#metaphoricalpoetry
Slice of bread
Turned into toast
Slice of cake
Given by the host
Slice of pie
Cut just like my thigh
Scoop out the mold
It’s good as new
Scrape off the burns
Like no one even knew
Everything is past the expiration date
Just like my mental state
I try my best to hide
The deep rot growing inside
But I belong in the compost
With all the other lives lost
Just another recycled ghost
Returned to dust
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 10:25 AM UTC
2 cups of burnt memories,
Each grain holds sorrow more than glory.
A pinch of loneliness,
In which more is never less.
A spoonful of tears of sorrow,
Unfulfilled promises that weigh tomorrow.
Knead the broken heart into a dough,
Sing about life, how it always gets low.
Patience of yeast, let it sit.
So much space, yet soft dough forced to fit.
Shove it inside the oven of unbearable pain,
Hardness and numbness burn in every flame.
After a break of untimely rain,
Open the soul which lost its name.
Sprinkle a spoon of broken dreams,
Season with hopeless, clouded cream.
How to face the result if it comes as
waste?
Now, dear reader, it's time for you to taste.
If it tastes bad, kindly don't blame
Every baker, unfortunately, is never the same.
Pardon that the golden color is always late.
What to do? This world never left
more ingredients in my cabinet.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 3:33 PM UTC
Oh, blindness beauty — the cruelty of words unsaid, a prickly briar
whispering _love in decline._ My card has been swiped twice;
stolen from me are the dreams I charged on hope, and no point
of sale could measure the worth of my soul.
Oh, soul — how I wear sad forget-me-nots. My necktie is a tangle of
knots, and I remember the vine from which every part of me was
cut and shaped for loving someone. I will bear this crown of shame
until I read perfected _loveliness,_ but how shameful that love is
also a place of great loneliness.
For wrapped around me is a honeysuckle — the kiss of a bee, sweet
enough to forget the sting. And what was meant to guard my heart
is also what threatens to **** me. I offered devotion with open palms,
sprinting as a chasing heart across the miles of love’s marathon.
I was breathless not because the chase was done but because I
never caught what I was running toward.
My eyes still run, chasing the taste of a pleasing sight; the palette
of my mind stays hungry, my heart confused about where to begin.
For in this kiss — what I hoped would last us years — was only
a few more seconds before we parted from our words.
For love is blind; we shut our eyes whenever we kiss. And truly
the first one to open them is the one who has already begun to
wonder whether this is worth it at all.
Love is a blind beauty —_is it not_?
Nov 14, 2025
Nov 14, 2025 at 8:32 AM UTC
If I were a fruit, would you still date me, would my shell
be easy to crack, or would your patience bruise at the very
weight of peeling me back? I laugh at my own dad jokes
that crack me open; would you still concentrate on showing
me a fruitful love, or just beat my heart to a pulp. Whether
sweet or bitter, would you press me down to juice or savour
me in sips?
Would my scent linger like ripened promise, or fade too
quickly, forgotten at the bottom of the basket? Would you
call my softness spoiled, or taste the sugar hidden beneath
rough skin? I can be sharp as citrus, cutting your tongue;
other days, mellow as a peach, velvet against your hands.
And when I start to wine; my actions feeling like a bunch
of sour grapes, do you drink me slow, or spit me all out
as vinegar, too **** for you to swallow? When my seeds
of advice scatter, do you plant them for more, or toss them
aside as waste of the core? Even my flaws ferment into
something you might call flavour—but would you learn
to love the aftertaste?
So tell me— _if I were your fruit, what fruit would I be?_
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC
A touch of time —
feels like marigold marmalade,
like spending slow summers together.
Syrup-dripping tears sting as they stick
to your face, attracting bees; and those
jarring truths of a dream unfulfilled.
It stays sealed in glass—sweetness
postponed, a closed jar never tasted.
You plant a flower of hope in the smallest
of gardens, and prove that even a drop
of nectar can fertilize your faith.
You want to rest in blessings, but
blessings move — _so must you_.
You pray for daily bread, but life
kneads your hands into making it.
You earn your piece, then spread it
like marigold marmalade on warm bread.
Because life isn’t so sweet; dreams only
taste a little once you finally get a bite.
And Lord, could we be forgiven for
craving the fruit of another’s labour?
As we mistake living for pleasing —
and forget to live for our destined reason.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 6:08 AM UTC
Forgetful dreams, trapped on the pillow of my
bed— tiptoeing thoughts, almost like a ballerina
having a good stretch. As an injured picture frame
hauls away the canvas of a dream on a stretcher.
Giving pretence for a pretender—and knowing
whether the weather decides to jump over your
head, is knowing when it has a spring in its step.
But it never bends to tender hearts—it only offers
them the work of love. A group of tenders; all their
touches tender, all enlisted in affection’s labor force.
And if it's a compulsory love, we'll love with force.
Cos Love is a chin check sport—and you pay
for it with the protruding part of a chin cheque.
Control, and out-of-control—to the ones living
so remote. But lose that island, and you lose control.
And lose the answer to the power of influence—
and you begin to question what control even means.
Control is part of that… _this far,_ at least, but a life
without risk— is the risk of never having lived.
Because everything you love to do might just be
the very last thing that finally does you in.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 4:24 PM UTC
There’s a prayer with a sigh—
a breath let out like scripture,
written in stone, signed by a former lover.
Would you ignore every sign,
just to chase the shape of a feeling?
In over your head, thinking you’re
heading in the right direction—
when even the stars have stopped pointing.
