Where the ridge thins out and crossings narrow tight,
I kept a quiet watch on those who came;
A fox once walked there, certain in his sight,
With sharpened sense and judgments quick to name.

He marked a badger marring common ground,
And spoke as though the order must be kept;
The other labored, slow, without a sound,
As if such verdicts neither cut nor crept.

Seasons unstitched the neatness he had known,
And led him back where footing would not hold;
The earth gave way beneath him, overthrown,
Demanding hands grow rough where once they scold.

He paused, then said—more truth than grief could tell—
“I become what I hated once.”

Some rules come early. You don’t remember choosing them.
There was a crossing I used to pass by.
A few planks over a break in the ground, edges worn smooth.
Someone had carved a warning into the wood. It had faded, but it stayed.
A bird kept to that spot most days.
If anything came close when the water pushed higher, it would step forward,
just enough to make them stop.
One afternoon, something small came up the path.
Thin, restless, moving like it had somewhere to be.
It stepped onto the plank, slow, testing it.
The bird moved once. That was enough.
The animal turned back, leaving only silence.
It felt settled. Nothing unusual about it.
Later, the water rose a little.
Same place, same marking, same boards underfoot.
The bird crossed first.
No one was there to watch it happen.

the blanket doesn’t warm the same anymore
it just sits on me
perhaps it knows something I don’t say out loud

I keep pulling it closer anyway
like that might fix it

the ceiling has this crack
I’ve been following it for days now
it splits into two near the corner
maybe it couldn’t decide which way to break

funny thing is
I remember when I used to look up here and feel… nothing
just a ceiling
now it feels like it’s watching me stall

there’s an old tyre outside
leaning against the wall
been there long enough to forget what it was meant for
I think about that more than I should
how something made to move
can just… stay
and no one questions it after a while

I don’t talk much these days
not because there’s nothing to say
just feels like words come with consequences
and silence doesn’t ask for anything back

there are things I’ve done
small things
the kind you can explain if you get the time

I always get the explanation ready after
before that
it’s just instinct
or maybe habit

I used to think I was careful
turns out I’m just good at arranging things
so they don’t look like they’re mine

and somehow that makes it easier to sleep
or at least lie down without arguing with myself

sometimes I try to remember
when things felt lighter
not better
just… less attached

now everything sticks a little
memories, people, even small decisions
they don’t leave when they’re done

they stay like that tyre
leaning
waiting for a purpose that doesn’t come back

I don’t think I’m a bad person
that would be too simple

it’s more like
I know exactly where I fall short
and I’ve learned how to stand just beside it
close enough to see it
far enough to say it’s not me
and the worst part is
that almost feels honest
until it happens again
and I recognize it
midway this time
and still don’t stop
the blanket slips a little
I pull it back up
like that’s something I still have control over
it usually is
just not much else

Ocean of tears dried
when the lotus within it died

There is a wall.
In its corner, a spider’s web,
paint peeling,
a ceiling damp with quiet decay.
There is a wall.
Long cracks running everywhere,
sunlight slipping through them,
trying to look inside.
Still it's standing,
holding the ceiling above its head.
There is a wall.
Between self-respect
and the weight of being looked down on.
Between peace of mind
and the echo of people laughing.
Between a life that could feel enough
and the ones who keep tightening the grip.
There is a wall.
It’s the wall of my house.

let me cry a little
leave it, laughing feels more appropriate

after all, it’s all just a joke
this country, its system, its education, its ministers
all of it is just a joke

children getting beaten is a joke
their future crying on the streets is a joke

this country is a joke
where asking questions is a crime
where asking for rights gets you beaten

where journalists’ bodies lie like discarded beggars
there, children’s future, government accountability, corruption,
all of it is just a joke

come, let’s laugh together
at ourselves, at the state of this country
let’s laugh at our helplessness, laugh at their tyranny,
laugh a little louder

maybe if not the crying, they’ll hear the laughter
why not wrap money around ourselves like clothing, maybe then they’ll notice us

they sit too high, it takes time for voices to reach them
so until then, let’s just laugh a little

after all, it’s all just a joke

.

empty within… this heart of mine
no ink enough to fill it, none to drive away the dark
such weight upon my eyelids, as though the world rests on them
an atheist I was, yet now… O God, I leave myself to you
I have done nothing in life, and yet it feels as though all is spent, nothing remains
a worshipper of art, I call myself a creator—yet I have created nothing
with a petty mind I set out to measure the world
so ignorant, yet eager to offer wisdom to all
so indolent am I, I cannot walk on my own feet
I move, instead, leaning upon others
and yet, I have arrived somewhere…
from here, I can see the sun
perhaps it will bring a dawn
I am empty within… perhaps it will chase away this darkness

anyone up?

from 500 to 281 this channel has seen true downfall
Icarus must be proud!! or maybe not 💃

should I be consistent? (No right?)

water is wrong

too thick
it keeps me

or i keep it

hard to hold the thought

there is something pale
pressing above
not light
just pressure

it drinks
through threads
through me

i remember hands
no
i remember forgetting them

fingers went soft first
then names
then the need to belong to a face

eyes stayed

shouldn’t have

they didn’t close
they melted inward

now something moves through one

slow
like it was always meant to pass

not seeing
not knowing

just entering

i try to rise
i don’t

the pond holds its breath
or maybe i am the breath

something above trembles

not wind

something like grief
stuck halfway

it wants to stay clean
it keeps taking me

mist thickens
or i spread

no depth
no surface

just this

just staying too long

just rot
learning how to look

through me

through what used to see

as if

i never stopped

Guys I've OCD
can I get 713 subs and fix this odd subscribers number

I arrived late to my funeral.

