#timeandmemory - Hello Poetry

hours in—hourly; seconds lost to food for thought. cooking moments, so slowly i go back for seconds, trying to feel full off time itself.

0

May 22

May 22, 2026 at 3:51 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Going Back for Seconds

hours in—hourly; seconds lost to food for thought. cooking moments, so slowly i go back for seconds, trying to feel full off time itself.

5

Fine tea brewed slow, poured carefully in old porcelain cups, tastes of today and then on discerning lips. The leaf gathers depth slowly, diffusing dark tones, unfolding waves, carried in soft, intentional ripples. A silver spoon stirs imagination like stairs ascending, unseen corners of thought. The cup is the soul, cracked, yet still holding. And if the cup were flawless, would the tea taste of anything? Would its memory linger, on the tongue at all?

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Feb 12

Feb 12, 2026 at 3:38 PM UTC

MalcolmG

What lingers

Fine tea brewed slow, poured carefully in old porcelain cups, tastes of today and then on discerning lips. The leaf gathers depth slowly, diffusing dark tones, unfolding waves, carried in soft, intentional ripples. A silver spoon stirs imagination like stairs ascending, unseen corners of thought. The cup is the soul, cracked, yet still holding. And if the cup were flawless, would the tea taste of anything? Would its memory linger, on the tongue at all?

16

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

The night hums a quiet tune, a melody lost between stars and sighs. Moonlight spills like silver ink, writing forgotten dreams on my skin. I chase echoes of a name I never spoke, woven in the hush of the wind. Footsteps dissolve in the sand, yet the tide carries them back— again, and again. Time bends where longing lingers, soft hands reaching for yesterday’s touch. But love, like mist, fades before fingers can hold it. So I gather the whispers, press them into my ribs, let them bloom beneath my breath— a garden of moments, eternal and unseen.

0

Mar 25, 2025

Mar 25, 2025 at 5:25 AM UTC

Kuch_baatein_khud_se

Ephemeral Whispers

The night hums a quiet tune, a melody lost between stars and sighs. Moonlight spills like silver ink, writing forgotten dreams on my skin. I chase echoes of a name I never spoke, woven in the hush of the wind. Footsteps dissolve in the sand, yet the tide carries them back— again, and again. Time bends where longing lingers, soft hands reaching for yesterday’s touch. But love, like mist, fades before fingers can hold it. So I gather the whispers, press them into my ribs, let them bloom beneath my breath— a garden of moments, eternal and unseen.

18