Poetry Poetry

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Mirror

The mirror knows the truth you hide
A lonely soul with nowhere to confide
Because the world you built inside your mind
Left everything that mattered far behind

Reality is cold. It cuts. It scars.
It doesn't care about your stars
But pain is honest dreams deceive
They promise more than they can ever give

So let the fantasy decay
Watch every false illusion fade away
It's better to bleed beneath the truth's harsh light
Than spend your life asleep inside the night

For freedom isn't found in pretending you're whole
It's born the moment you reclaim your soul
 
There is this void
I don't know how to fill it
Maybe I can't
It is likely
I don't even want to.

I won't fall in it,
I'm certainly not going to jump either.
I can look in another direction,
But its there,
It won't go away.

Every now and then
I get closer to the edge.
I have a look,
It's vast and beautiful
It feels like it will pull me in...

But eventually I smile
And turn my back.
This void is part of me.
And I'll learn to live with it.
 
Slopps said:
There is this void
I don't know how to fill it
Maybe I can't
It is likely
I don't even want to.

I won't fall in it,
I'm certainly not going to jump either.
I can look in another direction,
But its there,
It won't go away.

Every now and then
I get closer to the edge.
I have a look,
It's vast and beautiful
It feels like it will pull me in...

But eventually I smile
And turn my back.
This void is part of me.
And I'll learn to live with it.
Click to expand...
Look at you being all deep and stuff.

Nicely written.
 
the daughter who carries everything - poem by hailey wood

“i’m an eldest daughter
which means i am the chair my mother sits in when she
cries about my father

i’m an eldest daughter
which means i am the room my brother walks into when
he has done something wrong

i’m an eldest daughter
which means i am the small office my sister visits
between her classes
to tell me about the grade
to tell me about the friend who was unkind

i’m an eldest daughter
which means i have a list on the back of the bedroom door
of what i am not allowed to do

do not stay out past nine
do not raise your voice
do not laugh too loud in front of the relatives
do not embarrass the family

and i’m an eldest daughter
which means i have another list
the one i learned

do not cry where they can see you
do not say you are tired
do not be a daughter who needs anything

i have a small bowl by the front door
where everyone in this house
drops their keys
their loose coins
their wedding rings before they wash dishes
their small angers from the day

and i am the bowl
i am the bowl

and nobody ever empties me out.”
 
An outstretched hand

There is a girl who learned too young that love sometimes leaves.

She stands in doorways, changing more than clothes, trying to become someone easier to keep.

She learns to speak carefully. To wait quietly. To ask softly. To need less.

Still, she reaches.

Years pass.

She is older now, but when someone she loves takes a step back, the little girl in her still steps forward. Still aches.

Her hand finds the empty space before she even knows she's moving.

She waits. Like she always did.

Not because she is weak.

Because once, someone she needed didn't come back when she needed him most.

Didn't see or acknowledge her presence or heart.

Sometimes, they return.

A smile. A few words. Fleeting warmth.

Enough to remind her what being reached for feels like.

But silence returns.

And still her hand remains outstretched, growing heavier with every day.

If you meet her there, don't ask why she hasn't walked away.

Sit beside her, for her heart is heavy.

Hold the hand she keeps offering to others.

Tell her gently. Hold her softly. Tell her she was always worth reaching back for.
 
Are you okay?

Light.
Heavy.
Falling?

The ground seems to shift.
Noise crowds the dark.

Warm… no.
Cold.

Something familar.
Grass.

Cold… no.
Warm.

Echoes spiral into white noise.

Then—nothing.

Moving.
Shaking.
I'm shaking.

Then—words.

“Wake up!"

A dream?
A memory?
A friend.

“I’m fine.”

Silence.

“I think I'll be fine…”
 
Last edited:
Runny Eggs for Breakfast

Runny eggs for breakfast then.
Or maybe runny eggs with toast?
You can never go wrong with some eggs and toast.

Or maybe scrambled would be better?
With some fresh chives and clotted cream.
Yes. Scrambled it is.

Though runny would go better with the toast,
Cut into strips, to soak up all that yolk.

Dippy eggs with soldiers!
Oh, what a treat!
That's settled, then.

Though soldiers really ought to be evenly cut.
These are awfully thick slices.

So good I can almost smell it.

I could make French toast...

Is that smoke?

I've burnt the fucking toast again!

I guess it's runny eggs for breakfast then.
 
Moving Along

Into the fog I carry on
Feet so sure of every step
Even as my vision fails.

Lacking promise of safe passage
Yet strangely certain of my way
A stubborn streak persists.

The fog shifts at my feet
Shadows gather in the haze
A figure takes shape.

In the fog I see a future. Shrouded. Uncertain.
A man who was, is, and will be,
Lost, yet strangely certain of his way.
 
Last edited:
The Courage To Be Seen

I posted a picture of myself
not perfect
not polished
just me

A body I had spent years
learning not to apologize for
soft in places
curved in others
a shape that finally felt like home

For once
I looked at the screen
and didn't search for something to fix

I thought
maybe I can let myself be seen

But someone took my picture
without asking
carried it somewhere
I never gave permission to go
turned something personal
into something I no longer controlled

And suddenly
the courage I had built
started slipping through my fingers

I began looking at my own photos
through the eyes of strangers

Is my body too much?
Is my skin too visible?
Should I crop this?
Hide that?
Maybe I shouldn't post at all

And that's the cruelest part
They didn't just steal a picture

They stole a little piece
of the freedom
I had fought so hard to feel

Because when you finally learn
to stand inside your body
without shame
the world shouldn't punish you
for being brave enough
to show it

My body is not an invitation
a photograph is not permission
my confidence is not something
someone else gets to possess

So maybe I'm scared now
maybe I'll hesitate
before I press post
maybe I'll stare at the screen
and wonder who might take
what was meant to be mine

But this body
is still mine
I deserve to be seen
without being stolen
 
BunnyBeeHope said:
The Courage To Be Seen

I posted a picture of myself
not perfect
not polished
just me

A body I had spent years
learning not to apologize for
soft in places
curved in others
a shape that finally felt like home

For once
I looked at the screen
and didn't search for something to fix

I thought
maybe I can let myself be seen

But someone took my picture
without asking
carried it somewhere
I never gave permission to go
turned something personal
into something I no longer controlled

And suddenly
the courage I had built
started slipping through my fingers

I began looking at my own photos
through the eyes of strangers

Is my body too much?
Is my skin too visible?
Should I crop this?
Hide that?
Maybe I shouldn't post at all

And that's the cruelest part
They didn't just steal a picture

They stole a little piece
of the freedom
I had fought so hard to feel

Because when you finally learn
to stand inside your body
without shame
the world shouldn't punish you
for being brave enough
to show it

My body is not an invitation
a photograph is not permission
my confidence is not something
someone else gets to possess

So maybe I'm scared now
maybe I'll hesitate
before I press post
maybe I'll stare at the screen
and wonder who might take
what was meant to be mine

But this body
is still mine
I deserve to be seen
without being stolen
Click to expand...
Oh Hope
🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂
 
Really proud that I’ve published my first collection of poems. 🎉🎉🎉

Here is the title poem

Laughing Softly at the End of the World

We thought it would be louder.

Something that demanded
we fall to our knees
sirens,
fire,
a sky that finally broke
under the weight of us.

But it didn’t.

The end came quietly.

Like a room
everyone had already left
without saying goodbye.

The kettle boiled.
Clicked off.
We let it.

Somewhere,
a television laughed for us.

Something about a city
I didn’t catch which one this time.

The sound drifted
through empty spaces
like it belonged to another life.

We stopped checking the news.

Not out of hope
but because
it was always the same ending
told in slightly different ways.

I think we stopped hoping
before we noticed.

You sat across from me
like you always had.

Same hands.
Same eyes.

Just
less to hold onto inside them.

You rubbed your thumb
against the edge of the cup
like you do
when words won’t come.

We didn’t talk about it.

There didn’t seem much point
in naming something
that had already happened.

Outside,
nothing looked wrong.

That was the strangest part.

No ash.
No falling sky.
No final, cinematic ruin.

Just people
continuing
as if the ending
was something they could outwalk.

Maybe they can.

We waited.
For something,
anything
to feel like an ending.

But it never arrived.

You laughed first.

Soft.
Uncertain.

Like testing the shape of it
in a world
that didn’t quite deserve it anymore.

I felt it catch in my chest
that same instinct
to follow.

Not because it was funny.
Not because it was right.

But because
there was nothing left
to do with the weight of it.

So I laughed too.

And for a moment,
just a moment,
it felt like release.

Like setting something down
we were never meant to carry.

Maybe that’s all the end is.

Not fire.
Not silence.

Just the slow understanding
that everything keeps going
until it doesn’t

and no one
knows the exact moment
it slips away.

The kettle cooled
finally silent
without needing us.

The light dimmed
without asking.

You were still there.

And that was enough
to make it feel like
something hadn’t ended
entirely.

So we stayed.

Two small things
in a quiet room,
laughing softly
at the end of the world.

Outside,
something kept going
as if it hadn’t noticed
we’d stopped.
 
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Ton Of Bricks

Depression hits like a ton of bricks
No warning no sound
Just suddenly the weight
Of everything comes crashing down

The room stays exactly the same
But somehow I can't move
Even breathing feels like work
And nothing feels worth proving

I carry what nobody sees
A heaviness under my skin
Trying to remember who I was
Before the darkness settled in
 
The Queen of thieves

At first I didn't notice,
The fresh air and more light in my life
Could have been a coincidence
But it was her.

She opened sealed windows,
Found keys I thought lost
To open doors I never had the courage
to go through alone

The queen of thieves had no special skills,
There was no risk
And nobody to stop her,
Especially not me.

She could have taken everything
But didn't.
I just gave it to her
I don't even want it back.

The queen of thieves stole my heart
Not even on purpose,
It just happened...



Ps: it's largely inspired by something i read maybe 3 or 4 years ago. I tried to find the original, if not to post then at least to give credits for the inspiration - without succes.
 
Little Death

The room disappears
one shadow at a time.

A mouth.

A hand.

Skin finding skin
like it has remembered
something the mind
was taught to forget.

The air grows warmer.

Breath catches
somewhere between
wanting
and surrender.

Fingernails
leave little crescents
in the places
where restraint used to be.

Something ancient
moves beneath the skin.

Something without a name.

Something that does not care
about promises
or tomorrow.

There is only heat now.

Pulse.

Pressure.

The slow unravelling
of everything
that was supposed
to remain controlled.

And then,
for one suspended moment,
everything becomes
beautifully unclear.

The body forgets
where it ends.

The mind forgets
what it was thinking.

The room becomes
light and darkness
at the same time.

And the self,
that stubborn little thing
we spend our lives
protecting,
lets go.

Perhaps that is the death.

Not the stopping.

The surrender.

The moment
nothing is held back
and nothing is left
to hide behind.

The French had a name for it.

La petite mort.

The little death.

A strange phrase
for something
that leaves the heart
beating harder
than before.

Then it passes.

The darkness loosens.

Breathing returns.

Two bodies lie still
in the aftermath,
warm,
exhausted,
almost strangers again.

The old world
waits outside the room.

But for a little longer
they remain there,
listening to their hearts
beat themselves
back into existence.

And somewhere
between the last breath
and the next,
something remains.

A moth
beating its wings
against the dark.

A flower
opening after midnight.

A mouth
that could be a wound.

A wound
that could be a mouth.

And perhaps
that is the mystery.

Perhaps ecstasy
has always looked
a little like dying.

Or perhaps death,
for one beautiful second,
 
Cobwebs

There's a room inside my head
I haven't opened in years
Dust on every photograph
Names I can almost hear
Something moves behind the walls
Something I left behind
A little piece of yesterday
Still waiting to be found


And I reach into the corners
Where the daylight doesn't go
Pulling threads from old beginnings
I thought I'd never know


Cobwebs in the corner
Memories caught inside
Things I thought were over
Still hanging on somehow
I brush against the silence
And watch the past unfold
Cobwebs in the corner
Catching pieces of my soul


There's a song I can't remember
But I know the way it feels
A face without a name attached
A wound that never healed
A summer hiding underneath
The floorboards of my mind
And every little forgotten thing
Comes crawling back in time


Like a photograph beneath the bed
Like a letter never sent
Some things disappear from sight
But never really went

Cobwebs in the corner
Memories caught inside
Things I thought were over
Still hanging on somehow
I brush against the silence
And watch the past unfold
Cobwebs in the corner
Catching pieces of my soul

Maybe I don't have to save them
Maybe I don't have to know
Why the smallest things can take me
Back to somewhere long ago
Let them gather, let them linger
Let them fade into the blue
Every thread I pull from darkness
Leads me somewhere back to you

Cobwebs in the corner
Silver in the light
All the things I've buried
Coming back tonight
I brush against the silence
And watch the shadows move
Cobwebs in the corner
Still holding onto you

There's a room inside my head
I don't visit anymore
But sometimes in the evening
I can hear it through the door
Cobwebs in the corner
Dancing where the memories hide
And all the things I thought I'd lost
Are waiting there inside
 
Meaning

We wake up every morning
like the sun signed a contract
to rise for us.
Like time is something we own.
But time
has never belonged to anyone.
It only passes through our hands
like water through fingers
that never learned how to hold oceans.

Somewhere right now
a child is taking their first breath
like the world is opening a door.
And somewhere else
someone is closing their eyes
for the final time
like the lights of a house
no one will enter again.
And the strange thing is
the earth keeps spinning.
No applause.
No announcement.
Just quiet gravity
pulling everything forward.
We live in the middle of that silence.
Between hello
and goodbye.
Between the heartbeat
and the echo of it.
And life
life is complicated.
It’s laughter
in hospital corridors.
It’s birthdays
after funerals.
It’s learning that love
is the only thing brave enough
to exist
in a world
where everything ends.

But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe death
isn’t the villain of the story.
Maybe it’s the reminder
written in invisible ink
across every moment.
It says:
This matters.
The coffee with a friend.
The phone call you almost didn’t make.
The hand you held
for a second longer than necessary.
All of it.
Because we are temporary creatures
doing permanent things
like kindness.
Like memory.
Like leaving fingerprints
on the hearts of people
who will outlive us.
And one day
when our borrowed time
is returned
the question will not be
how long did you live?
But instead…
Did you notice the miracle
of being here at all?
Did you love loudly?
Did you forgive quickly?
Did you stand in the fragile light of being alive
and whisper—
thank you.
 
Hannibal

You don’t march, you drift.
Slow, deliberate, swallowed by white.
The mountains don’t care about your plan
they just are, vast and indifferent
like a wall of sound that never resolves.
Snow falls in soft distortion
blurring the edges of everything you thought was certain.
You call it a crossing.
But it feels more like dissolution.

The elephants move like ghosts
massive, unreal shapes dissolving into fog
Each step sinks, hesitates, commits
There’s no rhythm left, just persistence. Behind you: heat, noise, something like clarity.
Ahead: nothing but the long, echoing unknown
until direction disappears.

You thought this would be conquest
Instead, it’s endurance
Breath crystallizes. Names fade.
Even ambition gets quieter up here
buried under the hiss of wind and the low, aching drone of survival
The army thins, like a melody stretched too far.
What remains isn’t glory, it’s texture
It’s feeling your way forward when vision fails.
A figure ,call him a general, call him a dream
keeps moving
Not because the path is clear,
but because stopping would mean admitting the silence is louder than the noise you’ve built

Reverb stretches time
Every step echoes longer than it should
You realize the Alps aren’t the obstacle They’re the sound
Immense, immersive, impossible to fully grasp
You don’t pass through them
you’re absorbed, reshaped, made smaller and somehow more infinite
By the time you reach the other side, you’re not the same composition

Somewhere beneath the distortion
a fragile melody survives
thin, flickering, stubborn
Not victory. Not defeat.
Just the quiet, defiant hum of having made it through.
 
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