#introspectivewriting
_Opening line_ —
Walking from a dream to death,
Waking from death to a dream —
The dream that stole my last breath:
Sleep and life stitched by the same seam.
I am not a beard, yet so much
Of living has been taken by the chin;
Dragged through seasons shaping me,
trimming me down by force than by vision.
Trying to step ahead of everything —
I am a shoebox tied with old string,
Wrapped in a cloudy sheet of memories.
Yesterday's tears gather like unpaid debts,
When even the smallest step feels so _stiff_.
Breath is the essence of life,
But our breath is always leaving us;
Know we’re only guests in these bodies,
Passing through the hours as the hours do
Their grieving — and every inhale reminds
Us that its last exhale is already pre-planned.
And so, waking from death to a dream,
I breathe knowing each breath is a door
Quietly closing behind me — I keep walking,
Pushing forward, opening the next door
Even as the last one fades. _Closing line._
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 2:42 AM UTC
__Mr, Mr__ —
I heard you said you’re a bad kisser,
maybe cause your lips never learned
what love you're supposed to go after.
You freeze mid-moment like you’re scared
she’ll see the ghosts you keep behind
your awkward laugher
__Mr, Mr__ —
She could have bought you a Ford
just for you to focus— keep pushing
forward, but my mind kept on stalling,
I think she changed her hair once —
soft brown to the color of her healing —
but **** I never noticed.
__Mr, Mr__ —
She said she was waiting for me to kiss
her first, but **** I never noticed.
It’s my fault — I was raised to be cautious,
I was taught love was something you approach
like a stray dog, slow and quiet, hand out first,
hoping it doesn’t chew out your emotions.
__Mr, Mr__ —
No I’m not her Mr — just the man
who never moved, never noticed,
and never said stay. Just her bad kisser.
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 2:50 AM UTC
The smell of rain under my breath – clouds
in my chest; a storm of words heavy as perfumed
scent. Sent out to face the quests I half-meant –
awkward friend requests; expecting you to stay
in character, little as far as rewards go,
“let’s just take it slow.”
But how are we so quick to break a heart, to bring
down a character? The occasional monster —
or many; no point checking reviews; the question
of criticism is never an _if_, only _when_.
Hope is for anyone, but not for everyone –
hopeful romantics, hopeless fanatics, hoping
without action; life falls away from us piece by piece,
like rain. The smell of wet soil, the rise of humidity;
our moods changing with whoever’s around—
false humility dressed as weathered wisdom.
The weather of man is so unpredictable.
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 6:09 PM UTC
Bite into an idea— rows of teeth, tension tight.
Crowded smiles feel so exposing— _but this one,_
it gnaws deeper. The tension between teething
regrets and tethered faith feels so frayed, as if
the cord was always a little too short to begin
with.
I’m not riding the wave— just swimming a little
longer in my dreams; watching surfers sail off
while I sink into thought. But I surf the internet,
researching the cultivation of infinitude—
_whatever that means._ Diving into unfathomable
depths, only a few steps in and I’m already losing
my breath.
__Have I sprouted yet__? Most days, my sadness
drowns in my anger. Then a spark of joy appears—
_brief_, __fleeting__— but its glow only makes me
so sad again. And that sadness simmers back into
rage, and the loop begins once more.
_A cycle.
A seesaw._
A silent crusade to love myself again.
But the journey never really ends. Even while
searching for one. we push forward—again,
and again— until we find a better end.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 3:16 PM UTC
_The sky is falling_—
ashes in slow motion,
raining smoke laced with doubt.
I’m trying to figure things out – trapped inside
of my mind, trying to map a way out.
Time wears you down like a borrowed face.
Money races laps around your mind—
and we’re all so deeply
invested in the chase.
I think __locomotive__ thoughts—
every train of thought heavier than the last—
but somehow, I keep losing track of time.
But what is time,
if not something that’s never mine?
We spend every second like a dime—
but not every moment
is worth the time.
I dress up for someone else’s moment,
tailor my soul to suit their life—
wearing joy like it’s rented, hoping the fit feels right.
Every mistake I remember from yesterday
becomes a brushstroke in the picture I paint today—
a portrait of someone better
hanging up in my frame of mind.
_And maybe, just maybe,
there lies the real way
to fit in._
Jun 16, 2025
Jun 16, 2025 at 10:22 AM UTC