A little too forceful, a little too often,
repeating the same mistake like it’s part
of the ritual— a pattern etched in skin,
but called _love_, to make it sting less.
_But maybe_… it’s the measure that matters most—
how the repetition finally taught you to become
your own ruler. Not of someone else’s heart,
but of your own.
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 12:50 PM UTC
I came across
A stray
Snarling dog
About 6 years ago
While I was living in an abusive home
Matted and scared
It was battered and bruised
And so was I
I fed the dog everything I would catch
Gave it my trust
And my loyalty
While it was visiting other people
Still coming running to me
As if it were starving
A month later I left my home
Finally out but now on my own
And nowhere to go
I left the ravaging beast
That owned me
Moved into the snarling dogs den
Where it kept me isolated
And used
Never free to express myself for fear of its bark
But the dog never bit so I forgave it
For it was bruised and hurt
So I tended to its wounds
As I licked them clean
Seven months later I learned the dog was being fed by other people
All of my hunting was for nothing
I didn't hurt the dog
Just hissed and yowled and scratched myself
Because the dog didn't deserve that
It was just hungry
You can't help hunger
So I moved us somwhere where the yards had fences so that the dog couldn't feed from others
Two more months later the dog had dug a hole under them
I found it and broke down again
All while filling the hole in with all the strength I could find in my small paws
The dog learned how to jump the fence
So I moved us somewhere where they were taller
And finally he was my dog
Even tho he still hungered for food from others
But my loyalty no longer lied with him
So I'd leave the dog alone in it's den
Well fed while I'd go out to hunt for others
After awhile I forgave his hunger
And gave in to those puppy dog eyes
Gave him my loyalty once more
Stayed in the den
But then a wolf moved in
And drove me out
I moved into a house again but was still loyal to the dog
To it's den
Until the dog snarled and barked
Until I was scared away from my loyalty
As it drove me away
The dog would now just roam my home
And visit here and there
Presenting itself as my therapy
As it wrapped is body around me
And let me use its fur for warmth
Being at my service
Grooming my fur
Leaving it clean
Trimming my claws
Leaving them cared for
My dog
Years later the dog still barked
Snarled
Growled
But it still never bit
So I always forgave it
I gave it my loyalty again
I let the dog into my home for a few days at a time
Before it went back to it's den
I lost my memory
No longer knew the dog
But the dog said I was loyal to him
And he was loyal
My dog
But then I found out that the dog had another home that he'd visit
My dog wasn't my dog
So I tried to leave it all
Because nothing is mine
Nothing is for me
The dog came crawling back
Whimpering and howling
Giving me its puppy dog eyes
So I let it be at my service again
Let it be my therapy dog again
The dog cleaned my fur
Trimmed my claws
Time flies by and the dog starts snarling
Growling
Teeth bared
Back arched
Everytime I'm sad or hurt
It can't be my therapy dog anymore
But I still beg it for comfort
I still try to nuzzle up to its fur
Hoping I can calm the anger within its body
With mine
But I am no longer this dogs cat
I am no longer loyal
And I don't care for its loyalty
I only care that it doesn't prey on another
So I obsess over keeping that dog mine
Keeping it away from another stray
I prowl around trying to find other homes
Until I do find one
This home is nice
But I only visit him sometimes
Wary of being his pet
The dog grows distant
Hiding away in the dark corners of our home
The dog is no longer there for me
Emotionally or physically
It doesn't curl itself around me or groom my fur
It doesn't lick my head when it's lowered
Or trim my claws when they grow too long
It only snarles
Barks
Bares its teeth
And finally it
BITES
The dog bit me
But the bite didn't draw blood
So I hiss and I swat
I curl up in a corner
And I keep the site of the bite away from my potential new owner
But that owner didn't want me
I'm not the right cat
I'm not the right temperament or personality that he was looking for so he closes his doors
I let the dog come back into our home
It must've been an accident
Because the wound
Didn't
Draw
Blood
One of my old owners comes back
The dog is still distant
Still snarling
And growling
So I hiss
And yowl back
The dog begins to calm back down
But it is still not my dog
I don't want it to be my dog
My previous owner only wants a cat and not a dog
And I'd like to be his pet again
So I need to leave the dog back in the den
The dog still cares for me
But only physically
All is well
And visiting my old owners home
Has me happy
But then
The dog
Bites me
Draws blood
Leaves a gaping wound
In my beautiful fur coat
My fur was stained red
And I was bleeding out dead
So I dragged myself to my old owners home
And he opened the door for me
The dog still wants me back
He couldn't fulfill his hunger
So he took his fill
Right out of me
Yet he still hungers further
Still howls and whimpers
Still tries to fool me with his puppy dog eyes
But I can now see through the lies
And everytime I look down I still see the wound that was left
In my beautiful fur coat
I can't get that wound clean
So I make sure that the dog cannot get to me
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
Your voice drips like golden honey,
Soft as a sunset melting into the sea.
I taste your laughter—wild berries and wine,
A melody swirling in the wind’s embrace.
Your touch is moonlight—cool and silver,
A whispered song that glows in the dark.
We speak in colors unseen,
And love in echoes unheard.
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 3:11 PM UTC
In silent hours, our inner art takes flight
Society shouts, yet silence hides the gold within
A spring of beauty flows, concealed in silent light
How can we break the chains that bind the soul of our art?
A secret song lies veiled, awaiting day from night
Dream of a world where melodies dance with the wind
To every hand that labors, crafting wrong to right
We’ll shatter silence of society’s black coffin
And carve its wood to sing with art’s immortal might.
Dec 24, 2024
Dec 24, 2024 at 5:35 PM UTC