#metaphoricalverse
For that which I don’t know— built from
the bones of all the words I never spoke.
My life, if summarized, could be a quote:
_a borrowed line_, or _a borrowed joke_.
Either footnoted in memory, or discarded
as someone who misquoted hope
_____________________________________
Perhaps I’d trade in an __error__
for a single, shapeshifting __era__.
But funny how the past echoes loudest
in silence, and how legends live on not
in flesh, but in the offspring of their __legacy__.
Still— be careful not to jump to conclusions.
Don’t cut off your __spring__ just because
you mistook the thaw for drowning.
And don’t become so quick to sip judgment
that you forget: _a half-empty drink_
can still quench the right thirst, depending
on who's pouring… and who's parched.
_________________________________________
Now there are those who offer their offending
speech like confetti; those whose presence is a
soft kind of peace; a balm, a breath, a quiet release.
Then there are others whose only offering is grief
once a week, wearing Sunday suits but speaking in leaks.
I have grown to value those who live
like arrows— honest, piercing, straightforward.
Not those who bend truth into shapes that fit
their spin, sending stories spinning on a tired wheel,
toward destinations they never meant to reach.
_________________________________________
Some speak on others' names with
the boldness of ownership, but it’s all
counterfeit— a forged will, a stamped conviction.
As for me? For that which I don’t know:
it remains a wonder, and I live in awe of it.
But as for some, with their tongue dipped
in certainty; your armour is made of knowing—
but you truly know nothing at all.
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 1:28 PM UTC
Dig into my chest like it’s bare soil—make it a grave, not for
mourning, but for planting. Let my heart be buried like a seed,
not as a casualty. **** out what once wrapped itself around
me like vines of bitterness, strangling my better nature. And if
love is to grow, let it bloom where my brokenness once lived.
To those who fall in love, only to fall harder out of it—do not
call yourselves foolish. Rising from that grave, petals torn but
still reaching for the sun, aren’t you the rose that dared the dirt?
Beautiful in _defiance_, bruised __but not defeated__.
Each morning, the sun rises like it’s trying to convince me it’s
worth beginning again. Beneath that light, my thoughts crash
like waves against the cliffs of a heart too mountainous to climb.
I keep counting stars like uncashed wishes, dreams I tuck into
the corners of silence. Love plays its hand close to the chest—
a secret it folds into itself, waiting to be revealed when the
moment is just right.
But I’ll never know enough. Maybe I wasn’t meant to. But I have
loved—_truly, painfully, and almost beautifully_. And that should
count for something, by the sum of this heart that still beats,
and still believes, but also still breaks.
So here I am, with these cards on the table. No bluff left in me.
Even a faithful lover would cry, 'God, are you listening; deal me
a better hand. Not one free of pain, but one I can hold with both
hands steady. One that doesn’t slip through the cracks I’ve tried
so hard to mend. But one I can grip with love, and not lose again.'
__But oh, how you'll weep— not for what’s been lost,
but for what you're scared to lose.__
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 5:20 AM UTC