#wordplaypoetry
I hate that I’m right for you –
but you say, I’m not right for you…
:still, I’ll value the chance
to do right for you –
it’s the story of us, and I’ll just
write for two.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 12:56 AM UTC
Working so hard— like you're covering rent,
that's a reason for you living in my head.
Way too many careless thoughts, I must
be losing my mind, just falling in love again.
Imported names, I'll make yours important,
then file it carefully in my mental ledger.
Tax orders, clearance sales— buying into
a dream of falling in love once again.
Maybe a little ahead of myself, big-headed
with small thoughts, filling up all the space
that used to be mine alone, not alone again.
Right inside my head, I find her waiting—
someone who never leaves, who never
really leaves at all. Falling In Love Again.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 5:45 PM UTC
I’m a __BBC__, when you hear
The breaking news: my heart
Is always set on constant __DND__
Wrestling feelings, and dropping
Them all with a __DDT__; spinning my
Old insecurities on constant repeat —
Like outdated __DVDs__
Rush hour in my head, my love
Is stuck in the __CBD__, and I only risk
It when I’m high enough not to bleed
But truth is, I love better on the low—
_Slow_, because love hits hard; a drug
And every high comes with a couple
Blows.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
Even when the body is tea,
She drinks a lot of coffee —
Just to keep her grind in
_A man’s world_
Don’t you spoil the tea, of the
Long steeping, burned tongue
And cups swallowed too fast —
Of all it took to fill her brim.
Dec 15, 2025
Dec 15, 2025 at 4:14 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
The smell of rain under my breath – clouds
in my chest; a storm of words heavy as perfumed
scent. Sent out to face the quests I half-meant –
awkward friend requests; expecting you to stay
in character, little as far as rewards go,
“let’s just take it slow.”
But how are we so quick to break a heart, to bring
down a character? The occasional monster —
or many; no point checking reviews; the question
of criticism is never an _if_, only _when_.
Hope is for anyone, but not for everyone –
hopeful romantics, hopeless fanatics, hoping
without action; life falls away from us piece by piece,
like rain. The smell of wet soil, the rise of humidity;
our moods changing with whoever’s around—
false humility dressed as weathered wisdom.
The weather of man is so unpredictable.
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 6:09 PM UTC
I’m only liquid for fears, drowning quietly in them, a slow flood
behind my ribs, no warning signs, no lifeguards in sight. You will be
a sunflower, but only as far as you choose to reach out for the sun,
bending your whole body toward light, even if the light burns, even
if the roots ache from pulling.
Happiness comes—eager, but never permanent— it’s a guest that
tracks mud on your floor, leaves its jacket behind; just to remind
you it was here, but gone before you could ask it to stay. The good
things in life never seem to last a lifetime, and going out into this
world feels like reaching for a lifeline, but all I catch is air—
_thin, trembling air._
Since birth you were beautiful, but survival forced you to wear the
ugliness of the world— stitched hand-me-down scars, fabric heavy
with someone else’s shame. Each day is a costume change that
doesn’t fit, but you wear it anyway, because naked truth doesn’t
pay rent.
We are all swelling with an opus of urban angst, the kind that hums
under flickering streetlights, the melodic slang of hoodlum teens
trading cigarettes for sentences, has become the hustle talk of men
trying to feed the same hunger that never grew up. Yearning to be
something. Yearning to be someone. Constellations made of shattered
glass windows, cracked stars on the concrete, chasing after the sun as
if the further we run, the closer it comes, but the horizon never owes
us an answer.
To love, to be loved— truth arrives dressed in lies at the start,
perfumed to disguise the rot. We impress, but we press too hard,
we call it romance but it’s theatre, and every stage ends in torn
curtains. This life is love, but love isn’t so full of life when it hangs
uneven, dangling off one side like a crooked frame.
_Luck isn’t justice._ Cause and effect rarely add up to cause what’s
fair.
And yet we paint our burning visions next to piss-splashed garbage
bins, turning dumpsters into backdrops, spray-painting scars into
murals that smell like waste, mistaking rage for art.
Scars deserve worth, not mockery. But too often, anger becomes our
brush, dipped in venom, flung at the wall, and the picture never
reaches far— _a masterpiece meant for healing drowned out by
noise_.
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 2:46 PM UTC
Heart —
hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.
It starts with a pit —
a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —
where does a heart take root?
Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.
They said,
“_the great tree fell_.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 12:13 PM UTC
_Walking down the aisles of fear_ –
a thousand miles paved in soft-spoken panic,
a cart full of dreams, half on sale, half returned.
And on other days, I crash like a kart – cornered,
spinning, never quite finishing the lap.
