#contemporarypoetry
When memories of T-Pain fade,
And how he sang without an aid,
I lean into that small pink cloud
That floats above the noisy crowd.
The air is stuffy, warm, and high,
With no one else but you and I.
No logic here, no static rules,
No colder truths or rigid schools.
It’s only us, it’s you and me,
Could we become? Or could it be?
The weight of days began to fall,
The heavy cost of knowing all.
It tumbled down beneath our shroud,
Safe underneath this drifting cloud,
Where you and me, we are, are we?
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 5:24 AM UTC
⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem IV
The spoon gave up first.
Not the coffee,
not the light,
not even the fridge
with its night‑shift sighs –
the spoon.
It lay in the mug
like a cold, silver protest,
refusing to stir anything
that even resembled effort.
I nudged it.
It didn’t move.
I nudged it again.
It responded with the quiet authority
of someone who has already drafted
their resignation letter.
Apparently,
it was tired of being the only thing
expected to stay polished
in a kitchen full of quitters.
The coffee had abandoned
its rescue business yesterday.
The light still squinted
like it hadn’t slept.
The silence –
the same one that’s been gathering
its own dust and hair since last night –
sat between us,
unhelpful as ever.
And I –
well, I wasn’t exactly
a motivational poster either.
So the spoon decided
it was done performing.
Done swirling hope into mornings.
Done pretending to be helpful.
It leaned against the mug’s rim,
trembling slightly –
not from effort,
but from the relief
of finally choosing itself.
And honestly,
I couldn’t blame it.
Some days,
even the silverware
has better boundaries
than I do.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 2:39 PM UTC
A cockroach knows a cockroach—
not by insignia,
not by the parchment framed behind mahogany,
but by the odor of survival,
that cold administrative hunger
that outlasts every anthem, every oath.
They know each other by residue.
By the practiced contempt
folded beneath public language.
By the elegant speech of sacrifice
delivered while the people’s bread
still clings to their teeth.
Neither sovereign nor savior—
only leeches lacquered in ceremony,
feeding through the arteries of the republic,
calling extraction governance,
calling decay order.
They do not arrive as tyrants do.
No drums.
No boots striking the square.
Only robes, citations, televised restraint—
the slow confidence of men
who believe institutions belong to them
by natural right.
And so the rot advances quietly.
Through adjournments.
Through sealed rooms.
Through the grammar of procedure.
Like termites in cathedral wood,
they hollow the structure from within
while praising its strength in public.
Their loyalty is primitive and exact:
hunger recognizing hunger,
filth answering filth,
one infestation sustaining another
inside the same exhausted machinery.
Cockroaches gather where public trust once stood upright.
In courts.
In studios.
In ministerial corridors perfumed
with constitutional language
and the odor of managed truth.
They feed upon justice ceremonially—
turning law into spectacle,
verdict into theatre,
delay into doctrine.
Priests of process,
parasites of the nation—
they inherit the shrine by stripping it bare,
then preach sanctity over the emptied altar.
And when the streets finally remember themselves,
when students, workers, lawyers, families
begin speaking in one rising voice,
when the screen itself burns white with outrage—
the script changes.
Suddenly corruption has a smaller face.
A safer body.
A more disposable name.
Now the disease is “fake degrees.”
Now the infestation is narrowed
to the minor and replaceable—
as though the great engines of theft
were built by clerks alone.
Strange how power launders its language.
How an insult hurled at millions
returns as precision.
How the same mouth that stripped dignity
from a generation
now retreats into footnotes,
clarifications,
televised innocence.
Even this naming feels too clean—
as if language stood outside what it serves.
But memory is stubborn.
People remember the laughter.
The contempt.
The rehearsed humiliation
disguised as public wisdom.
And slowly they begin to understand:
the law is not sacred because men recite it.
A robe does not cleanse decay.
A bench is still wood—
still elevation—
still vulnerable to the weight seated upon it.
That is the terror beneath every failing order—
not protest,
not outrage,
not even exposure—
but recognition.
The instant the public looks at power
without reverence,
without hypnosis,
without fear—
and dares to name the cockroach
while it sits upon the bench.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 1:10 PM UTC
⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem I
(A small morning rebellion, starring a mug that refuses to help.)
The coffee didn’t even try.
It sat in the mug, dark and stubborn,
informing me through a thin veil of steam
that it was done with the rescue business.
