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I’ve hidden lost sermons inside my casual breath.
I folded them tight, pushed them into sarcasm.
We laughed at the joke—you missed the ambiguity.
Some words sharpen when their form leaves a chasm.

Some things called unstable, unkempt, or unfit—
we'll kneel to their ruins once their time is gone.
No one hears the meaning in a prophet's mid-scream,
but we quote them in the wake of their truth breaking dawn.

Some of us never ask to be understood,
just hoping to echo in someone’s afterthought.
Because truth isn't loud—it’s subtly dissonant—
and too often mistaken, or ignored, left to rot.

I live like a myth half-believed by its maker.
I pulse in and out, like static through wires.
My silence burns me louder than the sermons of choirs,
in temples built of gold from a priest's own desires.

I left signals in inkblots, on letters I never sent,
and in the way that I’d pause before saying goodbye.
And one day you’ll study those absences close—
they’ll sing you my song when I can no longer try.

I left my scarred essence outside in the rain
to see if it rots, or a new one would sprout.
Turns out, it would sing—but only backwards,
and only to those trying to block it out.

I once felt so lost, I swallowed a compass
just to feel something that points at a real me.
But “north” kept on changing its mind, and still does.
Some directions are time-tested, but some are still yet to be.

If you were to ask what my words really meant,
I might say, “What makes you think they mean anything?”
Meaning is like a parasite; it only lives when it’s fed—
and I’ve been deliberately starving it to death, beautifully.

There’s a hallway in me that will never lead out—
just loops and dissociates in a mind like my own.
The paradox is fixed. You can’t change its course.
You’d rather tread it blind, but it insists on being shown.

I once carved my bitter, stubborn truths into air.
Won’t see them, but you’d cough and know they were there.
You’d call them my smoke and call me unstable.
You’d condemn their scope. You might not even care.

And maybe I am filthy, misbegotten, and unstable.
But when my tremors stop, you might notice my frame,
and the glow that I buried might finally surface.
Maybe love me for the darkness that you once shamed.

You might quote me clean, ridding my words of the blood.
Reframe my static as signals from a Godhead.
When you sing my sonnets, you might gild them in bleach.
Oh, I promise—this all sounds much better when I’m dead.
Jaishika 11h
To my memory, I've fallen down the stairs twice
Once I was taken to the hospital, at an age when I wasn't aware of the word fright
The other when the sound of footsteps was taken over by the laughter, while I looked down and silently cried

The first time, there were tears, but there was no shame
I could see the blood, but there was no pain
When my head was wrapped with something white with red blood stains
The other time, it was different
It was the viewers' entertainment
It hurt me more because
As a kid, I've been too used to the sweet words and helpful hands

I decided to wait for someone who's worth the breath I'm saving or stay unloved
So I've seen those hands clapping together but I've also seen my fingers hanging in the air untouched
Because I wasn't looking for a pretend, a friend till it's all said and done
So I've had those empty so-called "stick-around" hugs

I've even tried to be a single person's pleaser
But the tailor never stitched me to be entangled with people
Sometimes the colour doesn't match,
Sometimes the needle picks out the bonded thread
And sometimes I didn't waste my days to find out the reason

Maybe the incidents where I couldn't sleep even in my own house
Or where I couldn't dare to stand alone in the outside crowd
The one which I still can't speak of to myself
Are the reason why I think that "believing in someone" is the shortest route to hell

I am sure everybody has had hard times
And I am not giving the importance to myself
I am not making it all about me
But there's no one, and to you, I'm justifying myself
You can tell how vulnerable I feel

To my memory, I've bought a rose twice
Once, it was never sent; in my hand, it slowly died
The other time, the rose was picked up
But it was sent by me, so it was disliked

Memories don't always bring the joy; sometimes it's best folded
And I'd say to every old me, who's been "never chosen," "left hurt," and "self distorted":
Don't blame your legs, because you couldn't run
Don't blame your hands, because you couldn't paint
Often days, your body will feel burned
Don't blame yourself, if you'll ever faint
Maybe what you've dreamed, you might not get
But a good girl always lives along and appreciates what's been served on the plate
As I sat down and gazed upon this empty field of nothingness,
I felt a strange warmth. I can't quite describe it.
But it's been calling to me ever since
to follow,
to listen,
to let myself drift like ether into the dark.

Only the rays of our great bringer of life can cast light upon that void.
I long to feel that warmth again,
to breathe the scent of wildflowers,
to see blades of grass waltz in the wind,
to hear my name being spoken
by her calm, resonating voice.

To look into her eyes
and let every burden fall away
as if she were the sworn enemy of the void itself.

I keep reaching
for that same feeling,
the moment when flesh and spirit converge,
where stars echo every wish I've ever whispered,
where hope, love, and peace
still wander this fractured world.

They say they'd give anything for such beauty,
yet so often stray from its path.
For humanity is mercurial
and still
the most breathtaking force I’ve ever known.

