#interruption - Hello Poetry

It doesn’t ask your name. Doesn’t pause at the door with its hand on the handle. It comes in anyway — like it was always meant to. It doesn’t check your grades, your record, your lists of almosts. It doesn’t care who you were becoming, or how close you were to getting there. It takes without looking. The boy mid-laugh — the sound cut clean. The girl mid-sentence — her words left hanging, unfinished, like they were never meant to land. It doesn’t wait for apologies. For “I’ll do it tomorrow” to become today. It doesn’t wait for you to be ready. You don’t get to be ready. It doesn’t care if your mother loves you softly or loudly or not at all. And the world keeps going — like it didn’t just lose a universe disguised as a person. Because death doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t choose the worst or the deserving. It doesn’t choose at all. It just arrives — quiet, uninvited, unmoved — and leaves the living to explain why you’re gone like there was ever—

0

Mar 30

Mar 30, 2026 at 8:21 PM UTC

firebirdie

Mid-Sentence

It doesn’t ask your name. Doesn’t pause at the door with its hand on the handle. It comes in anyway — like it was always meant to. It doesn’t check your grades, your record, your lists of almosts. It doesn’t care who you were becoming, or how close you were to getting there. It takes without looking. The boy mid-laugh — the sound cut clean. The girl mid-sentence — her words left hanging, unfinished, like they were never meant to land. It doesn’t wait for apologies. For “I’ll do it tomorrow” to become today. It doesn’t wait for you to be ready. You don’t get to be ready. It doesn’t care if your mother loves you softly or loudly or not at all. And the world keeps going — like it didn’t just lose a universe disguised as a person. Because death doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t choose the worst or the deserving. It doesn’t choose at all. It just arrives — quiet, uninvited, unmoved — and leaves the living to explain why you’re gone like there was ever—

52

Screamers of the soul flash you the last time you can go this hard, this fast, this fraught, this almost, tricksters tapping tickets to a one-way grave enslaved to pressing on, encased in never, courtesies we won’t get back. The patience they destroy sets fire to the wand’ring widow – screams that have to wake you up. They steal a frantic callback to some lasso-lover, ornery, stupid, gamboling up streets that shatter craven, crawl-back trust. Here because of half-shift workers (all but zombies) trusting that this pay will shine upon a son - as daughter clips the lawn, we’re granted odd hours off. Unruly matrix finds a way to live and re-address their outer billing trans our continental stress so lated, pictures of a match in prison: Puts Out v. I-Seen-You-Two, and one won’t deign to be so misconstrued. So night, she gaslights, spreading shock to beds. Tattoo upon your heads Things Not Like They Once Was; forgive us if we must fight back, the sleep the sinners lack reclaimed in staid unworthy buzz.

0

Nov 21, 2025

Nov 21, 2025 at 4:34 PM UTC

rausmend

Woken for Nothing

Screamers of the soul flash you the last time you can go this hard, this fast, this fraught, this almost, tricksters tapping tickets to a one-way grave enslaved to pressing on, encased in never, courtesies we won’t get back. The patience they destroy sets fire to the wand’ring widow – screams that have to wake you up. They steal a frantic callback to some lasso-lover, ornery, stupid, gamboling up streets that shatter craven, crawl-back trust. Here because of half-shift workers (all but zombies) trusting that this pay will shine upon a son - as daughter clips the lawn, we’re granted odd hours off. Unruly matrix finds a way to live and re-address their outer billing trans our continental stress so lated, pictures of a match in prison: Puts Out v. I-Seen-You-Two, and one won’t deign to be so misconstrued. So night, she gaslights, spreading shock to beds. Tattoo upon your heads Things Not Like They Once Was; forgive us if we must fight back, the sleep the sinners lack reclaimed in staid unworthy buzz.

30

Every day, as the clock ticks and I sit to write a poem, all I receive is an interruption and another interruption. So whenever, I pick up my pen to write a poem, I get interrupted. My mother shouts from a corner of her room. Her voice crashes to every notorious wall that claps with its ears. She asks me to do her a favour and every time this happens, the favour she asks me to do, somehow slit the throat of the wire that holds the chandeliers of my words. In the end, my words fall into the wells of my eyes and my poems turn me blind. So every day, I sit to write a poem, all I receive is interruptions. So whenever, I turn to a blank page to write a poem, I get interrupted. The clouds race with each other and the sun becomes their referee. They chase the wind that carries out the Great Prison Escape organised by Bushell. The lightning cheers for them in awe and thus pauses in Argentina for 16.73 seconds. When they finally reach across the finish line, It looks like my negative 1 has turned into positive after crossing 0. They shed all their sweat like a camelia bush. My words disappear and what remains is a wet page, Still blank. So every day, I sit to write a poem, all I receive is interruptions. So whenever, I sketch some lines and curves to words, to write a poem, I get interrupted. My thoughts begin to perform flamenco. They lift their filters in the air so that I can see my imperfections, to which I chose to turn blind as the pieces of the chandelier have left nothing in my eyes. So when my thoughts finally conclude their performance. My pen stands dried as if someone stole the gold thread, I was going to perform kintsugi on my paper with. So every day, I sit to write a poem all I receive is interruptions. So whenever, I begin penning my words to write a poem. I get interrupted. My surrounding performs an orchestra, While I run to my words like two lovers separated by fate. My hair race with the clouds that just stopped, for they were tired. I jump through the hurdles that the leaves outside and the people inside my window create, and while I jump, They pull my hair and a few strands fall. With every strand, my poem disappears. So by the time I reach and kiss my words, I become full of words but 'poem-less'. So every day, I sit to write a poem all I receive is interruptions.

