#metaphorpoetry
I am being taught by mornings now,
not by books,
but by the quiet way sunlight enters
without asking permission.
Once, I placed my weight on a shadow,
believing it would hold
because it always walked beside me.
I did not notice
how it thinned
when the clouds gathered.
Lately, my hands have learned
new habits—
how to steady a trembling cup,
how to fasten buttons alone,
how to wait without looking at the door.
There was a time
I mistook closeness for shelter,
mistook words for walls,
mistook presence for promise.
Need arrived like a storm,
and I watched the horizon answer instead of you.
So I am learning—
the way rivers learn new paths
after the bridge gives up.
Not in anger,
not in blame,
but in the soft discipline of survival.
Each day removes a thread
from the rope I tied around you,
and knots it gently
around my own wrists.
This is not distance.
This is gravity correcting itself.
This is me discovering
that even abandoned seeds
can teach themselves
how to reach the light.
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 8:52 AM UTC
Gravity Isn’t an Action!!!!!
You said,!!
“Don’t mistake my actions.”
So I stopped watching what you do
and began studying what you are.
You are the moon—quiet, distant, exact.
No noise. No effort.You don’t chase,
you don’t explain.You simply exist.
And I am the sea—made of motion.
Not because I want to move,
but because something in me
cannot remain still ,when you are above me.
You think tides are reactions.They are not.
They are consequences of gravity.Gravity is not intention.It does not ask permission.
It does not mean to pull—it just does.
You never touched me.Not once.
Yet every night my levels change because you are there.
High tide is not drama.Low tide is not distance.Both are honest responses
to the same presence.
You remain calm,circular, complete.
I remain confused—rising, falling,
breaking against shores -that were never meant to hold this much water.
Sometimes I overflow.Sometimes I retreat.
Sometimes I harm the shore,
sometimes I erode myself.
But tell me—
how do you blame water
for behaving like water!!!!!???
You say,
“It’s just the way I am.”Exactly.
And that is the strongest force here.
Because existence creates impact without effort.
The moon does not chase the sea,
yet the sea rearranges itself
every day around her position.Is it my mistake
that my chemistry reacts to your mass?
Is it your fault
that you were born luminous?
And maybe that is what science
would call gravity—an invisible force,
constant and true,
shaping worlds without meaning to,
just as you shape me
without effort or awareness.
Poetry will call it love.
I don’t know which word hurts less.
You want clarity, but I give poetry instead.
Clarity is negligible truth to poetry.
You are literal,I am metaphor
All I know is—you are simple,and I am not.
You are calm,and I am deep.You are constant,and I am learning
how to survive your constancy.
Maybe the sea learns stillness,
not to stop wanting the moon,
but to hold that wanting without breaking itself.So don’t be afraid.
I am not mistaking your actions—I am staying with what your presence awakens in me.I am understanding your existence,
and how it continues to move me.
I don’t know what to call it.
Maybe it’s you living inside me,or maybe it’s me finally finding myself in you.
All I know is—
like the tides that rise each night,
there is a lifting in me
caused by an invisible force.
I cannot see it,but I can sense it!!!!
Work from :
-To Her Who Already Knows !
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 10:01 AM UTC
My breath belongs in my lungs, but my chest found a home inside
your heart— then I cut pieces off myself just to hold a piece of you.
Every embrace feels like a crowded room: your tight mannerisms
wrapped around that pretty smile, your colours shifting between
words; shapes changing into the version longing keeps sculpting.
Maybe I’m the well dug too deep— a spiritual mirror of the man I
keep trying to be, the one who could lie beside you in peace, long
enough to remember what softness feels like. Your lips meet mine
so gently that the moment breathes through both our pores; your
presence pulls and pushes at once—push me away, and somehow
your pull grows stronger.
I fall back into that familiar gravity. You speak, and I listen through
the seven levels of understanding; I try to translate us through the
five love languages, into the three words you hesitate to confess,
toward the one truth we both circle around.
And all along, it only takes two— _You and I_, to subtract the whole
count down to its core: I guess love is always the equation reduced
to the simplest form.
Dec 6, 2025
Dec 6, 2025 at 8:56 AM UTC
Leave a couple breadcrumbs leading me to your heart;
Lend me a walking stick through this forest of doubts,
Paint me the picture to frame you as my work of art.
Call out the elephant in the room — so I never forget
Why we fell in love — oh God, I’m starting to feel like
An animal, chasing after your response.
_typing… typing… cleared… trying._
Build me that steady strong house on the mountaintop,
And maybe, for the hell of it, Heaven can judge our love.
Write it in the stars, as if constellations had an opinion,
Let's kiss in front of all your friends, just to leave them
Feeling so jealous, just for the plot.
And if you want a spark to grow,
Give me a space in your plot, and I’ll wager
All of my fears and lay out every single card.
**** can a hopeless romantic really be in love?
Nov 24, 2025
Nov 24, 2025 at 5:10 AM UTC
Kiss me like an exclamation mark; you caught me by surprise.
In your eyes I see those question marks, wondering why my
body didn’t answer your touch with the certainty you offered.
__It’s not you.__ It’s the way the last touch I felt came with a full stop.
A hard ending pressed into my skin, closing a chapter I never
meant to finish. Since then, my heart has been a blank page
I’m too afraid to write on.
_I haven’t found the courage to start a new sentence..._
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 5:27 PM UTC
It's so hard to stomach these feelings —
spilling out my guts, trying to find the guts
to count all of the butterfly echoes in my stomach.
I keep catching feelings with a net made of music
notes; a song crying in my ears, humming the truth
that I’m too afraid to speak.
