#poeticwordplay
The thought of you still haunts my mind — ghosting each other;
still you echo in old pet names, those childish spells we cast: calling
me babe, you were my boo — now they sound like haunted nursery
rhymes.
_Ugghh!_ Self-cringing at the memories, self-sabotaging with these
rewinds. Getting lost in your mirage; a thirst that never quite learned
its lesson. Back then, I parked at the corner of love — these days, my
heart’s engine won’t even start. My drive stays parked in the garage.
We once kissed without question, and now I question every last kiss.
When they say I still love you, I deny it like an alibi that no longer fits.
But the truth is: half this story belongs to me, though I wrote every
chapter like a reader discovering my own heartbreak, turning pages,
rereading scenes I swore I’d forgotten, still hoping the ending changes
somehow. We had our teasers, those sweet previews of our forever.
But our forever got cancelled mid-season, and I’m stuck watching
reruns of us, in the quiet glow of what could’ve been.
Now your reflection lingers in the glass of every unfinished thought,
I try to wipe it clean, but ghosts don’t leave fingerprints — but their
fingers brush over your skin in these dreams.
You and I were once a plot that burned too bright, two names inked
in passion’s draft, now crossed out and fading. And so, we’ve met our
conclusion; lovers turned legends in a ghost story that still tells itself
at night.
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 11:11 PM UTC
I want a box for my heart –
sometimes the chance to fight for love,
most times to store it away from
gaining more scars.
Love is sometimes a joke —
with an ugly punchline, still every day,
you punch in for love, taking hits
that time won’t clock out.
You're either
_boxing_ or _boxed in._
Oct 24, 2025
Oct 24, 2025 at 11:48 AM UTC
My heart is glass, surrounded by pain—
or pane— a window no one should tap,
yet everyone does. My mind is a registry,
waiting to be filled with letters and numbers,
each thought like a record of what I owe
and what I’ve lost.
I bank my worth on others, to write myself
as a blank cheque, but when you cash me
in, what if there’s nothing left?
_Tap.
Tap.
Tap_—
Could you please not tap too hard.
Fear splinters easy these days, like a dog
lunging at shadows, like me chasing
a rabbit I’ll never hold.
The bushes rustle— something unseen,
waiting to pounce, its teeth already in my
skull, mocking a fragile picture of my demise.
Laughter claws the silence raw—
__don’t crack me up.__
Because I’m only glass. And I’m only prey.
And I’ve been hiding all along, a glass rabbit
in disguise— already hearing the fractures
before you ever touch me.
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 12:41 PM UTC
Across her sweatshirt, ninety-nine names
stitched like constellations —a lover finds
a hundred reasons to say why he loves you.
A slogan turned into scripture, she wears
it close to her chest; words sweating with her
on the mattress, to wait patiently, following
all the directions from the map of her heart.
I’ll mark the landscape, paint portraits of her
in my mind’s eye —learning the grammar
of her body, and the rules of her orientation.
Inside her, every detail is an interior design,
yet all of it points outward towards me.
She proves me down to earth, grounded
by the gravity of her presence.
Her breath is thick; honest words grazing
the neck like prayer; and in silence, our eyes
speak the sentences our lips can’t form.
Love repeats itself, a devotion like unanswered
prayers, whispered night after night; to find
a surrender that completes both sides of us.
_I found my Hundredth Reason._
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 4:41 AM UTC
A relationship’s anchor— we could be falling in love or sinking
down, holding on for far too long, too shy to step fully into the
moment, being too hesitant to taste a worthwhile experience.
_So awkward in time_— yet the stars in a smile still flicker, asking
for a space in time, a little corner of the universe to stretch this
love beyond its natural season.
But seasonal heartbreaks are just another episode, and you
know how it goes— new loves spring up, and blossoming
overnight, only to end in snow.
We cling to them in desperation, but strange terrain prevails
dismay; hard to walk steady as every step sinks into the cold.
And still we rush— rushing to fall in love, slipping through
the snow, hoping this time the anchor holds, hoping this time
we don’t drown.
Where will the anchor fall down to?
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
I’ve got finger stitches — love handed me needles;
the attentions of spiraling vines; some bear grapes,
but not all are ripe with maturity, some just needless.
Burning every bridge while the sky stays divinely nested,
and I’ve tied these knots around my tired heart,
left admiring birds of a feather — but never flying
south together — _all bested_.
They press your buttons just for their luck to press —
dim suggestions also light up the road to regret
Lessons in subtle form and silent —whatever mistakes
you walk into and out of, never forget their steps.
Hiking with joy into the last light of sunset; yes, we can
fall in love like the sun falls behind a mountain crest —
rising bright by morning, but crying in the dark —
perhaps this isn’t love yet.
__And that’s okay.__
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 1:18 AM UTC
Everything is so terrifying for the introvert going outside—
the overthinker rehearses all of their prestored sentences,
Sitting on impeccable lines with no trace of uncertainty,
but ever so certain that it’s what the ear wants to hear.
The hopeless romantic knows the picture of a good love
story, but can’t seem to paint that picture for themselves—
Because imagination never quite imitates real emotion.
_And it’s irritating._
But haven’t I been them all? A single character playing
too many roles— the pencil in my story, trying to sketch
out the scenery of a better life. The pen, trying to write
out a good script that fits in the ink folds of my cerebellum.
My skin wears the wrinkles of time, bruises like an overcoat—
a weathered face, but it’s body has no spring in its step.
I’ve been depressed. But when you’re made to grow up too
fast, to keep pace with the world, what else do you expect?
Still, don’t expect me to be anything less than my level best.
Elevated fears go up, while my hope quietly goes down.
Yet on the upside? I stopped pretending to flip my frown
upside down. Some days I’m up. Most days I’m so down.
But I’m not always down— just holding onto the little hope
I find in creation; beauty painted out from my frustrations.
Like the weather, my mood keeps shifting. And whether
you’re caught in a long winter after a short summer,
Don’t worry— _it’s all just a passing season._
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 4:58 PM UTC
I’ve got diamond eyes, but don’t see myself so clear,
All the excited boys make the most noise,
Yet __depression only needs to whisper in an ear.__
Words are prison bars; speaking highly of yourself
the danger of being handed a lengthy sentence–
__Booked in the library of time;__ days sitting on a shelf.
… waiting to be read
Let me stay shelved a little longer— _reading up,
leading up,_ dreaming of a story still becoming
Between the lines; silent – even good stories gather dust
These tales of triumph still tarnish and rust…
Don't judge by how loud or how fast it all looks—
even the best stories get forgotten in books…
__misunderstood!__
Jun 4, 2025
Jun 4, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC