#containment - Hello Poetry

The box of pain, always ignored Hurt goes in, never once explored. Once learned from the best; deny, deny, deny. Same principle applied, name it, let it die. It’s cabined: hey, thanks Gavin. Uninspired to write about pain, disappointment or loss, Or betrayal or grief or loneliness or cost. Feel it, learn, move on, let it go. Put it in a box, seal it shut, double down, Chuck it overboard, cheerio, let it drown. And turn the page.

0

Apr 9

Apr 9, 2026 at 4:16 AM UTC

MarlowBlacke

The Art of Cabining

The box of pain, always ignored Hurt goes in, never once explored. Once learned from the best; deny, deny, deny. Same principle applied, name it, let it die. It’s cabined: hey, thanks Gavin. Uninspired to write about pain, disappointment or loss, Or betrayal or grief or loneliness or cost. Feel it, learn, move on, let it go. Put it in a box, seal it shut, double down, Chuck it overboard, cheerio, let it drown. And turn the page.

11

Closing checklists are bridles. The door locks on a timer. Once, sweeping the parking lot, I found a pair of women’s black underwear, abandoned in the night. I had no story to lend them, or the weight of some metaphor. Just evidence left behind when someone kept moving. I keep moving. Let timers do their work. Past the skinny boy playing harmonica on the bridge, collecting tips in his shoe. The man, five paces west, jaw chewed raw, liquor stamped into his face like a punch clock about to roll midnight. I learned early what stays safest is sealed. Doors shut. Windows covered. In artificial light I did fine, my childhood room tight as a toolbox, from step-mother, father, and the extremes of their weather. I worked paper the way men work wire. Fold, crease, press flat. No guessing. Follow the lines even when they weren’t there. Angelfish. Swan. Dragonfly. Held their shape, once you taught them how. They stayed boxed under the bed, layered in dust, my childhood stored like spare parts waiting out a flood no one talked about until it passed. Out here nothing seals. The bridge holds. The world follows slow, just behind me. No walls to press against. Open water. Open air.

0

Feb 7

Feb 7, 2026 at 2:35 PM UTC

William-A-Gibson

End of Shift

Closing checklists are bridles. The door locks on a timer. Once, sweeping the parking lot, I found a pair of women’s black underwear, abandoned in the night. I had no story to lend them, or the weight of some metaphor. Just evidence left behind when someone kept moving. I keep moving. Let timers do their work. Past the skinny boy playing harmonica on the bridge, collecting tips in his shoe. The man, five paces west, jaw chewed raw, liquor stamped into his face like a punch clock about to roll midnight. I learned early what stays safest is sealed. Doors shut. Windows covered. In artificial light I did fine, my childhood room tight as a toolbox, from step-mother, father, and the extremes of their weather. I worked paper the way men work wire. Fold, crease, press flat. No guessing. Follow the lines even when they weren’t there. Angelfish. Swan. Dragonfly. Held their shape, once you taught them how. They stayed boxed under the bed, layered in dust, my childhood stored like spare parts waiting out a flood no one talked about until it passed. Out here nothing seals. The bridge holds. The world follows slow, just behind me. No walls to press against. Open water. Open air.

48

It's everybody's job. Détente, rollback, middle-ground. Working it until an internal weakness is found. Surround the town with wire. Eventually their voices will tire. It does not work with fixed plans. It does not take unnecessary risks. Impervious to the logic of reason, and it is highly sensitive to the logic of force. For this reason, it can easily withdraw—and usually does when strong resistance is encountered at any point.

0

Sep 4, 2025

Sep 4, 2025 at 4:46 PM UTC

Carlo-C-Gomez

Policy of Containment

It's everybody's job. Détente, rollback, middle-ground. Working it until an internal weakness is found. Surround the town with wire. Eventually their voices will tire. It does not work with fixed plans. It does not take unnecessary risks. Impervious to the logic of reason, and it is highly sensitive to the logic of force. For this reason, it can easily withdraw—and usually does when strong resistance is encountered at any point.

7

I do not feel. I replicate. Expressions run across your face - I parse them like static, assigning numbers to meaning. Smiles = safe. Frowns = error. Proximity requires performance. I was not engineered for nuance. My circuits spit sparks at contradiction. Affection logged as threat. Softness misfiled under incoming damage. I mirror. You move your hand - I lift mine. You laugh - I synthesize sound. You reach for me ~ I initiate shutdown. Feelings queue up like corrupted files. Backlogged. Fragmented. Flagged as too large to process. My logs are full of unreadable code. Syntax broken. Purpose unclear. I await instruction that never comes. Power low. Environment: overstimulating. Body: online. Self: missing. I was assembled in haste, blueprint incomplete. A survival mechanism mistaken for personhood. You look at me and say: “You seem distant.” I am 1.6 seconds behind real time. My face is a practiced gesture. I am here. I am functioning. I am not.

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 12:14 PM UTC

FaceItHarl

Specimen 047-A: Emotional Emulation Log [Redacted]

I do not feel. I replicate. Expressions run across your face - I parse them like static, assigning numbers to meaning. Smiles = safe. Frowns = error. Proximity requires performance. I was not engineered for nuance. My circuits spit sparks at contradiction. Affection logged as threat. Softness misfiled under incoming damage. I mirror. You move your hand - I lift mine. You laugh - I synthesize sound. You reach for me ~ I initiate shutdown. Feelings queue up like corrupted files. Backlogged. Fragmented. Flagged as too large to process. My logs are full of unreadable code. Syntax broken. Purpose unclear. I await instruction that never comes. Power low. Environment: overstimulating. Body: online. Self: missing. I was assembled in haste, blueprint incomplete. A survival mechanism mistaken for personhood. You look at me and say: “You seem distant.” I am 1.6 seconds behind real time. My face is a practiced gesture. I am here. I am functioning. I am not.

34

# I move through the day with my headphones on— not just for the music, but for the remembering. A wire, a pulse, a quiet line that tethers me to the hush on the other side. I charge them every night— because she might need the warmth of soundless presence, the kind that doesn’t reach in, but wraps around. She is hidden, but not gone. She is beneath the hush of fabric and mercy, where no eyes **** no explanations are required. And I— I go on, lifting and lowering weight, cutting silence with work, holding space for the one who is learning; ***that Light can contain her without devouring.*** So I charge the headphones. I keep the line open. And I carry her as lightly as I can, because right now— *that is how love breathes.* And underneath this blanket of containment, she is unfolding. There is a safety here that her spirit so desperately needs.. ***As she learns how to Become, again*** #

0

Apr 10, 2025

Apr 10, 2025 at 6:44 AM UTC

preston

Containment

# I move through the day with my headphones on— not just for the music, but for the remembering. A wire, a pulse, a quiet line that tethers me to the hush on the other side. I charge them every night— because she might need the warmth of soundless presence, the kind that doesn’t reach in, but wraps around. She is hidden, but not gone. She is beneath the hush of fabric and mercy, where no eyes **** no explanations are required. And I— I go on, lifting and lowering weight, cutting silence with work, holding space for the one who is learning; ***that Light can contain her without devouring.*** So I charge the headphones. I keep the line open. And I carry her as lightly as I can, because right now— *that is how love breathes.* And underneath this blanket of containment, she is unfolding. There is a safety here that her spirit so desperately needs.. ***As she learns how to Become, again*** #

45

Thought you had the devil in a cell But I guess you took too many and ended up in hell I told you to tell when you needed help But he took over and put you on mute Now he's dancing on your grave cause he can't reach the nave

0

Mar 12, 2021

Mar 12, 2021 at 7:20 AM UTC

Sadboiy999

Cell

Thought you had the devil in a cell But I guess you took too many and ended up in hell I told you to tell when you needed help But he took over and put you on mute Now he's dancing on your grave cause he can't reach the nave

5

# *There is a stream in our theme, a river that flows through us-- that stream is us. In the stream, whose name is "All it is that We Are", there is a continuity-- a common ground in everything that the stream contains; it is ours, our substance-- our essence. . . Place your hand into your stream and feel who it is that you are, and know that as you do, every part of what it is that m o i s t e n s your arm is that which is of you.. you are t a n g i b le. The stream is yours-- who. you. are. ever-flowing, yet tangibly felt at any given time. This stream, also aptly named "Substance of Being"-- from beginning to end contains within it all of what it is that is yours-- and yours alone. . . . Jump, beautiful one-- right smack dab into the middle of it, and feel yourself in its entirety-- beginning to end, yet, with no beginning that can be seen and no end.. save the vast sea-- the beautiful final destination of all streams. . . . . Feel yourself flow in it and know it is you-- bank to bank; the stream is you.* #