When I kissed her with my eyes closed, love
blinded the unbeliever in me — the man who
swore he’d never fall again; __yet he had fallen__.
I placed my dreams in a small glass jar that she
kept pressed to her chest — where our hopes
slept like fireflies, _soft, glowing, fragile_; I treasured
our love there, thinking the world couldn’t touch it.
Your lips were that kind of kiss; the kind that drags
you back to life, only to crush you, to break you,
and reshape you into someone you barely recognize.
And the stillness of night in a chaotic party was
where I took my chance — swallowing my words,
yet my lips were brave enough for both of us.
Truth is, I couldn't fully stomach myself; never been
good at lying, especially when fed on my own lies.
And still, if all of this was just a beautifully crafted
illusion, I can’t deny it — I savoured every sweet,
aching part until even my stomach felt full.
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 2:17 PM UTC
Love feels so plural now—
everyone adding their own noun,
giving it any verb that fits the moment.
Give it a title, call it “vibing,”
or call it “just figuring things out” —
wrap it all in quotation marks
to avoid saying anything real.
Add a little syntax, then sprinkle commas
everywhere to list the endless reasons
you “can’t commit right now.”
_______________
Leave a space between yourselves,
an underscore _ for the distance you'll
say you need “to work on yourself.”
Then comes the dash — that sudden break —
the clean cut in the middle of the sentence:
we need a break — as if punctuation could
soften disappearing.
Then use an exclamation mark for all
of the promises you never meant to keep,
loud declarations that echo empty as soon
as you reread them.
_______________
And finally, end it all with
“I love you?” — a question mark curling
around doubt, around convenience,
around the half-truth of modern affection.
That’s pretty much today’s lov —
missing the “e,” because even love feels
incomplet...
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 3:24 PM UTC
For what river truly cries — when it drowns in its own tears?
What walls speak for themselves, too busy listening to your
gossip to hold any secret of their own.
What gospel is worth quoting, when you recite only the lines
you prefer, picking faith like fruit, discarding the bitter parts?
Versions of reason, disgusted, and all collected in an old jar
sunk to the bottom of a restless sea — for if a river weeps too
long, it swells beyond itself, becoming another ocean too vast
to contain.
Walls that bend to every word you say will crumble under a
single honest breath, and quietly falling like forgotten prayers,
For when scripture just becomes a mere script; should I even
wonder why so many of us perform the cold act of believing
without believing at all — we're all so good at acting.
Nov 7, 2025
Nov 7, 2025 at 3:28 PM UTC
If these walls were made of glass, would our reflections
still cling to the walls—bouncing from corner to corner
like memories too stubborn to shatter? When you close
your eyes, does darkness make it easier to spread your
wings, to fly where I cannot follow? I could not bear
those hours apart —like a flower torn from its bunch,
wilting beside the vase that once held its home.
I wished your fingers could bud again in my dreams,
to brush the dust off forgotten verses — where shall
they sleep now, these memories that write, tear, and
weep before sweeping me off my feet again? Words
feels like glass under my tongue, clear but cutting —
every line another reflection of what used to be.
My different self steps out softly, to the echoes of this
hardened heart. I’m tired of dreams, weary of illusions —
I want something I can taste and hold, something with
weight and warmth. _But it isn’t you._ You’ve become
a pane of glass reflecting everything I once believed in,
bouncing longing back at me; your picture is cracked,
your absence sharper than truth.
_I loved your reflection, but not the reality of it._
Nov 7, 2025
Nov 7, 2025 at 12:58 PM UTC
I see your smile in buildings, you still live in my heart —
a part of me; apartment walls built up and down, all of
their tenants moving in and out. A crowded room, one
bathroom, toothpaste crust on the sink — my living room
feels so uncomfortable not living with you.
The kitchen light hums, drawing cockroaches out at night,
not even shy when we stare eye to eye — I guess even pests
get used to company. Cupboards empty, with only food for
thought to feed my hope.
Still I pray the rent isn’t overdue — the landlord of depression
bangs on my door at the end of the month, the middle of the
month, the beginning — _anytime he wants_.
We shared this house, but never lived in our hearts.
We shared this mattress, but never rested our worries.
We shared this address, yet got lost chasing after each other.
Now, the buildings are all vacant — windows hollow,
paint of your smile peeling off the walls, flaking down like
tired laughter. And every echo, sounds like your name.
Nov 4, 2025
Nov 4, 2025 at 3:25 PM UTC
a ****** of Crows
gather Carpe Diem;
fluffing their throat feathers,
commiserating
the dead-weight
each unshod foot
bending the world below
the horde of cleft feet align
leaving no footprint behind ―
bowing the antique
frayed telephone wire
party-line swaying with the wind
over the washed out road;
at any moment
the land-line
might break
from the overload ―
downcast,
abandoned,
level with the ground ―
but no one
on earth
even cares ...
they've got
the whole world
in their palm
beneath the sky ―
and the crows
have wings
to fly away ...
harlon rivers
June 2018
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
a breath of fresh air
tickles still-waters
a lone swan's quill
let fall, takes flight
carpe diem ―
nigh weightless,
buoyantly skitters
across the water,
laissez faire;
barely dimpling
the shallow peace
on a lake in the wood
a wild feather's
mindless pirouettes
emanate from
the steeping silence
lapping its
superficial refection
the true nature
of wildness,
unspoken freedom,
an untamed
wilder – ness
skims the skinny waters
seeking their own level;
leaving no trace
of ever being containable
like a breath of fresh air
reinvigorates
unconquerable souls
touching in the
conscious moment ―
a gentle passing breeze
arousing a rogue gust
Jesse Stillwater
01 June 2018
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC