My dreams are not soft things
They do not whisper or drift
They crash into me
Like memory
Like loss I never earned but still carry

I see faces I’ve never touched
Eyes that look through me like they’ve known me for lifetimes
Hands that reach
Just as I begin to fall

I wake with stories still unfolding
Mouth half-formed around names that vanish
Chest aching with love
for people I’ve never met outside my sleep

Sometimes I lie still
Eyes open
But not here
Not ready to belong to this body
this room
this gravity

Reality waits
with its empty inboxes and worn-out clocks
It doesn’t ask if I’m okay
It just goes on
as if I didn’t just leave a world that almost felt like home

But I keep waking
Even when it hurts
Even when the dream begs me to stay
Because somewhere in the quiet ache of morning
There’s a sliver of light
A whisper that maybe
what I dream
is a map
not a mistake

And maybe one day
I’ll follow it back
not to sleep
but to something real
that finally feels
like dreaming with my eyes open

I was a gifted child. Until I wasn't. I was the golden girl. Until I couldn't burn anymore.
My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay ***, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the color you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.
But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.

Your demons don’t play well with mine,
They bite and they bruise and entwine.
Yours weaponize tears,
Mine whisper, come near.
The chaos is purely divine.

Yours gasp for the rush of cool air,
Mine drown in your scent, flesh, and stare.
Yours vanish like shame;
Mine burn all the same,
Still lit by the hunger we bear.

We drift toward escape, dark and slow,
They bloom with our secrets and grow.
Yours pull at my seams;
Mine knot in your dreams.
A dance only demons could know.

You long to return to a love you’ve never had.
A love that sits and wraps its arms around you—
Like a weighted blanket in the middle of the night.

The kind that seeps into a Sunday,
When the sun hits your shared coffee mugs just right.
The grocery run where his hand grazes yours,
And your heart skips like it’s never been touched that gently before.

The kind that leaves echoes.

You imagine them at the sink,
Brushing their teeth, half-laughing as they talk
Their voice, soft, tired, but loving—
And you smile too, even though no one’s there.

So here you are, chasing echoes—
Echoes that your soul remembers but you do not.
You can only imagine.

And still,
You leave the porch light on.
Just in case.

I am not a poet.

My words were never made for the masses,
Made to pry emotions from your heart.
Rhyme can sometimes leave me at a loss,
And my inkwell is more often empty than not.

I am not a poet.

I can write only what I know and feel,
Each poem I give a little piece of me.
Every line is just a wisp away from existence.
Each poem might just be the last I write.

I am not a poet.

Yet why do you feel like my muse?
Your eyes remind me of a thousand places,
Like sea glass glinting green in the hush of tide.
Your voice has its command over my pulse.

I am not a poet.

But poetry you are.
How else do I describe this feeling,
If not with flowery words and rhyme.
And yet no words can hold it right.

I am not a poet.

I would be lost if I were.
For if I give a piece of me,
It will always be here in this poem,
With You.

I have a confession to make. I’m a trust fund baby
and a member of the educated Elite.

In my defense, I'm a newcomer in both categories.
I got my trust fund at 18 and graduated Yale University this year.

I was a double major, at university, in biochemistry and celibacy,
until as a sophomore, I met this tall, handsome, awkward, disheveled, physicist in a coffee shop and knavishly schemed my way into his life.
(He insists that he knavishly schemed his way into my life.)

Let’s get poetic-ish..

I said,
“Let’s start a flirtationship
abstract, immaterial and fun.
We have a little chemistry - an interesting.. tension.
Could we just have an involvement and not read into it?
Something  friction free, hands free, germ free, and guilt free?
Let's get a pizza, don't worry, I'm paying."

Of course, that was a lie.
I had designs, I wanted him in the utmost
and honestly, when do I not get what I want?

"I was by far the knavishist." I admitted.
"Then you don't know knavishEST.," he responded, shaking his head 'no'.
.
.
songs for this:
Honeypie by JAWNY
Really Saying Something by Bananarama & Fun Boy Three
Hanging On the Telephone by Blondie

(In answer to Mister Truth's poem:
"https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5117352/my-poetic-slice-for-anais-is-she-really-a-true-lover-of-the-tasty­-italian-triangle/"  because he mused me.)

I'm not just going to analyze pizza,
Or simply strategize about pizza.
I'll romanticize, evangelize and tantalize with pizza.
Because, honestly, I actually fantasize about pizza.

Papa Johns, Pizza Hut, Dominoes
Euuw, please, none of those

Garlic Crust? That’s a must.
Parmesan? Bring it on.
Anchovies? None for me.

What about cheese in the crust?
The whole idea leaves me nonplussed.

Ham and pineapple - that's just satire.

I say, “spare garlic and spoil the vampire.”
If that makes me hard to kiss - tight juju - I embrace my bliss.

Sausage or pepperoni, That's your question?
Put 'em together! That's my suggestion.

A simple cheese pizza has a timeless cachet,
but sometimes I take my pizza all the way.

And yes, I’ll still respect them the next day.
What? You put it in the microwave?
“Ok, you - be on your way!”

ring ring What, you’ve got pizza leftovers?
Ooo, baby, unlock the door, I’ll be right over!
.
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matters of the heart by lovlaine
Overthinking IT by WILLOW

My methods to run away have been eradicated to ash and steam, always hot at the moment.

The place where my heart resides is only hazardous, confusing itself with toxins.

The place where the brain commutes with the rest is not functioning.

One thing holding you captive to chains, your imagination carrying you to somewhere else.

Listen to the doubters, they say “You’ll never stop.”

Like a tunnel all hollow their only echoes are denial.

Whatever situation you're in, plead with two hands to take it away.

Even when tears dont fall and it's hot outside, outcry to make it work.

On the two knees you use to stabilize yourself, look up and watch the clouds drift as time does.

Intense focus on the clouds as they move inside time and intense focus on the conflict inside.

Cry out more to make it payout, because if all your efforts are in vain, something is not working.