#regretandredemption - Hello Poetry

Altar regrets; please don’t alter my texts – or delete my last request; as lust requests you do what feels good, but it all becomes tomorrow’s bad mistake, dressed out in yesterday’s breath. At the front of my books – my body language in bold font is what I’ll flaunt; though at times, I’m not so bold at being myself... Physical or digital – _spiritual or literal_ – loaning some faith on empty days, loading some company when I feel I’m moving through life at my lonesome, feeling loathsome. But take your time; write your own books if you want to – just don’t forget the lessons you’ve read. Despite being blue-ticked in person, my presence and influence still get left on read... I can’t claim ownership of everything; crying for it all, till my eyes are painted red. As each good word you’ve received is a divine gift – to defy the rifts; to train and define your divine gifts, learn to prune the sickness from your vine so new creation can live... value the chance to forgive — make every reason solid, for choosing to live.

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Aug 8, 2025

Aug 8, 2025 at 1:38 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Altar(ed) Words

Altar regrets; please don’t alter my texts – or delete my last request; as lust requests you do what feels good, but it all becomes tomorrow’s bad mistake, dressed out in yesterday’s breath. At the front of my books – my body language in bold font is what I’ll flaunt; though at times, I’m not so bold at being myself... Physical or digital – _spiritual or literal_ – loaning some faith on empty days, loading some company when I feel I’m moving through life at my lonesome, feeling loathsome. But take your time; write your own books if you want to – just don’t forget the lessons you’ve read. Despite being blue-ticked in person, my presence and influence still get left on read... I can’t claim ownership of everything; crying for it all, till my eyes are painted red. As each good word you’ve received is a divine gift – to defy the rifts; to train and define your divine gifts, learn to prune the sickness from your vine so new creation can live... value the chance to forgive — make every reason solid, for choosing to live.

24

Time doesn’t weigh much — even when you’re fed every second of it. Food for thought piles up like leftovers, a full plate of ideas you never quite digest. We serve our dreams once they wake, laid bare beneath an open space —hoping stars will shine back on what we once believed in. But from a distance, everything looks so harmless — get close enough, and it burns through our skin. _Dreams, truth, love_ — they all come with scorch marks when held too long. Time steals slow, but mistakes move fast. You step wrong and feel it instantly — unless your pride is a glass slipper, and you’re too _enchanted_ to feel the crack. Because it’s one thing to know what you’re not — you’re not a clock spinning past reason, you’re flesh and fatigue, and this life… it winds down. A broken clock still gets it right twice a day — but a broken person has __twice the time__ to bury themselves or choose to rise and __heal__.

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Jul 16, 2025

Jul 16, 2025 at 7:50 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Twice the Time to Heal

Time doesn’t weigh much — even when you’re fed every second of it. Food for thought piles up like leftovers, a full plate of ideas you never quite digest. We serve our dreams once they wake, laid bare beneath an open space —hoping stars will shine back on what we once believed in. But from a distance, everything looks so harmless — get close enough, and it burns through our skin. _Dreams, truth, love_ — they all come with scorch marks when held too long. Time steals slow, but mistakes move fast. You step wrong and feel it instantly — unless your pride is a glass slipper, and you’re too _enchanted_ to feel the crack. Because it’s one thing to know what you’re not — you’re not a clock spinning past reason, you’re flesh and fatigue, and this life… it winds down. A broken clock still gets it right twice a day — but a broken person has __twice the time__ to bury themselves or choose to rise and __heal__.

18

Can’t hold onto anyone’s time— their life is out of your hands. But still, we all take these steps of being so etched in somebody’s memory— like footprints in the sand. I keep counting all the time I tried to hold onto the past, without a watch in my hand. Watch the moment pass— _tense_, sinister in tenacity. A voracious hour— feeding off what I didn’t say, what I left behind. Art quietly buried in my mind. And all those things I thought were gone— they love to reappear as a new regret. Still transparent. Still off-putting. But put off those mistakes— and put on the lessons. Be beautiful in your time. Not perfect. _Just worth building_. They’ll write it down— the inspiring story of how you rose, even when time kept slipping through your hands.

0

Jun 27, 2025

Jun 27, 2025 at 12:55 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Footprints Without a Watch

Can’t hold onto anyone’s time— their life is out of your hands. But still, we all take these steps of being so etched in somebody’s memory— like footprints in the sand. I keep counting all the time I tried to hold onto the past, without a watch in my hand. Watch the moment pass— _tense_, sinister in tenacity. A voracious hour— feeding off what I didn’t say, what I left behind. Art quietly buried in my mind. And all those things I thought were gone— they love to reappear as a new regret. Still transparent. Still off-putting. But put off those mistakes— and put on the lessons. Be beautiful in your time. Not perfect. _Just worth building_. They’ll write it down— the inspiring story of how you rose, even when time kept slipping through your hands.

27

I'd feel like a stranger at my own funeral- who's that in the box, dressed better in death than I ever managed in life? Better than my quiet attempts-those empty rehearsals at suicide. Was this the last chance I had left? Even in death, my voice isn't heard- nor the screaming ones trapped inside my skull. Even my ghost wouldn't believe it's dead, still hoping the lives I tried to save might pay my way past the gates, buy out my debts. But what if there's no heaven waiting? What if another kind of hell greets me instead? What if I never see my old friends again- never laugh without fear, never smile without pretending? What if I never stop being so ******* afraid so strangely ashamed to feel nothing, to be numb to even shame itself? All I wanted was to be born again- not into some perfect life, but one that wouldn't lead me back to searching for another end. And isn't it strange- how only in death do we see our regrets with such clarity? Because there's nowhere left to run from them once we get to the end.

0

Jun 8, 2025

Jun 8, 2025 at 2:52 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Stranger in the box

I'd feel like a stranger at my own funeral- who's that in the box, dressed better in death than I ever managed in life? Better than my quiet attempts-those empty rehearsals at suicide. Was this the last chance I had left? Even in death, my voice isn't heard- nor the screaming ones trapped inside my skull. Even my ghost wouldn't believe it's dead, still hoping the lives I tried to save might pay my way past the gates, buy out my debts. But what if there's no heaven waiting? What if another kind of hell greets me instead? What if I never see my old friends again- never laugh without fear, never smile without pretending? What if I never stop being so ******* afraid so strangely ashamed to feel nothing, to be numb to even shame itself? All I wanted was to be born again- not into some perfect life, but one that wouldn't lead me back to searching for another end. And isn't it strange- how only in death do we see our regrets with such clarity? Because there's nowhere left to run from them once we get to the end.

33