I never truly believed in a creator
until now.
Perplexed by these thoughts
yet I embrace them
even the broken ones.
I am far from perfect. This I know.
But I refuse to dwell in the realm of "what if."
I move forward
even as the path twists and falters
and I am at peace.

When my time comes to leave this world
I will leave behind

my spirit

to guide you...

forever...
Written while waiting for the dark to answer
Yusuf 5d
Let us stay a little while,
midst the light and bloodied bile,
let us see what we can see
with our deceiving eyes.

The mother feeds their child,
and the scorching sun rises.
The lakes glisten like stars
and the birds sing again.

They're playing soccer.
And talking.
And having fun.
With eachother.

The plants move and twist,
and the tide ebbs and flows.
The grass is emerald.

They invite you in.
It just isn't for you.
If only it was.

The sky is an ocean of blue.
The birds fly like scattered sand.
  
You start doing your homework.

You like it.
You love it.
It's great.

It's fun.
It's so, so fun!
So fun...
that tears run down.

Yet your eyes are hollow.
Your head is full of soot.
Why?
Kellonor May 3
Crossing the ocean of endless stars
Will you be there waiting for me,
Or do I have to still my heart
And antagonize the entire nature of my character.

Opened feelings, no fear at all
I took out the deepest part of me
And bathed in your light,
Only for you to shove me back into the endless ocean of void.

It was the scent of the sea that opened the memory,
Where sunlight blurred my vision, and I saw you
Tall, dark hair, eyes that charm,
And a smile that negated everything wrong in my world.

I wish the story wouldn't end.
I have to walk back into the cairn of insecure souls,
Wandering aimlessly, pondering what they did wrong
In this life or the next.

I dream of escape, of finally leaving the void behind.
Written from within my own void of helplessness
Maryann I Apr 29
Step in—
my mind is an ocean
not blue—but a bleeding iridescence
of molten violets, rusted golds,
and bruised, unraveling ceruleans—
a palette spilled by a god having a dream.

You’ll see thoughts float here
like jellyfish lanterns,
soft, slow—laced in venom or velvet—
depending on how you look.

The sky never ends in here.
It folds like cracked parchment,
stretched over the aching arch
of my imagination’s bones.

There are trees made of bone-white whispers
and flowers with petals like flame-licked lace.
They bloom to the rhythm
of my pulse when I’m panicking,
and wilt under the weight
of a silence I can’t swallow.

There’s a path—
etched in the ink of dreams I didn’t chase—
it winds through forests of
regret-shaped branches
that scratch and caress all at once.

If you look to the left—
you’ll see a lake
made of every word I’ve never said.
It shimmers,
but only under the moon
of someone else’s approval.

Birds here don’t fly,
they unravel.
Each feather a fractured metaphor,
each call a dirge sewn with sunlight.

I hide in corners lit by memory—
a field of crooked constellations,
each one a version of me
you’ll never meet,
but will almost understand.

If you stay too long,
you’ll forget your name,
start to speak in echoes,
and dream in static.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe that’s the way
to really see me.
My shape is a puzzle of shattered light,
From a darkness beyond the hands of clocks.
I've floated in crystalline tears through nights,
That drowned my pulse in their quantum shocks.

Once I'd kissed the rim of my own dissolution,
My dreams became ether suspended in place.
Heard echoes from heaven of my soul's exclusion,
Banished to blackness, forbidden from grace.

But my system of nerves, interstellar threads,
Each signal, a hope that I'd lost in the fire.
They reshape the grid of my own waking dread.
I was Disconnected. My perception, unwired.

My atoms, ensnared in this love unaligned.
The flux of euphoria then glitched the code.
Chased every god who tread through my mind.
As my belief in them began to implode.

I transcended fast as a Tachyon verve,
Connecting dimensions with chords of my ache.
My being, potentialized, now unobserved.
As moments of reality shown to me, faked.

With every tremor that left a deep scar,
Is a power evolving my mind, kinetic.
I arrive in the void passed the brightest of stars.
As high, pathetically, as the hypothetic.

♦ Đerek Λbraxas ♦  
"The Quantum Bound Poet "
Mia Apr 27
Oh Darling, Oh Daisy
As pretty as a pink peony,
Yet, your petals are wilting, dear,
Stems a little frail, wracked.

Oh Daisy, Oh Daisy
As sharp as a red rosy,
Yet, don’t they see, dearest,
Thorns tracing those fragile strands?

Oh Daisy, Oh Daisy
As sweet as a light *****,
Yet, don’t they see, dear?
Tears slipping, draping a silk on your chest.

Oh Daisy, Oh Daisy
As clever as late Nancy,
Yet, is your nectar still
Sweet as hot honey

Oh Daisy, Oh Daisy
Ask of the flies, just once, dear,
Do they taste the bright red
Of copper candy?

Oh Daisy, Oh Daisy
As graceful as old lacy
Do you dance, dear,
To the screams that hum a melody?

Oh Daisy, Oh Daisy
As naive as a little daisy,
Are you certain what awaits you?
Dear Daisy.
This poem is inspiried by the song Lacy by O.R though the themes are different I love the repetition she used to create a poem of my own
Reece Apr 24
I have some penultimate words to say,
Some final thoughts to escape my brain,
So, for a final time,
I’ll give you a piece of my mind.

Sometimes the subtleties pass us by,
The simple things of daily life,
While we complain about the mundane,
We forget the blessings right in front of our eyes.
From the birds who sing in the trees,
To the blooming flowers, pollinated by the bees.
All of these,
Help us see how pretty life can be.

I’ve learned some lessons over this year,
Those lessons I’ll take to heart,
Like sometimes “friends” leave you behind,
And it’s okay to hurt, but not to break apart.
Most people follow the crowd,
And that’s fine with me,
I’ll follow my own path,
To be renowned.

I firmly believe that each life is a story,
One worth reading,
Good, bad, or ugly,
There’s a lesson to be learned,
And you can think critically,
As the pages are turned.
After all, no one wants to be forgotten,
Or perhaps, some do,
I find that a tragic fate,
True doom.

It’s time again,
To quote a song by Alec Benjamin,
This one being my favorite,
Titled “I’m Not A Cynic.”
“I’m not a cynic, but today’s just not my day,
I’ve tried to spin it about a thousand different ways,
But from every angle, oh, the outcome is the same,
I swear that I’m not a cynic; my glass just has no water in it today.”
This one holds dear to me,
Because sometimes my sky is gray,
That doesn’t mean I’m a downer,
It just depends on the day.
I know my mood is mine to control,
But faking is a poison.
It’s okay to let the emotions flow,
I find it a positive notion.

This year has been a journey,
Far more challenging than the last,
I started off in the clouds,
Now I’m stranded in the past.
Friends have moved on,
Or perhaps, I pushed them away.
Who knows who I’ll be,
Junior year, on the first day?
I know life is a bunch of doors,
But a problem arises,
If you’re not willing,
To take a step.
However, if everyone stood still,
Life would be rather boring,
Wouldn’t it?
So I’ll take a step onto the water,
Hoping I don’t fall through,
Praying I won’t fall through.
Then I’ll take another,
Perhaps, it’ll be easier,
Than the first.
Before I know it, I’ll be walking,
Then running, to sprinting,
Clinging desperately,
To anything that I can take with me.
I clasp my hands on the doorknob,
And open it with haste,
And step through with a smile,
Not regretting a thing.
Though bittersweet nostalgia,
Might try its best to blind,
I’ll make better memories,
To shield my watery eyes.
Years down the road,
Wherever I may be,
Hopefully I’d found,
Some sense of security.
I’ll look back with pride,
At my sixteen-year-old self,
And applaud my bravery,
To take the first step.

Near the end of April,
And sophomore year is nearly down the drain,
I think overall,
I’m in a better place.
Ups and downs littered the road,
But I swerved and curved,
And through these poems,
I lightened the load.
Another thing ends tonight,
Sitting here as I write,
The conclusion to the final,
The final piece of my mind.

Wherever the road may lead next,
No matter how far or how scary,
I’ll follow it and reflect,
And make it to my ending.
The end of this little series. I appreciate all of you who have read all four! It means a lot!
I saw road **** tonight.

I was walking
on the side walk
towards home
with a buddy of mine
and he pointed it out
"Look at that
poor thing,
what is it?"

I walked
into the middle of the road
just to inspect it further.
a coat of brown spikes,
white fur, and —
bright red guts.
Fresh.

It was a hedgehog
on the spotlight
given by street lamps.
Judging by the size of the coat
it was big and fat
it reminded me
of the one I have at home.

It also made me think
of Jeffery Dahmer
what he did with road ****
and where that lead.
I'm not saying that I feel that way
but the guts were shiny
under the Moonlight
I thought that they
had this certain kind of beauty.
A dead rat
and life goes on
like nothing ever mattered.

My friend was upset
about it.
"The **** who did this
probably did it on porpuse!"

I wasn't. I was raised in a farm
I've seen worse.
"Dude,
he probably
didn't even see it
coming."

Neither of them did.

If you don't get my point,
Picture this:
One day you're walking home
with groceries
you're not paying atention
you cross the road
and there it comes
lights flashing
coming your way
no time to react —
THUMP.

You're on the floor
bleeding out.

Jesus hugged you
with that license plate
and you didn't realize it.

Anyways,
The car backs up,
turns right,
it rushes out of there.
Hit and run.
Behind the wheel?
A ******* hedgehog.

That's the beauty of it.

Life just happens
it owes you nothing
yet you think that
it owes you—
your life.
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