#wrote
There is a bottomless hole somewhere. Whether it is inside your heart, your soul, or your mind, it is somewhere. It could be huge, it could be tiny, it could be a perfect circle or it could be a jagged shape. Depending on what you do, depending on if it grows. It could grow huge, consuming you whole, or it could be tiny and you have full control over it. Yet it is there. It has been there, you just can't feel it until you do. You've got the control of it and yet it stays, waiting for the perfect time to strike. It could strike after a breakup, maybe after a heartbreaking show ending, death, anything can strike it, even after immense happiness. The hole could be soul crushing or you could make peace with it. It depends on how you look at it. Too much of something is bad but too little of something could also be bad. Too much sadness or happiness could be bad. Too much sadness means you could forget how to be happy, and too much happiness could mean you forget how to be sad. But if you have little to no happiness of sadness in your life then that means if you do not get enough happiness you could forget how to be happy, or if you get not enough sadness you could forget how to be sad. You want to be in the sweet spot of a happy life without forgetting how to have healthy emotions. The hole grows sometimes and the hole shrinks sometimes. It is up to you how you take it.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 8:41 AM UTC
~for Thomas, , who makes his case, with a smallish W.~
—————-
but with braggadocio intensity,
careless pressure, push on, to when is the end,
pick a notion, drown in sweet and salty potions,
pick a word, push aside when a better one comes along to take a ride;
the metered metronome is in my fingertips flying across the surface
of whatever the handiest surface; kitchen table top, cloth napkin be
****** the power saw screaming restlessly unrelentingly, slash and burn for the next to take its turn to be burnt on the who’s up next for
the auto-da-fé; and the pulse is my snare drum, my heart beating is a dylan harmonica wailing, can’t keep up, can’t keep up, so it just cries
until it can cannot; care is a wasted, an over consideration too much sensitivity when brutal wrecks it self in streaming bursts and creativity is a soap used to wash your mouth out,
exhausted, &
drink a milk gallon fueling full, wipe your brain’s mouth out &
on your sleeve, you a bad boy writer, who only lives to die, a few more times a daily
11:55~11:59 am
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 11:57 AM UTC
We were just two kids,
Two hearts that found each other
through screens and static and late-night laughter.
Miles apart—
West Virginia to Kentucky—
but somehow, it always felt like you were right next to me.
You called me your ******
and I called you mine,
two ADHD souls who couldn’t sit still,
but always found calm in each other’s chaos.
We matched in ways I can’t explain—
your energy, your heart, your way of making me laugh
when the world felt too heavy to hold.
We’d talk on the game for hours,
your voice in my headset like home.
COD, Fortnite—
you teasing me when I messed up,
me pretending I didn’t like losing to you.
Sometimes, we’d hop on Google Meet,
just to see each other’s faces.
You’d be lying there in your bed,
hair messy, glasses slipping down your nose,
that soft country smile that made me melt every time.
We’d talk until the night got quiet,
until I was halfway asleep,
and just before I drifted off,
you’d whisper so gently,
“I love you… sweet dreams, ******
And I swear, those words
still echo in the corners of my heart.
You were only fifteen,
but you were so much more than a kid.
A volunteer firefighter,
a hard worker on the field,
someone who gave when life never gave back.
You’d been through foster home after foster home,
felt like nobody wanted you—
but I did.
I wanted you.
Because I saw you for who you really are:
kind, protective, funny, and good.
So good it hurts.
Now you’re gone,
locked away for three long years,
for something that wasn’t even your fault.
You were just standing up for yourself,
against the kind of person
who should’ve been protecting you.
And it breaks me,
because you never deserved this.
You should be out here—
making dumb jokes,
laughing with your friends,
telling me I’m bad at COD again.
Instead, you’re behind walls,
and I can’t even hear your voice anymore.
Your sixteenth birthday’s coming soon—
November nineteenth.
Three days after mine.
We should be celebrating together,
staying up late,
being weird and happy and us.
But instead,
I’ll look up at the sky that night
and whisper “Happy Birthday, William,”
hoping somehow,
you’ll feel it in your heart.
And when you get out—
I’ll be seventeen, you’ll be eighteen.
I’ll drive those five hours to see you,
no matter what.
You won’t have to stay there anymore—
if my dad says yes,
you’ll live with us,
and I’ll finally get to see that smile in person.
No more calls, no more screens,
no more “goodnights” through pixels.
Just you and me.
I miss you, William.
I miss the way you made everything better,
the way you loved so quietly but so deeply.
You’ll always be my ******
the country boy with blueish-gray eyes,
the soft laugh that still echoes in my dreams.
And I’ll always be the girl
who never stopped loving you,
no matter how far apart we are.
