#emotionalweight - Hello Poetry

__So complete, so absolute__— is the one tear a man chooses to shed. Because truth is, his emotions live in a shed too— thrown together in panic, windows cracked, doors barely hanging on. A man who doubts his own worth never finds the change he really needs— and even his spare moments run so thin, His spare tyre is flat from carrying too much weight in the dark. His dreams are balloons on sticks, meant to rise but they are tied to the ground. He is good to her, in small ways; but he knows he could become better if he stopped confusing survival with love — _if he let go of those instincts._ For where the heart burns wicked and the mind judges cold, he meets his true rival: __himself.__

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Dec 5, 2025

Dec 5, 2025 at 3:54 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

The Man Who Could Be Better

__So complete, so absolute__— is the one tear a man chooses to shed. Because truth is, his emotions live in a shed too— thrown together in panic, windows cracked, doors barely hanging on. A man who doubts his own worth never finds the change he really needs— and even his spare moments run so thin, His spare tyre is flat from carrying too much weight in the dark. His dreams are balloons on sticks, meant to rise but they are tied to the ground. He is good to her, in small ways; but he knows he could become better if he stopped confusing survival with love — _if he let go of those instincts._ For where the heart burns wicked and the mind judges cold, he meets his true rival: __himself.__

17

_Fee-fi-fo-fum_— as we weighed love by an empty ounce, and paid it all back by this sore pound. They yell: “come now or begone,” and if you can’t produce the sum for what’s been done; flee to fine some… or find none. An anguish in fornication, and a touch that speaks, but means nothing at all. No real stimulation— just hunger in the guise of heat, and shame where love was meant to meet. As some feather-dust their guilt, pretending to have clean intentions. But we’ve only used each other to air out our frustrations. These old recycled themes; ******* from peers, spilling from worn-out jeans, and spreading dreams like genes, without real meaning in between the fabric of time. But tell me, do you still not see the giant problem? Or are you too big for yourself, to fully measure up to your own faults?

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Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 4:48 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Giant Problems

_Fee-fi-fo-fum_— as we weighed love by an empty ounce, and paid it all back by this sore pound. They yell: “come now or begone,” and if you can’t produce the sum for what’s been done; flee to fine some… or find none. An anguish in fornication, and a touch that speaks, but means nothing at all. No real stimulation— just hunger in the guise of heat, and shame where love was meant to meet. As some feather-dust their guilt, pretending to have clean intentions. But we’ve only used each other to air out our frustrations. These old recycled themes; ******* from peers, spilling from worn-out jeans, and spreading dreams like genes, without real meaning in between the fabric of time. But tell me, do you still not see the giant problem? Or are you too big for yourself, to fully measure up to your own faults?

18

__A pistol tucked inside my heart__— memories of old dreams echo like bullet wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when I finally let myself be known to myself. Lips are like public transport; they carry heavy loads: _sometimes love, sometimes doubt._ But the private lifts? Those are the words we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts. __What loads are you carrying?__ Will your transport make...or break someone? Because belief in your own worth is such a heavy load. __And no__— it’s not something you should carry alone. The weight of any load feels lighter when the ones you love—and who love you back— don’t just stand beside you; they help you carry what you were never meant to bear alone.

0

Jun 23, 2025

Jun 23, 2025 at 4:23 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Heavy Loads, Quiet Freedoms

__A pistol tucked inside my heart__— memories of old dreams echo like bullet wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when I finally let myself be known to myself. Lips are like public transport; they carry heavy loads: _sometimes love, sometimes doubt._ But the private lifts? Those are the words we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts. __What loads are you carrying?__ Will your transport make...or break someone? Because belief in your own worth is such a heavy load. __And no__— it’s not something you should carry alone. The weight of any load feels lighter when the ones you love—and who love you back— don’t just stand beside you; they help you carry what you were never meant to bear alone.

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