#wreckage
We dress the wreckage
Hang fairy lights in the ruins
And call it ambiance
Throw words like 'Resilience' at bleeding walls
To feel like we survived on purpose
We stitch apologies on shirts we outgrew
Paint over scorch marks
With pastel hope
And act surprised when the fire
Still smells like us
We prop the broken door open
With books about healing and call it art
A metaphor
Anything but what it is
Grief in a new dress
Still dragging the same bones
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 4:36 AM UTC
My past is a landfill with a halo on top
Saints made of bad decisions
Versions of me who didn't know better
But still swung first
I burned the blueprint
Then cried when the roof caved in
Everything is covered in soot
Yet I keep calling it a fresh start
Have you ever dressed a wound in glitter?
It doesn't work
But it photographs well
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 4:48 AM UTC
you spoke with your back turned
like nothing was wrong
the kettle sat screaming
its blistering song
your eyes crack with thunder
I don’t look away.
I taste every stormcloud
and swallow the rain
you asked if I loved you
then smirked at the floor
i said it too slowly,
you moved for the door
We fought in the hallway,
your knuckles went red.
You hit without blinking
and meant what you said.
you find every fracture
then press where it stings
You say, “it’s devotion,”
and tighten your strings.
You lean in, now limping,
your voice raw and rough.
We cling like survivors
who'd suffered enough.
Your hands then remember
what you never confessed,
you kiss where you hurt me
and ask for the rest.
but still, when you’re shaking,
and all fury’s gone,
I gather your pieces
and whisper a song
I stitched up the silence
you gave me to keep
and rocked us together
til sorrow found sleep
We curled in the ash
what didn’t survive,
and found even ruin
leaves something alive.
Jun 2, 2025
Jun 2, 2025 at 12:26 AM UTC
I look back at the wreckage
of my life
mass of twisted emotion
car crash of desire
watching the beauty of bridges
burning out in the night
how can you understand me
when I barely know who I am
searching for personality
a place to call myself
mirrored in your eyes
I'm who you're looking for
an oasis in the desert
full of the promise of disappointment
leading to so many dead ends
that never had an entrance
lets skip the intro
move on to the overture
I don't do goodbyes
just change the music
and onto the next show
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 6:55 AM UTC
I am a Taken Poet ~ “The Wreckage of Your Silent Reverie”^
<6:45 AM Sat June 3>
again and again, a peculiar lyric
more than provokes, ****** injects,
no mere head buzzing, sledgehammer
beheaded, no under skin, in my pores,
shedding,reabsorbed, replaying the replay,
until I, will-less, commanded endlessly,
induced, besplay my irritants into my
“take,” for I am an overtaken poet, searching relief
too well, the wreckage refuse of these
silent reveries consume us, and I shriek,
contemplating the years of holey falling,
not hours or days, not weeks or months,
spent in rigorous dreams, facing & escaping,
my guilts, my fork failures, bottling & pouring,
with no relief from screams, head-banging,
nightmare visitations and inarticulate moans
until they form words, projectile ejected,
pollutants upon a clean, white background,
and dispatched to the heavens or nether land,
and to you, here in poem form that brings but a
modicum crumb of relief that empties, buying
time, knowing full well, my cup runneth over and
fresh replacement troops are eager, readily available,
by joining the seesaw border war, splitting my halves
my halves for I am not whole, I am deboned,
and slices fall off of these trough of words,
these statements of fact & fission, uninformed forms,
even worse, formed formlessness reciting repetitive,
inescapable escapades, dead-ended hell highways,
these poems, all carcasses of me, roadside **** until,
someone unseen, unknown invisible, removes them
to the largest refuse pile in world, a inutile poem heap
even this epistolary of diary entries offered down for
your bemusement, my expulsionary relief, give but
the briefest analgesic, and a newest version of an oldest
reverie, old friend, comes like the unending beeping,
of a dying battery of a fire alarm, squeaking, unrelenting,
unresponsive to curses or begging till the last ounce
of its energy is consumed, so too I, impatient squeak words,
too many contemptuously familiar yet well hid in new combos,
temporarily pulled from the wreckage of my silent reverie
~~~~~~~~~~~~<7:45 AM>~~~~~~~~~~~~
^ “Oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees
In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
***You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie***
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here”
Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Sarah Mclachlan
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 8:00 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, waste before you taste cries:\
holding me this way
never thought id never wanna leave
-------ravenfeels
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 6:26 PM UTC
You told me I broke you
That you fell apart
Without me you were wreckage
Broken bits of a heart
And then you moved on
You found some new parts
Started making the repairs
Built your own heart
Tell me is it wonderful
To be whole again
The guilt has destroyed me
Long after you didn't
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 1:00 PM UTC
Shipwrecks
and underwater ruins
Dressed as shiny
moons and stars
That shimmer
for the sandpipers
When the sun drops her guard
and shows a little skin
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 10:37 AM UTC
my heart is on fire
one half cup espresso, a vape
and a song that drapes my heart in a purple fire,
with the same purple glow inside the go go bar
where that dancer handed Bukowski a dried lily
But only for a moment.
lesson #104 and the
music rides a sine wave into
my left ear.
