#existentialwriting - Hello Poetry

Heart — hollow until tomorrow. A man, a painter, once aimed so far he broke his bow; his reach stretched wider than his hands could hold. Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped down the bristles of a hardened brush — dipped in the wetness of tears, each stroke a storm, heavy with passion. It starts with a pit — a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow carved where something once stood, a cave widening in the chest. In the immensity of a workshop built from cheap wood, tell me — where does a heart take root? Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting to happen; for when the pit is flawed, the whole foundation caves. And maybe that’s why we doubt the truth we’re told. They said, “_the great tree fell_.” But if you never saw it fall yourself, would you ever believe it made a sound?

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Aug 31, 2025

Aug 31, 2025 at 12:13 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Pitfall of a Heart

Heart — hollow until tomorrow. A man, a painter, once aimed so far he broke his bow; his reach stretched wider than his hands could hold. Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped down the bristles of a hardened brush — dipped in the wetness of tears, each stroke a storm, heavy with passion. It starts with a pit — a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow carved where something once stood, a cave widening in the chest. In the immensity of a workshop built from cheap wood, tell me — where does a heart take root? Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting to happen; for when the pit is flawed, the whole foundation caves. And maybe that’s why we doubt the truth we’re told. They said, “_the great tree fell_.” But if you never saw it fall yourself, would you ever believe it made a sound?

25

Been on the market for some time, but not really waiting for what’s in store. __This heart__ — a brittle scaffold, holding up a thousand regrets, building into a house of missteps. It’s got too many stairs, and I keep misjudging a couple steps. The pain feels unreal, reaching backward, but everything we’ve done always lives in the past — _to pass._ The scars on my skin bear soil erosion; the body remembers what the mind buries. And my teeth — slowly eroding — still carry a brave smile, as if pretending counts as healing. Sure, I can fake confidence, sure — but only for others. Never for myself. No, not truly. Because really what’s the point of buying into that sort of thing, when the price of pretending always costs more than it’s worth?

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Oct 18, 2025

Oct 18, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

The Price of Pretending

Been on the market for some time, but not really waiting for what’s in store. __This heart__ — a brittle scaffold, holding up a thousand regrets, building into a house of missteps. It’s got too many stairs, and I keep misjudging a couple steps. The pain feels unreal, reaching backward, but everything we’ve done always lives in the past — _to pass._ The scars on my skin bear soil erosion; the body remembers what the mind buries. And my teeth — slowly eroding — still carry a brave smile, as if pretending counts as healing. Sure, I can fake confidence, sure — but only for others. Never for myself. No, not truly. Because really what’s the point of buying into that sort of thing, when the price of pretending always costs more than it’s worth?

13

blinking in and out of days— a strobe-lit existence. time doesn’t pass, it flashes... wandering toward the promise of a quiet finale, as if rest were a gift one I could unwrap early. to search for unity among the ones who left— grief gathers us all together, like dust in corners. hunger clings— emotions, underfed; licking sweetness from practiced lies. there's a pie on the table— everyone’s dipped their ***** fingers in. what was warm is man-handled — what was whole is shared thin. aching for closure... the curtain falls shut, the day collapses— lights out. dark, until tomorrow strikes a wire inside my skull. a flicker... then— another light bulb burning again ...a light bulb moment.

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Feb 18

Feb 18, 2026 at 2:22 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

...a light bulb moment.

blinking in and out of days— a strobe-lit existence. time doesn’t pass, it flashes... wandering toward the promise of a quiet finale, as if rest were a gift one I could unwrap early. to search for unity among the ones who left— grief gathers us all together, like dust in corners. hunger clings— emotions, underfed; licking sweetness from practiced lies. there's a pie on the table— everyone’s dipped their ***** fingers in. what was warm is man-handled — what was whole is shared thin. aching for closure... the curtain falls shut, the day collapses— lights out. dark, until tomorrow strikes a wire inside my skull. a flicker... then— another light bulb burning again ...a light bulb moment.

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