyl. I’m just waiting to for them to blow up praying there won’t be any casualties. Blow up Inflated egos with hot air And dead works As they babble on in Babylon Spoon fed trash. Faith has no room to operate in a mind of science. What is hope when proof dictates belief? So they have erected Babel’s Tower in their hearts And loan themselves to a system of debt. Invest their golden years as sacrificial time Traded for the wisdom that opened the door to death. If the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, Then knowledge without fear is the beginning of pride. That monster... Shadow of “I am... That stands in the light of the court proclaiming his dominance as the reigning king. Adamant to follow in the footsteps Adam went. The way they lean to their own understanding Until their spines break under the weight of their egos Teetering over the tightrope’s edge. The fall of the fallen is written in their genes Ironed by the conditioned mind. The crease, a solid line between right and wrong They attempt to re-appropriate with the folds of personal truths. Dry cleaned to a false sense of purity Marks that won’t quite come out Stain the fabrics of time. Their morality is a matter of opinion. The cross they bare crushes with neglected facts hidden in plain sight. They embrace fantasies like pillows of bubbles Alarmed when their resting place pops under uncertainty. And they’re falling... In the depths of a dream scared to wake Drowning in their subconscious. So heavy are the lungs With the labor of life. So heavy are their eyes With the labor of attention. Though winged like eagles They have traded flight for earthly pleasures. Lowered their sights from heavenly castles To these fleeting natural treasures. Regal royalty out of place from their thrones Bowing prostrate before rulers with no measure. Give them an inch Now they must slave on their feet To the yard they ***** pyramids for miles and miles and miles. Standard measures for standard living When they choose to cover their world In darkness' cold blanket And invite the warmth of temptation into their beds Sleeping with the enemy unable to satiate The Deadly Seven. Carnal lusts mixed with greed It’s in gluttony they trust Envy to spurn ambitions Too slothful to accept the mission So they whisper a prayer full of doubt hoping he’ll listen Ignited by wrath at the answers condition. They point a finger up at He Puffed up pride with the audacity To curse His name - ****** bitter blasphemy. It’s on his children they blame The disposition of their fortune Not realizing those without these familial ties Are all out cutting deals with lady luck. Many are bound to get stuck. Meanwhile I sit on Cloud 9 Tracing silver linings in dark skies Wishing I could rend the firmament to show them heaven is but a thought away. To believe is the only way I know to escape this purgatory Called life. One must learn to flow with the wind like a leaf To move with His perfect will guided by invisible hands. If these heavy souls could but release the reigns And give him a little control. Remember the authority placed in them… Let Him shoulder their burdens. Their steps will no longer carry the weight of oppression. They would remember their wings to fly. They would remember just how light it feels to be Alive.

0

Aug 24, 2016

Aug 24, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC

keith-black

Weight of the Fallen

Some people make me feel heavy... They carry their woes chained to the past -- Eyes low, downcast. Stressing each breath as though it were their last. And I wonder how long it takes to be comfortable with the weight of dead dreams. How do they walk around With the burden of unburied bones on their backs? Held by conditions of the mind. Burdened by the size of their gravitas And they’re falling... Into themselves crushed by the weight of their own contentment. That fatal attraction to complacency -- A gravity to destruction -- A psyche made of black holes. Their thoughts are collapsing When their microcosms meet reality Imploding delusions radiating that hopeless flare. A signal for help. The meltdown, a mental Chernobyl. I’m just waiting to for them to blow up praying there won’t be any casualties. Blow up Inflated egos with hot air And dead works As they babble on in Babylon Spoon fed trash. Faith has no room to operate in a mind of science. What is hope when proof dictates belief? So they have erected Babel’s Tower in their hearts And loan themselves to a system of debt. Invest their golden years as sacrificial time Traded for the wisdom that opened the door to death. If the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, Then knowledge without fear is the beginning of pride. That monster... Shadow of “I am... That stands in the light of the court proclaiming his dominance as the reigning king. Adamant to follow in the footsteps Adam went. The way they lean to their own understanding Until their spines break under the weight of their egos Teetering over the tightrope’s edge. The fall of the fallen is written in their genes Ironed by the conditioned mind. The crease, a solid line between right and wrong They attempt to re-appropriate with the folds of personal truths. Dry cleaned to a false sense of purity Marks that won’t quite come out Stain the fabrics of time. Their morality is a matter of opinion. The cross they bare crushes with neglected facts hidden in plain sight. They embrace fantasies like pillows of bubbles Alarmed when their resting place pops under uncertainty. And they’re falling... In the depths of a dream scared to wake Drowning in their subconscious. So heavy are the lungs With the labor of life. So heavy are their eyes With the labor of attention. Though winged like eagles They have traded flight for earthly pleasures. Lowered their sights from heavenly castles To these fleeting natural treasures. Regal royalty out of place from their thrones Bowing prostrate before rulers with no measure. Give them an inch Now they must slave on their feet To the yard they ***** pyramids for miles and miles and miles. Standard measures for standard living When they choose to cover their world In darkness' cold blanket And invite the warmth of temptation into their beds Sleeping with the enemy unable to satiate The Deadly Seven. Carnal lusts mixed with greed It’s in gluttony they trust Envy to spurn ambitions Too slothful to accept the mission So they whisper a prayer full of doubt hoping he’ll listen Ignited by wrath at the answers condition. They point a finger up at He Puffed up pride with the audacity To curse His name - ****** bitter blasphemy. It’s on his children they blame The disposition of their fortune Not realizing those without these familial ties Are all out cutting deals with lady luck. Many are bound to get stuck. Meanwhile I sit on Cloud 9 Tracing silver linings in dark skies Wishing I could rend the firmament to show them heaven is but a thought away. To believe is the only way I know to escape this purgatory Called life. One must learn to flow with the wind like a leaf To move with His perfect will guided by invisible hands. If these heavy souls could but release the reigns And give him a little control. Remember the authority placed in them… Let Him shoulder their burdens. Their steps will no longer carry the weight of oppression. They would remember their wings to fly. They would remember just how light it feels to be Alive.

103

The plot unravels in a place where there is a conflict, The Just turns the **** locking arms with the Instinct, Wrapped around a ribbon of constant struggle, Not an inch of movement was seen to loosen the knot, Warped under a sheet of plastic paper it carries the thought, Caught in feet of the moment loved and boggled, Altruid and Maltruid speaking into the world, Reflection of mists and essences scuffled into artificial pearls, It peaks as they peek the unended curiosity, Whilst the mirror is fuzzing and buzzing, Of their frail but truthful simple realities, The key to the treasure they do not see when those eyes are in pus, . . . . They yearn or want to call everybody an "Us".

0

Aug 9, 2016

Aug 9, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC

sam-ishmael-nocum-cruz

The Delusion of the Two Stories

The plot unravels in a place where there is a conflict, The Just turns the **** locking arms with the Instinct, Wrapped around a ribbon of constant struggle, Not an inch of movement was seen to loosen the knot, Warped under a sheet of plastic paper it carries the thought, Caught in feet of the moment loved and boggled, Altruid and Maltruid speaking into the world, Reflection of mists and essences scuffled into artificial pearls, It peaks as they peek the unended curiosity, Whilst the mirror is fuzzing and buzzing, Of their frail but truthful simple realities, The key to the treasure they do not see when those eyes are in pus, . . . . They yearn or want to call everybody an "Us".

17