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Sono Blue Jun 9
I made something-look
but it's no good

You gave the critic first
before I got to them...
Was it a shield,
or would I reach the dreamers field

I heard your message
and it struck

sticks to me  
like sandpapered honey

The bitter truth

Or a perspective
from you
Jessica Jun 8
I sit by the shore with sand in my hands,
thinking of him, then thinking of her.
His smile is kind, his words are sweet,
but never makes the water stir.

She walks in like a storm I want,
with eyes that pull like undertow.
I'd drown so gladly in her gaze
and come up breathless just to know.

Boys are boats - safe, expected and still.
But girls? They're waves that don't forgive.
And I have feared, with aching truth,
that this is how I will always live.

Loving the ocean more than the shore-and longing for what wrecks me more.
I wrote this poem while I was still in the process of self discovery
inkedsolace Jun 7
critter of mine,
hidden deep inside,
crawl out of your shell,
all will be well,

there is sorrow and joy,
laughter and tears,
but worry not,
don't be overcome by fears,

you can grow your wings,
from nothingness or all,
you will never again,
have to suffer a fall,

or if you so wish,
you could choose to be landbound,
I do not fault a desire to live on the ground,

you could have spikes and fins,
scales or a tail,
this is no test,
you cannot fail,

why do you worry?
why are you scared?

nothing you do will wane my love for you.
Ronnel A Jun 7
All i know is
November yearns,
December cries,
January burns,
February
hate guys.

march learned,
and April fools me
to hair dye.
May hold the grief,
and June learn to hold its tears
to cry.

Boring july
Decided to burn
all your lies.
and august
teach the heart,
Good riddance

September learn to let go
But
here we have October.

we’re always missing,
on October
Don’t we?

I just remembered
thats the month i first called you
my lover

But
Anyways
I almost forgot
November,
was your birthday
Quantum Poet Jun 2
Searched on every summit for lost elusive cures,
And for the alchemy.to make me feel I was pure.
I've violently torn through all that I am,
Begging every deity I’ve known for their hand.

There is no guidance.

What if healing doesn't surface, Cries muffled under sand.
A doctrine for the hopeful who will never understand.
My wounds still hold the daggers, unremoved.
What if pain protects the heart because it'll never be renewed?

There is no feeling.

Singing broken hymns inspires a hymn of praise.
Unspoken laws, maybe I'm an example being made.
I’m never broken; I can only wish to break with time.
I remain a quantum sonnet stripped of any rhyme.

There is no harmony.

Maybe there is grace that lives within a wilted plea.
In knowing, I’m exactly who I knew I’d always be.
A life pulling chains tethered to a hopeless mind.
What’s left within a soul, to see its purpose held divine.

There's nothing to believe.

Without residue of ash, from embers glow,
Haunted by the echoes, that have turned hearts to stone.
Our cold sweat of empathy for fellow misbegotten.
Stitched into the nerves of a body that is rotting.

There's nothing to see.

I cannot find belief in me for false restoration.
No longer a seeking of a hollowed-out salvation.
I walk with aching fractures to a rapture born in rust.
A fate I feel deep in my core, that all is made of dust.

There's no eternity.

What’s the meaning to the riddles I weave?
Is there truth in what remains, or is truth in what will leave?
As I stand, a withered body without a single plea.
I am all I ever was, all I know I'll ever be.

There's nothing to be.
Calvin Graves May 30
I’ve stood at the edge
of so many beginnings—
just close enough to taste them,
never close enough to stay.
The door always slightly ajar,
never open.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

People call me potential,
but never presence.
A promise, not a person.
Their faith feels like fog—
thin and disappearing
the moment I reach for it.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I speak like I know who I am,
but the echo doesn’t agree.
My words crumble in my mouth
before they ever build meaning.
Even my hope sounds rehearsed.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I dream in color,
but live in grayscale.
My hands stretch forward
but always fall short—
of the vision,
of the version
of me I thought I’d be by now.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

So I write.
I bleed ink and silence
trying to draw a shape
that feels like truth.
And maybe one day,
I’ll look back
and see I was becoming all along.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.
ProfMoonCake May 27
Pen touches paper
All I write is still your name
My heart stays the same
Cadmus May 22
You don’t notice it at first.
Not really.
Life keeps you busy with noise, with dreams, with the next thing.

But then one day,
you cross an invisible threshold.
There’s no signpost, no celebration
just the quiet erosion of what once mattered.

The body falters first.
Not dramatically - no, it’s more insidious than that.
You wake up sore from sleep.
You get winded climbing stairs you once ran.
You start measuring your days in energy, not hours.

Then come the dreams
the ones you clung to like anchors.
They begin to dissolve.
Some shrink into hobbies, others vanish with a sigh.
And the ones that remain?
Too fragile to chase, too old to birth.

Your beliefs shift too.
Not because they were wrong,
but because the world keeps insisting you make room for things
you once swore you’d never tolerate.

You adjust.
You settle.
You survive.

But the worst part
the part no one warns you about
is the people.

One by one,
they begin to leave.

Some give you time.
They let you prepare your goodbye.
Others vanish mid-conversation,
leaving cups half full and promises unfinished.

And what’s cruel is not just that they’re gone
it’s that nothing fills their space.
You try.
You pretend.
You build new connections like patchwork quilts.
But nothing fits quite right.

Because love, real love, isn’t replaced.
It’s carried
as ache,
as memory,
as absence you learn to walk around like a piece of furniture in the dark.

You keep going, of course.
What else can you do?
You make tea.
You water the plants.
You smile at strangers and nod at the sky like it still owes you something.

But deep down, you know:
This is what it means to age
not the wrinkles, not the gray.
It’s the slow, silent disappearing
of everything that once made you feel
alive.
Aging is not just the passage of time , it’s the quiet art of learning how to let go, again and again, without ever quite mastering it.
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