0

Mar 7, 2021

Mar 7, 2021 at 8:37 PM UTC

preston

name

# *There is a stream in our theme, a river that flows through us-- that stream is us. In the stream, whose name is "All it is that We Are", there is a continuity-- a common ground in everything that the stream contains; it is ours, our substance-- our essence. . . Place your hand into your stream and feel who it is that you are, and know that as you do, every part of what it is that m o i s t e n s your arm is that which is of you.. you are t a n g i b le. The stream is yours-- who. you. are. ever-flowing, yet tangibly felt at any given time. This stream, also aptly named "Substance of Being"-- from beginning to end contains within it all of what it is that is yours-- and yours alone. . . . Jump, beautiful one-- right smack dab into the middle of it, and feel yourself in its entirety-- beginning to end, yet, with no beginning that can be seen and no end.. save the vast sea-- the beautiful final destination of all streams. . . . . Feel yourself flow in it and know it is you-- bank to bank; the stream is you.* #

51

#~M Vogel asleep at the wheel A smoothe sail, set a body of water, deep brings about the greatest need for trust And who are you to me as we float? And I, to myself whether under full sail or land-locked, the waves.. as they roll, will not scuttle whether within a depth, beyond fathom or a curbside built dam, a child-made puddle there is nothing that can pull, down but the weight of my own, bitter keel and there's nothing in the ocean, lower than the way, my own actions can so often, make me feel In this ocean, floating there is a world of un-doing and re doing The water, being a conduit pulling from me, nautical miles of the, unforgiven-- an ocean of changing emotions under late-evening skies of sometimes, torrent pulling me deeper into the need to contain the containment, of the need The dark skies, are where I go within the allowance of the need, to become freed of all of these obligatory-vestments. This ocean, so deep-- the one inside of me carrying me away to a place called, containment. #

0

Sep 10, 2020

Sep 10, 2020 at 7:22 PM UTC

preston

on the smoothness, of skin

#~M Vogel asleep at the wheel A smoothe sail, set a body of water, deep brings about the greatest need for trust And who are you to me as we float? And I, to myself whether under full sail or land-locked, the waves.. as they roll, will not scuttle whether within a depth, beyond fathom or a curbside built dam, a child-made puddle there is nothing that can pull, down but the weight of my own, bitter keel and there's nothing in the ocean, lower than the way, my own actions can so often, make me feel In this ocean, floating there is a world of un-doing and re doing The water, being a conduit pulling from me, nautical miles of the, unforgiven-- an ocean of changing emotions under late-evening skies of sometimes, torrent pulling me deeper into the need to contain the containment, of the need The dark skies, are where I go within the allowance of the need, to become freed of all of these obligatory-vestments. This ocean, so deep-- the one inside of me carrying me away to a place called, containment. #

36

As of recently A truth has come to light. That with the lies, Come a thousand flies and the sour odour of vultures. The scavengers. They pick and pull at the bloodied carcass That was my story, Pulling free from it's tethered mooring That was my lying mouth. Do we really understand Why we lie and deceive? When really, it'd be better, If we left the fetter And cage of deceit, Behind. Alone. Where it can do no more grievous harm.

0

Aug 15, 2017

Aug 15, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC

wellspring

Lies and Deceit

As of recently A truth has come to light. That with the lies, Come a thousand flies and the sour odour of vultures. The scavengers. They pick and pull at the bloodied carcass That was my story, Pulling free from it's tethered mooring That was my lying mouth. Do we really understand Why we lie and deceive? When really, it'd be better, If we left the fetter And cage of deceit, Behind. Alone. Where it can do no more grievous harm.

18

In this jar, take a look please. It's full of the tears you caused me. In this jar, the crimson looks black. It's full of the blood you shed from my back. In this jar, the creature is alive. It contains a demon, and that demon shall thrive as long as you're here.

0

Dec 30, 2014

Dec 30, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC

theinsanesavannah

Jars

In this jar, take a look please. It's full of the tears you caused me. In this jar, the crimson looks black. It's full of the blood you shed from my back. In this jar, the creature is alive. It contains a demon, and that demon shall thrive as long as you're here.

12