0

Jun 27, 2020

Jun 27, 2020 at 10:38 AM UTC

Kirangoswami

Every time I write, I get interrupted.

Every day, as the clock ticks and I sit to write a poem, all I receive is an interruption and another interruption. So whenever, I pick up my pen to write a poem, I get interrupted. My mother shouts from a corner of her room. Her voice crashes to every notorious wall that claps with its ears. She asks me to do her a favour and every time this happens, the favour she asks me to do, somehow slit the throat of the wire that holds the chandeliers of my words. In the end, my words fall into the wells of my eyes and my poems turn me blind. So every day, I sit to write a poem, all I receive is interruptions. So whenever, I turn to a blank page to write a poem, I get interrupted. The clouds race with each other and the sun becomes their referee. They chase the wind that carries out the Great Prison Escape organised by Bushell. The lightning cheers for them in awe and thus pauses in Argentina for 16.73 seconds. When they finally reach across the finish line, It looks like my negative 1 has turned into positive after crossing 0. They shed all their sweat like a camelia bush. My words disappear and what remains is a wet page, Still blank. So every day, I sit to write a poem, all I receive is interruptions. So whenever, I sketch some lines and curves to words, to write a poem, I get interrupted. My thoughts begin to perform flamenco. They lift their filters in the air so that I can see my imperfections, to which I chose to turn blind as the pieces of the chandelier have left nothing in my eyes. So when my thoughts finally conclude their performance. My pen stands dried as if someone stole the gold thread, I was going to perform kintsugi on my paper with. So every day, I sit to write a poem all I receive is interruptions. So whenever, I begin penning my words to write a poem. I get interrupted. My surrounding performs an orchestra, While I run to my words like two lovers separated by fate. My hair race with the clouds that just stopped, for they were tired. I jump through the hurdles that the leaves outside and the people inside my window create, and while I jump, They pull my hair and a few strands fall. With every strand, my poem disappears. So by the time I reach and kiss my words, I become full of words but 'poem-less'. So every day, I sit to write a poem all I receive is interruptions.

74

I find myself caught in recycling not cans and paper and glass but thoughts and actions habits can help but being stuck in the habitual sloshes me into a swamp dank and stagnant. What if I broke the cycle in half opened myself to hidden reaches of my mental soulful caverns? Maybe this interruption would reawaken my muse from her drowsiness sparkling and sprinkling me with poetic stirrings. It’s worth trying.

0

Apr 22, 2020

Apr 22, 2020 at 10:38 AM UTC

glenn-currier

Half a Cycle

I find myself caught in recycling not cans and paper and glass but thoughts and actions habits can help but being stuck in the habitual sloshes me into a swamp dank and stagnant. What if I broke the cycle in half opened myself to hidden reaches of my mental soulful caverns? Maybe this interruption would reawaken my muse from her drowsiness sparkling and sprinkling me with poetic stirrings. It’s worth trying.

16

The winter wisps have choked my neck, Taking every breath has left me unequipped for death. I watch my world spin and loose all control What can be salvaged from inside my soul?

0

Jan 5, 2020

Jan 5, 2020 at 9:53 PM UTC

lwz

Interruption

The winter wisps have choked my neck, Taking every breath has left me unequipped for death. I watch my world spin and loose all control What can be salvaged from inside my soul?

4

I'd never heard a gunshot until I had. I had never been an orphan till I lost my dad. I am a broken lot. I find sadness when I'm alone. I am annoying. My mouth skips records-- I interrupt you when I talk. I talk a lot.

0

May 21, 2017

May 21, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC

PhoenixBekkedal

Never Before Now

I'd never heard a gunshot until I had. I had never been an orphan till I lost my dad. I am a broken lot. I find sadness when I'm alone. I am annoying. My mouth skips records-- I interrupt you when I talk. I talk a lot.

8

What were you going to say Before my heart got in the way?

0

Feb 3, 2016

Feb 3, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC