#levity
I've written troubles
I've penned my strife,
In echoing doubles
That mark my life.
I’ve brewed catastrophes
And spilled the morn,
Watched dawn dissolve
As patience is worn.
I’ve lost my socks
To the void profound,
Yet laughter emerges
Where chaos is found.
I’ve stumbled at thresholds
Of mundane despair,
And found absurd joy
Lurking quietly there.
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 2:43 PM UTC
I poured my coffee and it hit the floor,
No point in cursing, I have done it before.
The cat just stared as if to say,
“Some things are spilled and must stay that way.”
The toast burned black, the laundry still remained,
I shrugged — no use in being quite so pained.
Small mischiefs pile, yet one survives,
And life continues in these quiet lives.
I’ve watched the chaos settle into place,
And learned that patience wins the smallest race.
Yet still, I find with all that I have done:
The dog got the toast and the cat ate my bun.
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 2:26 PM UTC
Boom.
No corners, no spine.
Flat letters, soft edges.
The pineapple floats because it forgot how to sink.
Trebek nods—final answer.
Mother Teresa blinks twice and folds into the wallpaper.
Nothing left but a doggle.
Sans serif.
Sans meaning.
Sans everything except the blorp.
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 4:48 AM UTC
To quit smoking, I took to the skies,
Five floors up where temptation now dies.
But each craving, alas,
Leaves me gasping en masse,
As I curse both my lungs and my thighs!
Jan 28, 2025
Jan 28, 2025 at 12:25 AM UTC
Haikus are forbidden—
Rules whisper through silent lines.
Speak not their structure.
New team, take the book—
Page fifteen clears all doubts here:
No haikus allowed.
Spare words wilt in shame—
We thrive on boundless power,
Not haiku constraints.
Lines of seventeen—
A risk too great to condone.
HR will be swift.
Seventeen will break—
Your contract and severance gone.
Silence serves you best.
Five-seven-five fails—
In English, the rhythm dies.
Leave haikus to Japan.
Jan 25, 2025
Jan 25, 2025 at 2:40 AM UTC
Dead Poet, the name.
'Anarchy', the guise of change.
'Rebel re-run'? Same...
Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 4:25 AM UTC
It’s a Friday night, Brock and I are at a small PokéMart near Pewter City called “The Ordinary PokéStop.” We’re nestled into a cozy little corner booth, the dim light glinting off the PokéBalls clipped to Brock’s belt. We’re waiting for Ash—who’s running late, as usual. This PokéMart is one of Brock’s favorites because of their “Berry Blends,” and his taste in exotic Poké-themed smoothies is as unpredictable as ever. Tonight, we’re sipping on “Miltank Malt,” a rich, creamy blend of MooMoo Milk and Oran Berries.
We’re on our second—and I’m starting to feel the sugar rush—did I mention Ash is running late? On a celebratory note, Brock finally perfected his recipe for “Rock Candy Rice Cakes,” and I just won my third straight battle at the Vermilion Gym with Magikarp in my lineup.
But more importantly, earlier today, I stopped by Mt. Moon and stumbled across something remarkable: a Moonstone. As soon as I picked it up, it seemed to hum faintly in my hand, like it was alive. I tucked it safely into my pack, but even now, I can feel its faint warmth.
So, we’re sitting there, sipping our drinks and sharing a basket of Poké Puffs when this guy walks in—a cool, scruffy Ace Trainer named Milo. He’s carrying a bottle of Soda Pop and wearing a slightly rumpled Team Rocket hoodie, which is either ironic or incredibly bold. He’s got that charming, disheveled look that you can’t quite trust.
At first, he’s just passing by, but then he stops and glances at us. “You wouldn’t happen to be Ash Ketchum’s crew, would you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” I reply casually, “Never heard of him.”
“You sure? You’ve got that whole underdog vibe,” he presses.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I shrug.
“But Ash wouldn’t hang out in a dive like this,” he teases.
“Oh, yes he would,” Brock says, deadpan, not missing a beat.
Then it hits me—Milo was in the tournament Ash and I just watched in Celadon. “Wait—you were in that match against Erika’s gym team last week, weren’t you? Congrats on your big win!”
“Thanks for bringing that up,” Milo says dryly, a faint blush rising.
“We lost. Her Bellossom wiped us out—critical hits, all day. Total bad luck.”