The flowers were already tired,
the candles had forgotten what they were burning for,
and someone was crying beside a photograph
I don't remember taking.

They said I was a good man.
I almost interrupted them.

The coffin was closed,
which felt rude.

I wanted to see
who they had buried.

So I asked the priest
if the dead ever get to attend their own endings.

He looked at me
the way people look at questions
they have already buried.

I came back the next morning.

The flowers were gone.
The photograph was different.
The coffin had my name again.

But this time
everyone was crying for someone else.

I began to wonder
if I was dying
or simply arriving too late
to every version of myself.

By the seventh funeral
I stopped asking who was inside.

By the twelfth
I recognized the face.

By the twentieth
I was the one giving the eulogy.

I told them
he had spent his whole life
trying to become someone worth remembering.

Then I looked down.

There were flowers in my hands.

I don't remember buying them.

I judge the fish by the tree,
call its drowning incompetence,
then crown myself wise
for inventing the ladder.

I measure wings by how well they kneel,
call silence a failure to speak,
and name my cruelty
a standard.

Yes I judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree

Inspired by the original thought of rhyse/glittering garbage, which I tried to reinterpret and carry into a different reflection. Might feel stiff but it is what it is........



We feel seen beneath the night sky because it seems to be reflecting something of us.

The darkness is apathetic, endless and absolute, holding millions of stars within it, some brighter by chance, some too faint to be noticed through the dark, yet still burning. I sometimes wonder if they know what it is to shine without being seen, to keep burning quietly while the vastness around them remains indifferent. Some seem to answer one another in light across impossible distances; others keep their distance, carrying whole histories no one will ever read.

When I look at the sky, the stars seem to whisper their unshared stories to me. Their light has crossed an emptiness so old that I cannot imagine its beginning, arriving here long after the moment that gave birth to it has vanished. The light reaching me tonight may have begun its journey before I was born, travelling through centuries of darkness only to arrive for a moment in my eyes. I will never know what happened around that star when the light began its journey, what it witnessed, what worlds may have existed beneath it, or how many eyes looked toward it before mine.

Somewhere in that enormous dark, a star may have died before humanity learned to write its first sentence, and still its light is travelling toward us.

There is something beautiful about that distance.

The dead can take centuries to arrive.

A vanished thing can keep appearing.

A moment can outlive the one who lived it and wander through the universe until, by some absurd accident of distance and time, it finds a stranger.

The sky is full of such accidents. Every point of light carries a past, and I can see only the part that survived the journey. Sometimes I wonder how much of the universe is already gone, how much of what I see is only an afterimage, the final memory of something that has been dead for longer than I have been alive.

And then I wonder about myself.

How much of a person remains after they have disappeared?

A voice remembered incorrectly. A photograph fading in someone's drawer. A sentence repeated years after its author has forgotten saying it. A name surviving in a place where nobody remembers the face that belonged to it.

Perhaps this is why the stars feel so strangely kindred.

They are ancient things reaching me as remnants of themselves, and I am a temporary thing looking at them, already becoming a remnant in the eyes of someone I will never meet.

The stars seem to know this without knowing anything at all.

There is something almost cruelly beautiful about it.

The universe keeps no memorial.

And still, everywhere I look, something is leaving a trace.

Light. Ash. Names. Footprints.

A body returning to the earth.

A thought passing from one mind into another.

Nothing asks to be remembered, and yet everything seems to leave something behind.

I cannot tell whether the universe is indifferent, or whether indifference is simply the name I give to something too vast to answer me.

So I keep looking.

The night remains silent.

The stars continue burning in places I will never reach, carrying their ancient light through the dark, unaware that someone below has stopped for a moment to watch.

And somehow, that is beautiful.



(edited a little (˶˃⤙˂˶) )

Broken

you're red of my greys
you're alliterations of my phrase
I could be a looser,

dying for a praise.
maybe
people often assume I'm a poser,

false and fabricated.

sometimes I try to prove their assumptions

so they stop thinking about me.
they are the saturation,

and their thoughts are hue to my world.
I wanted to be canvas

and he filled it with colours of you.
you're the contrast.
I wanted to look at you

as Icarus to the sun,

but sorry, I'm part of society.

knights are bound to contract.
so sorry, I can't be happy.

I fear ends.
red of my greys.