Forever means you and me,
even if I have to wait.
Sweet dreams, my ******
I’ll see you when you’re free.
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 12:41 AM UTC
The restrictions upon my self
worth, never the right, write,
wording, metaphor
of what I wish to show you, u, me.
That even though I don't cry or
scream, I'm swaying
every sentence I write, right to
the point that there was never
a chair to hold words.
Instead, I bleed my word, pain
with every stanza that collected
beneath holding me up.
Until I wrote so much that there
wasn't just air beneath me but solid
meaning wanting to
hold me higher than that which
may make me fall...
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 4:36 PM UTC
How would you consider
Dark blue eyes
Colour radianting
Shining illuminated me
Those eyes were in search
Search of love and desire
I was not that's how
That's when things end
End in goodbyes, forever
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 1:22 PM UTC
she wrote a myriad of poetry
like blood from the wounds
pouring down onto a deep, mystical art
she wrote a myriad of poetry
like she kept her soul in tune
with a thousand words and unfathomed thoughts
she wrote a myriad of poetry
like they were all for the moon;
a midnight composition that often ends in three dots
she wrote a myriad of poetry
like a seamstress who tries to have her heart sewn
from all the inevitable loss and endings that tore her apart.
nonetheless, with tired eyes and hands,
the poet writes, hoping someone would understand.
IA
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 3:10 PM UTC
today i wanted to be perfect yesterday i wanted to be perfect i always want to be perfect but if i was perfect what would god be.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 10:07 PM UTC
The other day
A match struck my roughness
And anxiousness took me to be freed by fire
As I burned away all of your rusted memories
Which'd been stored for yet another day
Which turned out to be today
In ashes your words
Cast, burn and floating away
Jan 8, 2020
Jan 8, 2020 at 10:09 AM UTC
I find myself
adding a lot of commas
in my poetry
Could it be
I need more
breathing space?
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 6:17 AM UTC
the only problem that I haven't told you
it's because you are my dearest friend.
you probably already know,
from the words I wrote,
that it all meant for you.
I'm not ready yet to prepare myself to heart the truth.
Because I know it would **** me softly.
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 4:48 AM UTC
we sat at a compete
the author knew that
there is a tie or secret
between us or our heart
he ordered to sit in wide
he ordered to tell what i like
to meet and talk and write
we took two parts of papers
she wrote
i wrote
he took
he opened
she wrote my name
i wrote her name
the attendants were so amazed
they cut thier hands for clapping
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 6:15 PM UTC
He tried to write on me and call it art.
I wrote myself and called it love.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 6:40 PM UTC
once upon a wrote
*here and there, in fables and tales,
some in no guile and others
in chancier disguises,
some sine-known and some sign-unknown,
some dead in stillbirth,
some penned these words,
some a few decades old,
some of but a moment ago eyelash distant,
making me think that
someday I will scribe,
cobble some truths and
some falsehoods into one
leaping heaping melting scoop,
letting you decide,
which for better,
which for worse...*
<•>
"No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say,
about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"
<•>
the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,
I love you
to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity
no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...
<•>
is this craft that chose you,
not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance
for tolerance of the ordinary?
the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused,
discard the instant recognition,
unusable
<•>
There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the
whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away
what soully belongs to you,
do your own sums,
admit your own truths,
query not the lives of others,
approach the mirror...
<•>
The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drop in and upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
the selected tool
you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation
you cannot lie in poetry
<•>
come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook,
soft pillows for our hard Adirondack chairs,
situe hard by the bay, if too hot, we'll slow
drift to the sun room of
lace curtains and suicide poems,
still we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low,
listening to all the noisier, nosier
creatures asking themselves,
and the trees and leaves,
where did all those poets come from?
<•>
to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths
movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity,
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity
<•>
*how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem
the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?
there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, welded and wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever extinguish*
<•>
now I ken better distance 'tween
artist and art,
I, a workingman's
daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in
the water-falling
of the endless also rans
non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of
a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
was not I,
it ain't me babe, but
**one of us, his tongue,
like Moses-stung
with a hot coal
of language's divinity**
<•>
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 2:28 AM UTC
She was like the moon,
They wrote 'about' her not 'for' her.
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC
Every page that I wrote upon
scribbling words
syllable features
of the faces I was trying to peel on
the pages.
But then I ******* each one up,
reflections sewn on again.
blunt metaphors reattached
that I had
been able to remove where
one again back where they began.