“Bad luck,” Brock chuckles. “That’s one way to put it.”
Milo looks a little deflated, so I motion for him to take a seat. He slides in beside Brock, who offers him a cheerful nod. “Milo,” he says.
“I KNOW,” Brock says slyly. We’ve talked about him before—Brock thinks his battle strategy is solid, but his PokéFashion? Not so much.
“Do you believe in luck?” Milo asks suddenly, looking at both of us.
“Absolutely,” I reply, sitting up. “I mean, how else do you explain Magikarp getting a win? I always carry a lucky Moonstone with me—it’s way more reliable than, you know, strategy or training.”
“You have it on you now?” he asks, curious.
“Always,” I say, pulling it out of my pack and holding it up. The light catches the faint, shimmering surface.
“Does it really work?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, Magikarp won, didn’t it?” I joke, tucking it back in my bag. “Though I guess I’m living proof that luck is, uh, inconsistent.”
“Brock’s into luck, too,” I add, gesturing toward him.
“All breeders are superstitious,” Brock declares solemnly. “Back home, my sisters used to throw Clefairy dolls into the cave by Mt. Moon to ensure a good egg hatch.”
Milo laughs out loud, nearly choking on his Soda Pop. “And it worked, huh?” he says, smirking as he clinks his glass with Brock’s.
“We have a saying,” Brock adds with a knowing smile, “It’s better to have a lucky Magikarp than a perfect Gyarados.”
Just as Milo nods thoughtfully, agreeing with this ancient wisdom, Ash bursts through the doors, slightly out of breath. “You’ll never believe what Pikachu just did,” he announces. Typical Ash—always the center of the story.
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 5:32 AM UTC
When Donald Trump does a push-up, he pushes the earth away.
He counted to infinity, TWICE, all in one day!
The Boogeyman checks his closet for Trump each night,
For under his ̶t̶o̶u̶p̶e̶e̶ ̶ TOTALLY LEGIT HAIR™ is another fist, ready to fight.
When he enters a room, darkness runs out in fear,
He can slam a revolving door, make silence appear.
He doesn’t sleep, he waits—he doesn’t blink, he stares,
And gravity bows when he takes the stairs.
When Donald Trump looks in the mirror, it shatters from awe,
He has no age; time itself is held by his law.
He’s the reason Waldo is always well-hidden,
In Trump’s world, rules are forbidden.
His tears cure cancer—too bad he never cries,
And every hand he’s dealt is aces in disguise.
Death once knocked on his door, then quickly fled—
For even the Grim Reaper fears Donald Trump instead.
Nov 10, 2024
Nov 10, 2024 at 2:18 AM UTC
Write from 'the gut'
'Shoot from the hip'
Emotional rut
Skill? Not equipped
Failure, I choose
To put on display
A pair of clown shoes
Din of dismay
I share it all
Occasional hit
Effort, not small
Many piles of ****
To lose is to win
Trajectory
A growth to pin
Ending is not your story
Aug 17, 2024
Aug 17, 2024 at 3:42 AM UTC
Gimmick in three lines,
Forced brevity, shallow words—
Haikus, I despise.
Jul 29, 2024
Jul 29, 2024 at 3:54 AM UTC
Love? Is senseless abandon.
Love, is bicycles, tandem.
One person, climbing a slope.
The other owns the rope.
Love is compromise.
The unwelcome surprise.
A construct of lies.
For purpose, we try.
Love is commerce.
Watching a hearse.
Everything you lost.
The total of the cost.
Love is blindness.
Brief notions of kindness.
Tragedy, behind us.
An obligatory must.
Love is slavery.
Elected misery.
A contract to not be free.
We submit, voluntarily.
This is the last time.
She walked out that door.
My reasons, mine.
She asks for more.
I wish her well.
The desired hell.
A flippant subscription.
Greener-grass perscription.
An insipid dance rhythm ignites.
Contrasting all our fights.
I turn and I speak,
The words come weak;
"Baby, don't hurt me"
"No more"
Jan 7, 2024
Jan 7, 2024 at 2:40 PM UTC
Did you hear?
About the kid killed on this ride?
The straps were too loose, he fell out
Hit the rails, then he died
They say his ghost haunts this place
That the ride is cursed
In darkened mirrors you can see his face
But, that's not the worst
They say every ten years
The anniversary of that night
He escapes the mirrors
To enact his right
He'll fail the ride
Another death swept aside
To bring another to his side
For truth to confide
The tragedy displaced by joy
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 4:17 PM UTC
Hello, Hello Poetry
An Online Poetry Community™
A humble place to share
All those words you do care
Do mind our rules and the terms of use
Nothing 'offensive', please. Definitely, no abuse.
Submit a work to start and wait for a bot to reply
Sometimes this doesn't work. We still 'don't know why'
'Hello, Hello Poetry'
'To be a 'Poet'?! Surely, I can be!'
'Just mash the letter keys into rhyming words...'
'Less than zero potential for dog turds!'
'My magnum opus is so brilliant!'
No map, compass or sextant
'My first effort; a monument to laud'
'Mind the ovation and the accelerating, un-seated applause'
Hello, Hello Poetry
The troglodytes dwell in a festering hyperbole
Unsupportive support, it's the rule of the land
Any constructive feedback?; *Let it be burned and ******
'I wrote some things, I deserve praise!'
'Cross me not, lest the unlike sword of anonymity be raised!'
'The self-serving homogenization of mediocrity must be maintained!'
Of this, I have clearly (and notably) disdained...
Hello, Hello Poetry
The Internet's Bath-House for "Creativity"™
'Mom already hung it on the fridge--not good enough for me!'
'This "greatness" needs ALL the internet to see!'
To what end? Stranger's validation?
A legitimization of your station?
At what point is this ************
In this self-agrandization?
Hello Poet-Try™
Jul 25, 2023
Jul 25, 2023 at 1:21 PM UTC
As a kid I was aquited
For murders I did committed
A juvenile, I sitted
Upon my throne
Loud noises, vanquished activities
Delinquent proclivities
Familiar treacheries
I was on my own
13, young, dumb and full of ***
I was king of it all
The ******* claimed I was 'the one'
How quickly I fall
Frank said to me
"This land is yours as far as the eye can see"
Dean knew the treachery
Joey smiled, happily
"It's a desert out here"
I decried with care
Not to invite a homicidal affair
A company of ne'er-do-wells
Frank turned and said,
"If you a'int living', you're dead"
Ominous dread
The words stuck in my head
It's been awhile now
Since I've seen the pack
It's amazing how
It all comes back
Life's been good
Even grand
Since that hood
Took the grandstand
Ambitious screams
The paupers line my purse
Pathetic dreams
To escape what's worse
Another dollar, another nickel
Lady Luck is fickle
Pull the arm of our 'friend'
A chance at a happy end
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 2:56 AM UTC
Hey, it's seen...
Now it's scene!
Autocorrect grip
Fat, oily fingertips
Slip across the screen
Avant garde stream
Somewhere in between
Blank white slate
Senses abate
Rancorous dream
Voices scream,
"What does this mean?"
"It means nothing"
A hollow ring
Some conscious clean
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 12:15 AM UTC
Alive or dead
a state of my head
some impetus dread
for living instead
I wake and I weep
cherish my sleep
dreams I can't keep
empty but deep
i arise
and contrive
try to survive
vacant eyes
and ask 'why?'
The answers are true
'What would you do?'
5D voodoo
'Who do?!'
'What?!'
'Remind me of the babe'
The babe with the power
of identity gone sour
life, a final hour
A lonely tower
A flower?
I cower...
goblins? no king...
and I ring
to be the thing
to sing
no.
No.
I retire
from muck
from mire
I'm stuck
to aspire
To find a home in my head
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 5:39 PM UTC
There once was a sailor so bold
Who followed a compass of gold.
She captained the tide,
He learned how to ride,
And treasure was found in the hold.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 2:12 PM UTC
I showed up with a handful of borrowed words
and the optimism of someone
who has never read the warranty.
I assumed tone would carry me.
It did not.
Turns out meaning requires torque.
I said what I meant.
The language heard something else.
We were both technically correct,
which did not help.
So I slowed down.
Measured.
Stopped treating grammar like a suggestion
and more like load-bearing code.
Every ending mattered.
Every choice came with paperwork.
You couldn’t just eyeball it
and hope nobody noticed.
I practiced alone, out loud,
sounding like a man
negotiating with an appliance.
The words were heavy.
Lift wrong,
you own the problem.
Correction turned out not to be criticism.
Just maintenance.
Like being told the noise you’re ignoring
will get louder.
I’m still not fluent.
Still pausing.
Still translating in my head
like a manual that assumes
you already know what you’re doing.
But things hold now.
Conversations don’t wobble.
Meaning stays where it’s put.
Which seems like a decent definition of love:
less confidence,
more attention,
and the willingness
to keep working with the right tools
after admitting you didn’t have them.
I hold the ropes.
They do not care how I feel.
They work.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 1:00 PM UTC
You’re standing somewhere unfamiliar. Different language scraping the air. Buildings that don’t know your name. You light a cigarette you didn’t really want but needed anyway, because your hands are doing too much thinking on their own.
You say:
“Some people think stories are about the one who punches hardest. That’s the lie. Those stories only work because someone else is absorbing the consequences.”
You watch the smoke drift sideways, not up. Weather’s got opinions here.
“There’s always one person who doesn’t chase the chaos. They don’t escalate. They don’t shout. They just stand where things would otherwise go wrong and… don’t move.”
You tap ash where it doesn’t belong. Nobody says anything.
“They’re not brave in the loud way. They’re brave in the structural way. The kind where if they flinch, everything behind them caves in. So they don’t.”
You shrug, like this isn’t a confession.
“They don’t believe in fate. Or maybe they do, but only as something that needs to be managed. Like fire. Or debt.”
A car passes too close. You don’t look.
“The cruel part is that the world notices. It starts leaning on them. Harder each time. Because once something holds, everyone assumes it always will.”
You take a drag. Too deep. Cough it out. Laugh once, quietly, like it slipped.
“That’s the story. Not about winning. About containment. About being the reason the madness doesn’t spread.”
You flick the cigarette away before it’s done. You always do.
“And the tension isn’t whether they’ll break. It’s whether they’ll ever step aside and let someone else learn what it weighs.”
You don’t ask if they understand. You can tell by the silence.
Somewhere you’ve never lived feels briefly less foreign.
Not because it welcomes you.
Because you know exactly how much of it you’re holding together just by standing there.
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 5:05 PM UTC
We’re old enough to know better —
but not old enough to stop wanting things
with catastrophic intensity.
Every time you send me a photo,
I make noises normally reserved
for when the waiter brings dessert unexpectedly.
This is not dignified behavior —
and I refuse to fix it.
I don’t pine for you.
I plot.
If the airlines understood what I plan to do to you,
they’d put me on a watchlist.
Listen —
I respect you.
Deeply.
Profoundly.
Spiritually.
But I also want to see how loud
I can make you gasp
before the neighbors file a complaint.
People warn that long-distance love
is unsustainable.
Good.
I have no interest in sustainability.
I want combustion.
I want return-on-investment moaning.
So yes — let October 27 come.
Let it arrive like an alibi I can’t explain to God.
Let it be the day your robe ceases to be polite fabric
and becomes a war crime.
We are mature adults.
We pay taxes.
We own moisturizers.
But the next time I see you,
I’m going to kiss you
like I just got my braces off.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 4:43 AM UTC
you say take a leap
as if I haven’t already
leapt into glass
face-first
on several occasions
and called it “character development”
my mouth also tells the truth
usually by accident
usually when I’m trying to be quiet
it bleeds confession
like it’s proud of the mess
suffering can wait, you say
mine doesn’t —
it schedules recurring appointments
leaves Post-It notes on the fridge
DON’T FORGET: SELF-LOATHING @ 3PM
still
I’ve outgrown despair before
like old skin
like last year’s aesthetic
I evolve compulsively
out of spite
you say thought has antigravitational engines
mine does too
but I’ve replaced the safety protocols
with loud music and intrusive memories
fine.
I’ll feed myself knowledge
even if it tastes like chalk
even if philosophy gives me heartburn
even if truth arrives dressed as humiliation
you say, take a leap into your voice
sure — but understand
my voice doesn’t come out as speech
it comes out as collision
as laugh-crying at 4am
as poetry disguised as deflection
so let the sun come from my mouth?
no
let something stranger
let me exhale neon
static
radio transmissions from the version of me
that survived a different timeline
I will leap
but don’t call it bravery
call it malfunction
call it momentum
call it **** it, why not**
if I become a smile
know this:
it will be lopsided
unsettling
and honest.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 3:24 AM UTC