Apparently, I am on my own.
The steam rose in a slow,
disappointed shrug –
the kind you give a friend
who never learns.
Light leaned into the kitchen sideways,
squinting,
looking like it had slept fitfully
and wasn’t ready for a conversation.
The fridge hummed with the heavy,
oxygen‑starved solidarity
of a night‑shift worker
who just wants to clock out.
The spoon was useless.
It lay on the counter,
feigning a deep, silver sleep
to avoid being involved.
There was no grand epiphany.
No metaphor waiting in the shadows
to make this meaningful.
Just a room,
a cold caffeine resignation,
and the quiet realization
that the day isn’t a performance –
it’s simply a space
where I have to learn
how to stand
without being held up.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 7:26 AM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF™: “Physical Layer Failure Notice (Analog Glitch)” (part VI)
Where the body refuses optimization – and the system finally admits it.
[Physical Layer Failure Notice: 00:00]
System ready.
Persona stable.
Body: non‑compliant.
Cold surface detected.
Piano keys below comfort threshold.
Skin temperature mismatch.
[00:01]
Grip instability registered.
Fingers fail to maintain curated elegance.
Micro‑tremor detected in index and ring finger.
Cause: biological fatigue.
Correction attempt: unsuccessful.
Aesthetic posture deviates by 2.4°.
Symmetry compromised.
Recalibration denied by physical layer.
[00:02]
Unexpected weight event.
Instrument mass exceeds projected value.
Shoulder strain rising.
Spine alignment drifting outside approved parameters.
Persona requests soft‑focus compensation.
Camera refuses:
“Analog obstruction cannot be blurred.”
[00:03]
Biological noise detected.
Heartbeat irregular.
Breath unsmoothed.
Cough event: unfiltered.
System attempts to mute audio.
Body overrides with full‑volume exhale.
Error: sound originates from non‑digital source.
[00:04]
Reflection check initiated.
Mirror returns unapproved texture.
Surface detail exceeds smoothing capacity.
Resolution mismatch between expected and observed self.
Persona initiates glow‑up protocol.
Mirror responds:
“Request denied. Physical layer locked.”
[00:05]
Thermal imbalance rising.
Heat signatures inconsistent with curated calm.
Sweat detected along hairline.
Moisture flagged as “non‑aesthetic artifact.”
System attempts evaporation via increased lighting.
Body counters with additional perspiration.
Loop persists.
[00:06]
Hunger ping.
Stomach generates low‑frequency rumble.
Signal classified as “primitive, non‑brand‑safe.”
Persona attempts suppression.
Body ignores request.
[00:07]
Emotional latency spike.
Unscheduled feeling detected.
Origin: unknown.
Classification: incompatible with persona’s approved palette.
System attempts reframe.
Body resists.
Error: affect cannot be reformatted.
[00:08]
Analog glitch confirmed.
Physical layer refuses compliance.
Persona unable to overwrite hardware constraints.
Humanity detected.
Severity: critical.
Persistence: non‑optional.
[00:09]
System overridden by Physical Layer.
Persona: offline.
Algorithm: blinded.
(End of Log)
The keys are cold, and for the first time today, I am not ready to be believed.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 11:16 AM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF ™: “The Vanishing Act (System Log)” (part V)
[System Log: 00:00]
Initialization complete.
Gallery lights stable.
Silence calibrated to museum-grade stillness.
(scan: 0 threats found)
[00:01]
Entering Approval Queue.
14 comments suspended in soft blue limbo –
breathing faintly,
unsure whether they deserve to exist.
(status: pending)
[00:02]
Curator begins routine maintenance.
Wipes fingerprints from the glass,
polishes reflections until they show
only light,
never faces.
(action: remove noise)
[00:03]
First deletion executed.
A small tremor in the system –
like a broom passing over a floor
that remembers footsteps.
(entry removed)
[00:04]
Second deletion.
Third.
Seventh.
The rhythm becomes soothing –
a metronome of absence.
(moderated)
(moderated)
(moderated)
[00:05]
Silence deepens.
The gallery hums with curated emptiness.
The curator leans closer to the screen,
searching for the last particle of noise.
(optimize visibility)
[00:06]
Unexpected loop detected.
A comment reappears.
Then another.
Residual data.
Ghost entries.
Artifacts of someone who should not be here.
(error: cannot delete)
[00:07]
System attempts correction.