Tell me: what's the missing piece to a scar?
The echo that completes the pain, or the piece
of you still aching to be whole?
Some days feel like broken piano strings –
and not every key fits success, as the minor
hopes can also become our major regrets.
And still, you stay – a melody trapped in place,
living to dream. Yet if that lullaby won’t rest
your mind, find another song to sing.
One that knows your name.
Grinding your smiles, stained with bitter coffee –
as brewed remarks sip back at you. You try to hold
a strong stance in the night, but don’t live for one-night
stands with your own worth. We are all skin and sand –
grains of the past clinging to the present, footsteps
washing away even as we walk forward.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 3:26 PM UTC
Don’t go making the _joke_ — you know, the one
that always hits a girl’s bad note. I used to laugh too…
until I got the _notes on the subject_, and learned,
this isn’t a punchline, but instead hits a girl like
a gut punch. The red dragon that cramps up in
its cave, where swinging at her mood swings
doesn’t make you brave.
She’s in the tide of her red-letter week — a storm
swelling beneath soft skin. Appetite shifts, touches
itch instead of soothe, and even thoughts lose their
rhythm, like radio static in a room full of noise.
And sometimes it's hard to think straight when
your own body is pulling sideways.
And those bloated comments... they don’t ease anything.
It’s a different pain for every woman, but one shared
thread: that you don’t get to add to it. As we may not
understand the full weight — but we can choose not
to pile more on.
And if you’re thinking of making a joke about it…
don’t. __Period!__
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 4:07 AM UTC
_Life is a wonder_ —no wonder I still wonder
how I made it to today. Life is what you make of it —
not like a butler who serves, but a self-made shape
you forge from struggle and grace.
We judge with our eyes, but on Judgment Day,
it won’t be our eyes that matter. And when that day
arrives —whether we walk or run to heaven’s gate —
know that love won't wear the form you tried to fit
into every heart.
To love in part means sometimes we must depart —
leave behind space wide enough for stars to breathe.
The emptiness you find may feel vague, but it’s where
meaning stirs quietly, and the hopes you laid on a lover
might be the very hope that led you astray.
We leave this place as ashes — but never to rest
in an ashtray. Because even dust has destiny,
and fire never forgets what it once warmed.
_Life is a wonder_ — in both a good and bad way.
And maybe that’s enough.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 2:08 PM UTC
It's often such a strain
Trying to keep up positive thoughts —
To strain my mind, hoping to get rid
Of negative thoughts; sometimes,
_It just strains me more…_
Life boils me over.
Some days, I get too steamed to even try
And move on forward... feeling so stuck —
Sitting still, too hot to handle,
And being too heavy to pour it all out.
__I feel like white rice__ —
Plain, overcooked, forgotten, and just
Sitting there, cooling off in an unattractive
Bowl, that no one really reaches for…
Sometimes I am the metaphor, the idea,
The hope, the dream; __or nothing at all__ —
Yet I’ll give everything of myself, every
Last drop… even up to _tiniest_ piece of rice
In that open rice bowl.
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 3:38 AM UTC
It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that _daily bread_.
A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says __Amen__! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.
And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
_doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls._
—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! __And that meal is always so cold...__
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 7:22 PM UTC
_A creative reflex_ —
Writing as a way to reflect
While breaking in between myself —
This is me, _finding a recess_.
And if kidding around is for kids,
Maybe some parts of me haven’t really grown
up yet.
Still, if I’m set —
Placing a quiet bet
On all these dreams I haven’t cashed in yet —
I hold the right
To keep searching for my best.
Because being better than the me from yesterday
Might be all I’ve got left…
And maybe, __that’s enough!__
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 5:14 PM UTC
Forgetful dreams, trapped on the pillow of my
bed— tiptoeing thoughts, almost like a ballerina
having a good stretch. As an injured picture frame
hauls away the canvas of a dream on a stretcher.
Giving pretence for a pretender—and knowing
whether the weather decides to jump over your
head, is knowing when it has a spring in its step.
But it never bends to tender hearts—it only offers
them the work of love. A group of tenders; all their
touches tender, all enlisted in affection’s labor force.
And if it's a compulsory love, we'll love with force.
Cos Love is a chin check sport—and you pay
for it with the protruding part of a chin cheque.
Control, and out-of-control—to the ones living
so remote. But lose that island, and you lose control.
And lose the answer to the power of influence—
and you begin to question what control even means.
Control is part of that… _this far,_ at least, but a life
without risk— is the risk of never having lived.
Because everything you love to do might just be
the very last thing that finally does you in.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 4:24 PM UTC