I sat upon a lotus pad and kept
a straight back
the Angelus Novus couldn’t (insert link)
close its wings against
the winds of Paradise so
elated were the Gods by the
progress of man.
so high the rubble of the wreckage the
view from its summit rivaled the
vantage gained from
standing atop the Six Grandfathers within the
Four-headed Dog from across the pond.
national broadcast in the jungle and
all the box would do is
talk
and all the cockroaches would do is
persist
and all the machetes would do is
hack
and all the bodies burned
and Felicien Kabuga was kindly granted asylum by the West
and remained at large for over 25 years.
THANKS A LOT SWITZERLAND.
(insert link)
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 6:22 PM UTC
With every scapegoat,
I fed the grass of perjury.
Then I'd be a distortion,
pealing the fragmented
façade from me...
Walking away from the wreckage.
Leaving them trapped
and broken in the remnants
of my echo..
Hi I'm Judy,
I always like names with J..
No goats this time,
just sheep ready
to follow me to the slaughter house..
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 4:19 PM UTC
So if I want to burn,
Let me burn!
I am throwing it all away!
All Away!
All the scraps you ever gave me,
all the empty promises you made,
I will set it all aflame,
watch me rise from the ashes!
Birthed by Brimstone,
Birthed by Fire!
I am a phoenix without a name!
Flying Fast!
Flying Blind!
A new town,
a brand new start!
I dare not look back
upon the wreckage of my wake.
What's My Name!
What's my name!
what's my name?
Won't anyone say my name?
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 9:34 PM UTC
Mare Clausum
by Michael R. Burch
These are the narrows of my soul—
dark waters pierced by eerie, haunting screams.
And these uncharted islands bleakly home
wild nightmares and deep, strange, forbidding dreams.
Please don’t think to find pearls’ pale, unearthly glow
within its shoals, nor corals in its reefs.
For, though you seek to salvage Love, I know
that vessel lists, and night brings no relief.
Pause here, and look, and know that all is lost;
then turn, and go; let salt consume, and rust.
This sea is not for sailors, but the ******
who lingered long past morning, till they learned
why it is named:
Mare Clausum.
Originally published by Penny Dreadful. Keywords/Tags: mare, clausum, closed, sea, narrows, shoals, reefs, uncharted, islands, wreckage, shipwreck, damage, dark, tides, waters, surf, stranded, Robinson Crusoe
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 1:01 AM UTC
i cannot handle your mess right now
_- i have my own wreckage to take care of_
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 8:14 AM UTC
An angel
wrapped in gauze.
Lying still
on coarse,
unmoved sheets.
Soft,
tender skin
pulled tight
over blood
and bone
by taut stitches
pierced through
the wreckage.
My angel.
Surrounded
by colour,
bright flowers
that fill the room
with a sweet odour
as they die.
I tell myself
that I can't
smell her too.
The sun
streaming in
through the window
is too hot,
but she shivers.
Now and then.
Her eyes,
so bright
when she looks
at me.
I touch her hair,
and whisper
in her ear.
An angel
wrapped in gauze
prays to a god
she's never seen.
I hold her hand,
long after she's let go.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
Is this all you wanted?
Well, it’s all you’ve left behind.
Is this how it’ll be?
Well, it’s what you’ve left
For me.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 12:03 AM UTC
I basked in the light
Of the present moments sight
But all of a sudden
Your words triggered a bitter memory
And now I want to visit an infirmary.
But oh wait this can’t be bandaged to heal
For it is a resurface from a wreckage.
It crawls from the breakage
With a clinging message
that causes landslides
and scrapes my insides.
My thoughts collide
as my emotions become tide.
My lips become sealed
As I no longer want to speak.
But then I’ll lose my mystique
And become invisible;
Vincible
In the hands of my shadowy past.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 6:54 AM UTC
I painted the pollution in the sky with my own blood
I was proud
So I sat below it, as it dripped back down
Puddle by puddle
I can see what it was that pain passed on
The pollution of my own wreckage
Thick, it choked my breath
I stress over my own twisted toxins
Carrying the weight of me
On my back
Back home.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
for now I don't want to know where I just came from
nor how long it's been
I don't want to picture the blisters nor the bleeding
nor smell the fumes
I don't want to remember the flood nor how the leak
was sprung
I don't want to hear about who perished and who survived
nor think about who might still be threading water
for now
the dead will have to bury the dead
the sick will have to tend the sick
the broken will have to help mend the broken
and themselves
as we do, as we must do
for now
I don't want to know about who fired the first shot
nor whether or not I'm going to drown in this life raft
for now
the foghorn, the light house, the shore
the lapping of water beneath me
for now
the foghorn
the light house
the shore
the lapping
the shore
the light house
the foghorn
the lapping
the water
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC