#poeticintrospection
Features beyond a resting place — a search for hope drawn on my
face. In some way, I’ve lost direction; so wherever the river flows,
that’s where my thoughts are drawn. __Pause__. One, two, three.
I forget what comes next. Even boxed in, life keeps folding me into
new shapes — creases of maybe, edges of almost. My armies of
failures find their formation, ready to march without hesitation.
I keep umbrella terms handy for days like this, when words drizzle
but never really pour. I’m under the weather, I'm just _overthinking,_
awake with my fears —and even open eyes still dream, though it’s
mostly reality forcing them to blink.
It would prove handy to try and start an open-handed conversation
with myself, but my inner voices keep putting me on hold. Engines
rev, motivation hums, but procrastination presses pause; and then
everything idles.
I was meant to write this earlier, but time said: “Rest a little longer.”
And I listened, like I always do —finding comfort just beyond this
resting place.
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 12:29 PM UTC
Dust off my feelings — I could say
_I’m a little rusty when it comes to love,_
so please… forgive me.
With all these needs and wants, I don’t want
to _seem so needy — believe me!_ Sometimes I feel
like _the memory of other people_, a name echoed
in stories but never fully seen. I guess the fantasy
of connection _never really ends_. I loan myself
abundant confidence — but only in my heart,
and even then, _only vaguely_. Behind the irises,
tired eyes rest on the soft outlines of what
_the mind believes it can finally see_. To participate
in finding oneself… _it’s a gruesome search party._
My floodlights are filled with _a bit of drought_ —
shining outward, but lacking what flows within.
I’m strolling where I _never had the courage to step,_
everywhere I turn feels like _a new pressure._
I give out my heart, but don’t have much of a chest
to hold it — _barely a ribcage to defend it._
Yet still — _there’s treasure in this tenderness,_
a worthwhile chest of purpose hidden in the pretending…
of escaping real life. But here I am, _in real time_ —
taking the _first step._
Jun 30, 2025
Jun 30, 2025 at 3:11 PM UTC
Can’t be everyone’s hero—
but it’s so easy to be framed as the villain in someone’s story,
caught in the blur between goodwill and what they believe is ill will,
the wheel spinning from “helpful” to “harmful” without warning.
The sickened influencer—tired of carrying hearts like glass—
now catching cold thoughts, like a mind with influenza,
and I’m wondering: do I get any better at doing the most,
or do I just give less of a **** as the walls I build
crumble beneath the weight of everything I try to hold back?
_Does any of it matter, really—at all?_
Not everyone will love you like a lover in the honeymoon season—
the moon only glows for a night, and even the sweetest honey dries
when left open too long. And what you think might bring us closer
can become the very thing we learn to hate together.
But maybe in the court of opinion, I’ve become too quick
to cast judgment—forgetting that my sense-of-self
sometimes acts selfish too.
But I’m not standing tall above anyone—I’ve got my own
shortcomings, and none of them come in small doses.
__I sin too.__ Like you, I can act so human, _too human, too often._
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 5:20 PM UTC