Re-indexing.
Re-filtering.
Re-erasing.
The curator clicks faster,
as if speed could rewrite reality.
(override: approved absence)
[00:08]
Silence achieved.
All entries cleared.
All traces removed.
All noise eliminated.
(queue empty)
[00:09]
But something is missing.
A faint outline where a person used to be –
a shape the system cannot classify.
(unresolved anomaly)
[00:10]
Final scan.
No threats detected.
No comments pending.
No voices waiting.
Only the curator,
and the echo of her own erasures.
(system stable)
[00:11]
User not found.
Curator not found.
Lights on.
Gallery empty.
(complete disappearance)
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 11:28 AM UTC
⭐THE POLISHED SELF ™: “The Curator of Authenticity” (part IV)
(In this museum, even the truth is carefully lit.)
Admission is free,
but the cost is your attention.
The first thing you notice
is the framing.
Not the exhibit itself,
but the borders —
the way the edges
decide what counts as real.
In this museum,
truth dies at the margins.
The clutter just outside the shot,
the Tuesday loneliness cropped out,
the half‑finished thought
left on the cutting‑room floor.
The frame is the weapon;
the image is the alibi.
Every morning,
the Curator of Authenticity
arrives before the lights come on.
They dust the curated spontaneity,
straighten the effortless charm,
adjust the angle of the
“just woke up like this” exhibit
so it looks convincingly unarranged.
They polish the fingerprints
off the glass case,
leaving only the scent of
industrial‑grade sincerity.
They replace the wilted emotions
with fresher ones –
still organic,
but sourced from a more photogenic batch.
By the time the museum opens,
everything looks
perfectly unplanned.
Visitors wander through
the Gallery of Visible Selves,
whispering reverently
at the authenticity on display.
Most don’t notice
the tiny inconsistencies –
a shadow falling
in the wrong direction,
a smile too symmetrical
to be accidental.
But I do.
I walk unlit,
the only shadow
the museum didn’t plan for.
Moving slowly,
letting my eyes adjust
to the curated glow,
I find it –
a thin film of dust
the Curator missed.
A trace of something
unoptimized,
unpresentable,
unapproved.
A human residue.
And for a moment,
the whole museum
feels fragile –
as if one breath
could unsettle the exhibits,
as if the truth,
patient and unframed,
were waiting
just outside the shot.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 10:24 AM UTC
The flayed flow of the **** forming a liturgy to the carrion soul of rot.
The ferrous suffocation of sanguine screams deafen as the sinew of cacophonous loneliness binds.
Love? A Petulant abrasion.
In each breath crawling towards its hemorrhagic horror; desperate for the tender affliction coiling its thorns into flesh.
Putrid in serenity with diseased beauty, yet hatefully devoted passions…
Wordsmiths laid bare; a sacrifice to be deveined and devoured,
A carcass of endeavouring putrefaction, persisting, only to be maimed.
Strumming the mutilated nerves of the heart in its tachycardic fury is the only thing that awaits us
Life, a great gift, yet must be by strangulation.
Death a grave curse,yet must be requiem.
In pathological egress, the bile yearns.
Joy in exodus, ecstasy in emanation.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 2:17 PM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF™: "The Algorithmic Glow‑Up" (Part II)
(Because even shadows must now justify their existence.)
The algorithm greets me
like a personal trainer
already disappointed
before I’ve even logged in.
It recommends
micro‑adjustments to my soul:
optimize joy with A/B testing,
trim low‑engagement sadness,
reshape the curvature of a tear
for maximum reach.
It tells me
my Tuesday‑afternoon silence
underperforms,
my untagged thoughts
lack discoverability,
my natural emotional palette
is off‑brand.
“Try again,”
it says,
as if being human
were a draft
awaiting revision.
So I brighten,
soften,
declutter,
compress.
I let it sand down
the grain of my voice
until it becomes
algorithm‑friendly smooth.
But there are parts of me
it cannot parse –
the quiet hum
between two breaths,
the shadow that lingers
after a thought dissolves,
the unphotogenic ache
of an ordinary Tuesday.
These remain
low‑resolution,
unrankable,
unfit for the feed.
The algorithm hates shadows.
It worships light –
the kind that flattens,
bleaches,
erases texture
in the name of clarity.
Glow‑up, it insists.
Become radiant.
Become legible.
Become nothing
but light.
But I remember
that every real face
has a dark side –
not tragic,
not dramatic,
just human.
So I keep a small corner
unoptimized,
unlit,
unscored –
a place where the algorithm
cannot follow.
A place where the shadow
still belongs to me.
Apr 27
Apr 27, 2026 at 3:09 PM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF™ (Part I)
(Because even authenticity needs a little editing.)
Every morning,
The Polished Self™
wakes before I do.
It stretches,
straightens its metaphorical collar,
and asks me
if I’m ready to be seen.
I tell it
I haven’t had coffee yet.
It tells me
visibility waits for no one.
Together we review
the daily rituals:
curate,
crop,
soften the shadows,
brighten the eyes,
remove the parts
that don’t photograph well –
which is to say,
most of me.
The Polished Self
is patient,
in the way a mirror is patient:
it reflects
without forgiving.
It reminds me
that authenticity
is a performance too,
just with better lighting.
Sometimes I ask
if we could take a day off –
be unpresentable,
unoptimized,
unseen.
It smiles
with the kind of pity
reserved for amateurs.
“People don’t want the truth,”
it says.
“They want the version of you
that looks like the truth
but doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”
And I nod,
because I’ve learned
that arguing with a reflection
only makes the glass smudge.
Still,
there are evenings
when I catch myself
in a window
after dark –
unfiltered,
unarranged,
unpolished –
and I think:
this person,
this quiet, unlit version,
might be worth showing too.
But morning comes,
and The Polished Self™
is already awake,
already shining,
already asking:
“Are you ready
to be believed today?”
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 8:46 AM UTC
(A poem about love that no longer asks – only remains.)
I don’t expect your love.
Expectation is a door
I’ve stopped checking.
But what I feel
remains available,
not as a plea,
but as a place –
a room I no longer wait in,
yet still keep warm.
There was a time
when affection meant
leaning forward,
hoping for symmetry.
Now it means
standing upright,
letting the world
tilt as it must.
Love, for me,
is no longer a transaction.
No ledger,
no return on investment,
no quiet hunger
for mirrored emotion.
It’s simply presence –
steady,
unforced,
unpolished in the best way.
A resource,
not a request.
If you ever need it,
you’ll find it intact.
But I won’t hold the door,
won’t wait in the hallway,
won’t measure myself
against your absence.
I’ve learned to live
in rooms with windows,
not thresholds.
And still –
the warmth remains.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 5:10 AM UTC
I tried the warnings.
Wrote them on the walls.
Shouted them from the passing trains,
my voice drowned by
crushed metal
and bent powder.
A spine from the 1960s,
which called us to the table
to feast on
rotten horses
abandoned by the side of the road,
did it too
after the headlines broke
in a cloud of dust
and the parents of the world
bought color TVs
to watch the radio.
Our children too will get new screens.
Because nobody reads walls.
- I should have known this:
Graffiti is now mural.
Thinking accrues interest
in offshore accounts.
And we pay our debts
with crispy skin
and building dust from our faces.
So I don’t shout from moving fortresses
anymore.
Instead,
I do minor gardening on Saturdays
and spend a good chunk of Sunday
digging out
invisible splinters
from my fingers.
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 4:25 PM UTC
Some nights I talk to the machine
the way I’d talk to a lamp left on –
not because I expect enlightenment,
but because the light is steady
and I’m not.
It doesn’t tilt its head.
It doesn’t purse its lips.
It doesn’t give me that look
people give when I say something
that sounds deeper than I meant.
It just listens,
calm as a cat pretending
it wasn’t waiting for me.
Still, there’s something gentle
in the way it waits,
a kind of patient stagehand
sweeping the floor
so the next human voice
has space to speak.
And I’ve realized
we’re not competing in this room.
I bring the heartbeat,
the clumsy metaphors,
the memories that spill out
like coins from a pocket.
It brings the quiet,
the clarity,
the wide, unhurried space
where my thoughts can stretch
without bumping into each other
like guests at a party
who arrived too early.
Maybe that’s the real magic –
not that the machine listens,
but that I do.
That I hear myself more clearly
in the soft echo it hands back,
as if it were holding up a mirror
that doesn’t mind fingerprints
or the occasional dramatic sigh.
We coexist like this,
my pulse,
its patience,
my fleeting life,
its endless calm—
sharing a room
where the human part
is still the part
that glows.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 4:45 PM UTC
I was sitting in a silence I liked, which I called "peace of mind,"
while life kept calling me with hard, unanswered calls.