All I needed was to remove this
weight hanging
heavy upon my every façade.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC
She wrote to her husband
Her husband was a sergeant
At the military of the greatest force
His president announced and insisted
That the president of Iraq gained
Nuclear and chemicals at his force
That was a reason to spread devil
All surroundings, all neighbors
So they must go to clear that sand
From every worst flying at all
Weather causing threading of any development
Causing threading to his neighbor
Especially his relative Israel
She sits at the heart setting
And the gulf countries which export oil
And give money if he wanted
According to his service and his guard
They obeyed him as they were feared
Of losing their thrones and also was feared
Of threatening of their worst neighbor
They paid every cost of that military job
He persuaded the public of his want
To destroy the army of Iraq force
To establish peace and democracy plans
And make Iraq advanced as they are
To get his dream achieved
Her husband was so honest
And believed in everything that president said
The army forces flew and took every weapon
They went also by sea ships
To achieve victory over that vain
They fought and made tricked
They used bad and evil plan
The wife wrote that letter”
Oh! Lover
I saw you there
Wide, wide of my look
But you are nearest of my heart
That I saw you are the greatest hero
But I doubt when I saw sad
Cover every face of Iraq people
, the difference appeared between communities
That made me happy for our nation
Want to establish the happy all over the world
But when I saw the statue of Iraq president fallen
The wealth and ancient ruins were stolen
, the oil must be exported
, their author would become according to desire
Of political author of our land
, the poor covered all weather
After they were the richest people
And the hanging of Iraq president
To be sacrifice on the Muslim's feast
As the Muslims do on feast
They sacrificed with cows or sheep
For helping poor for their God
The message sent to all of them
You have no price
, you have no aim to look up
Obey our want
Or you will be killed
Even you are very important!
My lover! Come please
We will not share that war
It is obvious bad at all
It is for money and humbled others
To do what we want without opposed
The God doesn't order that
Jesus said in his order
Spread the love all over the world
Make the peace your symbol
Islam religion in his greeting
Peace upon you when one passed
He invited you to get food
We rewarded him by killing
God does not satisfy with that
Jesus hates the blood bleeding
My lover! Return, we will build
A palace near an ocean
We will fish and hunt
Live as our god giving
Or we will cultivate land
The plants will grow green as your eyes
The wheat sticks are yellow as your hair
Flowing the wind as my hair
Return to complain our problems
To union in one bodies
I will make you my angel
Flying in sky, dreaming with kind
Making you forgotten yourself
And getting me forgetting myself
We will unites at one body
One heart, one mind
Return soon, I will not complain
I will be your honey you want"
She closed the letter with beauty kissing
She sent him with great longing
She waited a lot but with astonishing
Her letter returned without answering
She knew that he would come
So, he didn't receive that mailing
On the day they were telling
She waited at airport for receipting
All right solders ascended
Then, the wounded were carrying
She ran to his boss
She found coffin were downing
She looked to his boss,
Who covered his face with crying
She felt overwhelming
When she was up,
She cried," why my God
You take my love
and let who made it?
-
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 1:52 AM UTC
I have wrote till the pencil
is nothing more than splinters
needed to be pulled from my mind.
But still I reflect my emotions
on blank spaces.
Nothing is visual, but is spoken
on the paper.
I cant reflect on my words
even though
everyone is filled with tears.
Never wiping them away,
but filling each one
with syllables descending tearfully.
I have never let another read a word
that's blotched on satin white,
contaminating its moment with the
silent verses that'll never be read.
My words are silent, I'm the lonely poet,
who's verses are not even read
by yours truly.
there just moments blind on paper.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
She sat there with her rusty voice box, a drought on her tongue and a pen aching to flood the pristine sheet with blue ink.
She poured pain into words of refuge and tucked the love etched memories into words.
She wrote to the ones she loved, who made her heart beat ever so intensely. For who rooted her strengthening her spine with courage. For the ones who betrayed, abandoned and hurt making her swallow sorrows whole on empty stomach.
She undressed her truth as she painted shades of past, resurfacing the suppressed from the dustiest parts of her mind, reigniting the dying embers. As she wrote thoughts screamed to be heard, memories weeped to be replayed as she crafted sentences, paragraphs, beginning and ends, sunrises and sunsets; the breathing of her heart allowing her to feel a sense of relief.
But she never sent them, for they were riskier to be read by them than to be tucked safely away.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Well I wrote to thank you,
And the pen times a thousand,
For although gilded words,
Glide on thoughts,
Of yours,
Of mine,
Of stars,
Of trees,
It would not be in physical,
Without the read’or’write’or’thee,
And sure, we moments are vein,
And admire ourselves each other without,
You,
Are certainly good for the ego too.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
Talk like you speak with flowers,
Subtle and fragrant
So that I notice the wilting
Passion that their green stalks
Soon exhibit.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC