#quarterlife
Soft biscuits, crunchy teeth; crunch time:
mid-twenties, late twenties, thirty knocking
without knocking, every age an ill-fitting jacket.
Do we _stumble or stutter,_ __belt it or buckle?__
I’m exhausted from outrunning myself through
the ash of volatile passions, burning my tongue
on honesty, spilling my heart like it won’t blister.
With all these pestering thoughts, will the words
escape me or sit heavy in my mouth? Every shallow
sentence hides a depth. Every page of life you've
read, is riddled with misspelt moments —missing the
__S,__ of the quiet **** you survive, but never speak aloud.
Life is a biscuit you pray comes with a creamy centre,
yet the middle lives between a lot of hardship & time.
_Crunch, crunch, crunch_ — how much can you really
swallow before it lodges in your throat, choking
you into either despair or happy tears?
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 12:16 PM UTC
How exquisite it is,
Awaking day to day,
With many bills to pay,
Not a second to lay,
And many passersby,
Come and go my way.
What happened to Spring?
The cold, Winter chill,
Bothersome and bold,
Prolonging sunshine in May,
And a hopeful bloom of flowers,
Early on a Summer’s day.
No longer do I have the eye,
The once vibrant palette,
Has faded to shades of gray,
That vision of what could be,
Has drifted towards the wild cards that I play,
Merry and chipper, not ever,
Not today.
What keeps me at bay,
As my passion for trying becomes fray,
Is the internal defeat from external way,
Way of the ****** that seems to slay,
Every bit of purity in my heart that lay,
Formulating a misery that is here to stay.
All I aim for is to sleep,
That fine sleep on that lonely, inevitable day,
Existing and not existing, I’m sorry to say,
Is the only relief I feel as I hope and pray,
For God to bring me peace,
After a lifetime of disarray.
Mind molded like a block of clay,
Clay that never hardens,
Only my heart hardens like clay,
Youthful spirit and innocently gay,
Is a treasured philosophy,
I strive to regain some day.
The size of the world, on my shoulders that weigh,
Far from purpose and fulfillment I seem to stray,
Happiness is chosen, but not encouraged by they,
He or she of whom that continue to outlay,
My fragile, decaying soul,
I’m not okay.
Dec 27, 2023
Dec 27, 2023 at 12:11 AM UTC
It's better to know who you are not
Than who you are
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 1:08 AM UTC