#suppose
Did a stranger ever think I was pretty?
Or a child admire my smile?
Or do they sigh in pity as they walk through the city,
Because I haven't laughed in a while?
Did a girl ever like my blue sweater,
Or a boy ever blush and go slow?
Or do they mention the weather as they share looks together,
Because they know what the sleeves hide below?
Do they see the dark and the worry
Or the carefully constructed facade?
"She's fine, surely," as by me they hurry,
By my mask painstakingly made.
Did a stranger ever think I was pretty?
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 11:52 PM UTC
When I leave this space,
I do not wish to be remembered,
my resonance transcending,
perhaps then understood.
numinous words,
may scatter across the ethereal sky,
and what little meanings find its quiet
inside celestial thought abound.
And those who know me will forget,
as I too become nothing but lucidity in time.
let fervorous nature
rain subtle remembrances
across wild oceans of obscurity,
and grace's stillness in echoed dreams,
where even forgetting
becomes a kind of metaphor,
and my silence finishes old lines
that language could not,
when breath held my pen.
Let pages whisper the confessions of self,
folding into the liminal winds,
as silence drapes the world
with my final,
ineffable sigh.
Jan 24
Jan 24, 2026 at 10:57 AM UTC
Drowning in my own self reflection,
How can someone be a stranger to himself,
Am I me or am I what society turned me into.
Looking at the one in the mirror,
Wondering how life changed him when he was supposed to be the one who changes it.
Voices filling up my head telling me how to act and who to be,
Are those my own or someone else’s.
He screamed asking for silence, but the voices got louder and louder till it turned his screams into whispers.
All he ever wanted was to be who he is, but now he is the one in the mirror.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
"When we think of “meant to be,” we automatically assume forever. But maybe it isn’t supposed to last forever. Maybe it’s just someone who is in your life to teach you something. Maybe forever is not the person, but what we gain from them."
- excerpt from a diary I don’t own. (Via southernsparkleandshine)
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC
i suppose
that supposing
is assuming
to presume
an estimation.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 11:45 PM UTC
note for when you're ahead:
no one very much cares about your stupid little poems
your missives to a sickly version of you.
they're disinterested in your allegories
your holy fables about ***** needles and needless dirt.
and god forbid they watch you climb the ladder
unless your foot misses a rung, and you fall a wonderful fall into the welcoming embrace of the concrete below.
oh but i assure you they are crows
perched on a telephone wire, watching the theater of your car-crash life, as a limp arm tumbles out a capsized window, and the children dance in a circle around the fire, singing:
"*we're here, we're here
for all that you hold dear
your eyes so dull and lifeless
yet they cry such pretty tears
we hold you out at arms length
but close enough to hear
the warring two, halves of you
as we imbibe your fear
...but no one very much cares about your stupid little poems.*"
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 10:14 AM UTC
Out of this world I suppose
The thing I wanted
The thing I craved
Is nothing beneath the surface
Should I really be here?
People whispering
People gathering
People hardworking
Just to achieve something they...
Thought they need
Are we really in this world just to play along?
When I was a kid, all I thought was
Everything we step on
The grass, the ground, even the mud outside
Was all part of a big playground
Where we are tested
Looked upon, and judged
Others always ask,
"How can I be truly happy?"
Which is I second the motion
Things, foods, places
People always find the way to achieve that kind of feeling
Even when it takes to let themselves be lost
Can I ask,
How can we truly end this?
All this suffering, sadness, unknowingness
Without getting depressed on how will we do it?
The solution?
Out of this world, I suppose
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
words are strange things.
they're sounds we give meaning.
and when strung together a certain way,
they suddenly create mind boggling results.
seas of beautiful people suddenly turn sour,
mountains of angry humans turn around and pick flowers.
words are different everywhere you go,
and some words aren't even spoken with a voice
but rather a hand
its nice, i think
that we all give meaning to such sounds
they act as either a leash to pull you in
or a wind to blow you out
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 3:07 AM UTC
I don’t want a sunbeam
give that to Jesus.
Don’t bother me with purity,
don’t let me make shadows
out of you.
I don’t want a butterfly
batting along on the wind.
The wind of my word,
on the gale of my opinion.
I don’t want a pearl,
something that needs to be made.
Made from gritty sand, held close,
and pressurised round and edgeless.
I don’t want a rose
called what I want it to be,
cut where I want it to be,
on my lapel, for when it makes me look best.
I don’t want conversations like schizophrenia.
If you want me to be able to explain you in four lines,
I don’t want you.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
It's not quite my fault the world has to be unjust and cruel. I'm losing interest in it and I'm losing it fast. I don't know who I am and I don't know who I should be. I'm tired of looking at the ground instead of the sky and I'm tired of relying on that half gallon of ***** to make me feel better. I want change, I need it.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
I love you.
Silence
I suppose I'll take the hint.
F.Z.N
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
School children walk by in their dirtied rugby kits
as a reminder that it only takes five years for
inertia to calcify and turn into a state of mind.
I smoke by the front door, ear to the hallway
in case a phone call comes from the government,
lending me money so that I can break up the days.
There is no need to change. No reason to pull out
of these clothes and take to window shopping
in the market town of charity shops and fast food.
My bed is full of crescent moons in nightcaps
and faceless stars, sewn together in Indonesia,
some small hands that gave me a comfort which
faded through wash cycles and pill-drawn sleep.
I have given myself to application forms and binary,
Yes/No answers to my heritage and right to work.
All I can do is lie exhausted in the night sky,
draw the curtains from daylight, and hope that
poetry is enough to punctuate the afternoon.
I thought depression was a creative drama;
a way to filter reality into a thousand petalled lotus
flower that blooms through broken skin and sends
algae past the ionosphere and into the breathless
lung of space. There is caffeine for food and boiled
sweets to give the sensation of mint and sugar.
I thought depression was a poet's ultimate muse.
I thought depression brought the most peaceful sleep.
I thought happiness came in basaltic columns,
echo chambers that sang with water flutes and
siren songs. I thought that I would find the current,
lengthen my back, and then float to dry land.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC