#mirrorpoetry
...I ask myself,
"is it real to say
I'm in love with you"
spelling out the letters for
your love … mostly lies;
ALL CAPS ON –
....pin a needle through
my eye just to pin all of our
interests into my mind....
your pinterest feed:
mostly emo locs, low-hanging hair
covering the shame on your face —
yet framing it beautifully,
in a cute way.
i see my pain reflected in your eyes —
pairing ourselves in opposing mirrors,
where opposites attract and friendship
rarely leads us astray.
even when we burn out on each other,
tapping our emotions into an ashtray.
we are the art of a shared destruction —
and if we both walk away
unscathed,
consider us very lucky.
Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 2:54 PM UTC
My freedom came
when I stopped reflecting myself —
and started seeing the mirror.
Not to judge.
Not to fit in.
But to face the gaze
no one else dares to hold.
What you see
is what you want.
Not necessarily what’s true.
But look deep —
deep into the eyes of the mirror.
Inside… is truth.
Not the kind you polish.
Not the kind you sell.
Only the kind you carry —
or burn from denying.
Socrates whispered:
“Do you know who you are?”
Lucifer answered:
“Now he does.”
And I smiled.
Not because I liked what I saw,
but because I finally dared to see it.
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 5:05 AM UTC
Evil is a name of a foeman, as I live.
Madam, in Eden, I'm Adam.
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
A man, a plan, a canal: Panama.
Never a foot too far, even.
No, sir, away! A papaya war is on.
Step on no pets.
A Toyota's a Toyota.
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 3:16 PM UTC
Adam!
turn me over and sing me a song of sixpence
hearing voices, not seeing faces ... with the radio on
it's just me myself and I
driving between towns emoting, gushing
*hurt me, break me, **** me!*
at the top of my lungs
finding bars buried in backyards
on back roads of insincerity
birch bitten and chewed
logs wet and rotten
and still, chords neatly stacked in ordered rows
can you stand me on my feet?
back home
brushing my teeth yellow
biting my nails turgid, hoping she will come with me to a show
my state is of a lower-class shambling
hoping for a renewal
or rebirth
sweating on the train repeating God's name
gasping for air making people nervous staring
at their phones wondering if I am going to keel over and die
it's just me myself and I
that's right, write it out in long hand first, then go back and edit
(wishing to write like Tarkovsky)
comparing father and son - an unchecked exception
they were buried in separate coffins
one in France the other, in a timber cask
but won't I be
too?
I wish I could say, "we have a saying in my country" or "scripture says" or
"I'm lost without you" (I am and now found).
In ruins at the end of a day
building pigeon flap (or come what may)
ascending a scale of notes in a mirror of songs
behold an image
in a scale of descending notes at dawn.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 2:25 AM UTC