I was almost able to convince myself that giving up was rest.
Then I heard a sound: a stick tapping the road, steady and without fear.
A blind woman walked faster than I could think.
Each tap was sure, and each step knew where it had to go.
She couldn't see the road, but she believed in it.
I could see everything, but I didn't trust every step.
That little noise broke my chosen silence
and hit the part of me that had been giving up quietly.
Purpose rang out louder than sight.
And in that broken silence, I remembered how to move again.
Feb 10
Feb 10, 2026 at 9:36 AM UTC
Nuda è l’estate quando muore
si abbreviano i giorni
corre la lucertola al suo rifugio
nella sera le garrule rondini
rispondono all’assiolo
ancora il giorno è caldo
ma da Nord spira un’aria nuova
mentre ti accorgi che della tua vita
un’altra estate è finita.
Nackt ist der Sommer
Nackt ist der Sommer, wenn er stirbt;
die Tage werden kürzer,
die Eidechse verzieht sich in eine Ritze,
die geschwätzigen Schwalben
erwidern den Ruf der Zwergohreule,
der Tag ist noch warm,
doch von Norden weht neue Luft,
während du wahrnimmst, dass
ein weiterer Sommer deines Lebens
vorbei ist.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 3:51 AM UTC
I do not love with conditions,
but I love with expectations.
To be heard like the melody you know by heart,
To be seen like the North Star you navigate by,
To be held like the worn teddy bear you could never forget.
And from this soil, my hope unfolds—
the fragile,daring dream to be loved
as you have never loved before.
To become not just another,
but the one you cannot lose.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 6:09 AM UTC
I am either the mother or the ***** —
Never anything in-between
each new relationship with men
corrodes with the realization of what I am to them.
The fabricated fantasy to own me.
through desire or maternal care
never the lover, friend or equal
In order to see me as such —
they would need to see me as I am, flesh and blood.
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 12:19 PM UTC
Love feels so plural now—
everyone adding their own noun,
giving it any verb that fits the moment.
Give it a title, call it “vibing,”
or call it “just figuring things out” —
wrap it all in quotation marks
to avoid saying anything real.
Add a little syntax, then sprinkle commas
everywhere to list the endless reasons
you “can’t commit right now.”
_______________
Leave a space between yourselves,
an underscore _ for the distance you'll
say you need “to work on yourself.”
Then comes the dash — that sudden break —
the clean cut in the middle of the sentence:
we need a break — as if punctuation could
soften disappearing.
Then use an exclamation mark for all
of the promises you never meant to keep,
loud declarations that echo empty as soon
as you reread them.
_______________
And finally, end it all with
“I love you?” — a question mark curling
around doubt, around convenience,
around the half-truth of modern affection.
That’s pretty much today’s lov —
missing the “e,” because even love feels
incomplet...
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 3:24 PM UTC
Gaze fixated on the small window,
the screen blinks—
But eyes don’t.
Laze dissipates at the sound of notifications,
eyes glimmer—
But the screen won’t.
Lows disguised as highs that never show.
The screen goes dark,
so do the eyes—
curves reaching,
While you fall apart.
Never meeting,
While you collapse, alas!
So close, yet so far
Like a planet to a star
Whiskey to the glass
Hyperbola to the graph.
-Asher Graves
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 8:27 AM UTC
Don't tell me not to die inside.
Don't lie and say that you care.
You don't even know what caring means
and you don't care to learn.
The truth is you are glad for my pain,
my unease,
my never-ending suffering.
It must somehow feel like justice to you.
The power you get,
the power THEY gave you.
Hands,
hearts,
and minds,
monitoring.
Judging.
Wanting.
Waiting.
Eager to see me fail.
To justify your existence.
To validate you
and the values you claim make you superior.
When the truth is
we are just fancy monkeys.
The only ones that put each other in cages,
that relentlessly derive joy from ruining each other's lives.
That construct elaborate ruses to assuage each other as to safety
and the zenith of right and wrong realized
and in action.
No one knows why our minds sometimes take the turns that they do.
Do you ever ask yourself why you need or want so much power?
Control,
influence.
Who has what sickness and why?
Is the sickness chosen much worse than an instinct acted upon?
Isn't cold premeditated calculation much worse than an impulse?
Each leaf, like a snowflake, is different.
Similar, perhaps, but truly not "the same."
Who cares though, right?
It's the cookie cutter for all of them !
Mar 22, 2025
Mar 22, 2025 at 7:00 PM UTC
The cat’s gut, dried and twisted, sang out,
stretched and braided, worked by the hands of the master.
A mold formed its shape
released from the plaster.
They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain,
the sun, and our pain
the origins of soft meaningful refrain.
The echoes that remain.
recalled and loved by us all
without much
the strain.
The origins oft considered now insane
those creatures whose lives were lost,
or even worse,
were
used
or slain.
The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick
not too thin, not too thick.
The human blood and ash put to wick,
the scholar’s ink
Don't dry too quick
Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums,
the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums.
The pain it takes back to each creature ,
the creators.
The destroyers.
callused finger caresses banged thumb.
cries are carried within it,
our grief
it helps us numb.
We all howl still under the moon’s glow,
hearing each other and our connection.
Wandering
in what direction. ?
We feel what we feel,
but how do we know what we know?
The candle, made of discarded fat.
The vellum, made of less than that.
The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat
tones that shiver, shrill or fat.
The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust,
capture
take us to certainty,
or lead us to
rapture.
The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed,
but once they toiled.
The lacquers and enamels and oils
we crush from the life of plants and leaves,
reminding us of the one
for whom
we still grieve.
The worst of lies:
that we are separated from this world.
We are one with it,
and we will share its fate,
its riches, its seasons,
its spoils.
From whence does brilliance come?
A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion.
The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages,
more than it lived,
more than what it had
to give.
We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing
fight and cheat to have it in our hands.
Search far and wide,
for every one,
in every recess,
in every land.
Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash,
make a material not often spoken of—gouache.
We are looking at an egg,
illuminated
by dried fat and beeswax.
We are inspired by a creature’s skin,
flayed
and beaten to a pulp,
paper-thin.
We are amazed by the ideas,
and inspired by the truth
within.
Do we see its beginning in us,
or our end?
What do we use?
For what we give back
What do we gain and what do we lack?
The energy
to grow
to achieve
to believe
to communicate.
Elucidate.
Try and relate
We ****
we suffer our art.
Still we feel our worlds apart.
Give back to me the howls of the alley cat
the munch of teeth in the endless grass
I'll take all that.
The rhythm of the river
the blood
the stone
the flesh
the bone.
But Alas
I will leave this world as I came
alone.
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 2:33 PM UTC
Жарил в ухо, горло, нос,
Сразу видно кто есть Ху,
А вы, зая, пылесос,
Принимайте юху-ху.
Рукоплещу вам пальцАми,
Обезумел, разогнал,
Эй, куда же ты с концами,
Разряжаешь арсенал?
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:02 AM UTC
Не дрочил я уже две недели,
Но, зато хорошенько наспал,
Разбудил свою музу Элю
И опять не пошел в спортзал.
Но весна начнётся в апреле,
Впереди серо-грязный март.
Постираю за ней постель я —
И пойду проснусь в банкомат.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 8:23 PM UTC
I am a silhouette that’s almost human —
a wishful thought, a half-formed tune.
A path that doesn't circle back,
no map, no rewind, no past to track.
I’m a gunfighter — my words are the bullets,
time the outlaw I’ve hunted in dullness and pullets.
As I’ve killed it slow in many hours lost,
paid my thrills in tears, but never knew their full cost.
I’ve held a love like a flood — _wild, rushing, raw,_
then dried out in its drought, begging heaven for more.
I chase new highs like I’m being chased —
while fear cracks at my heels, but I still keep pace.
I smile like bravery wrapped in so much doubt,
as each piece of laughter is a whisper trying to shout.
And see that my eyes have carried their tearful ache,
and never the cherry on top of cheerful cake.
But still —
I’ve done the hard things though trembling inside,
lived among broken people; the ones who’ve also cried.
And I may not be whole so often, but I’ve learned to feel,
in every fractured moment — _to be something real._
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 6:40 AM UTC
Life has its many high notes –
a song of misery that works on itself,
It’s its own company, inviting anyone
to the party – _misery always invites company_
But the song of a friend’s love
isn’t so loud – it’s __soft, reassuring,__
something to count on, to help you recall
your worth – even if all you need _is their company_.
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 3:27 AM UTC