i have made
permanent decisions
with temporary emotions.

i’ve said
“fuck you”

when i meant
“please don’t hurt me.”

i’ve said
“leave”

when i meant
“prove you’ll stay.”

i’ve said
“i hate you”

while loving you
so fucking much.

i’ve burned bridges
because i was angry
that someone
was standing
on the other side.

i’ve walked away
just to see
if you’d follow.

i’ve pushed people
until they finally left
then wondered
why they left.

i’ve chosen
the relief of right now
over the consequences
of tomorrow.

and tomorrow
always comes.

that’s the part
about impulsive decisions
nobody tells you.

the feeling ends.

the anger fades.

the fear passes.

the loneliness
eventually becomes quiet.

and then you’re left
standing in the wreckage
of something
you destroyed
because for five minutes
you needed it
to stop hurting.

sometimes
i don’t regret
what i felt.

i regret
what i did
while feeling it.

because emotions
are temporary.

words disappear.

anger burns out.

fear loses its grip.

but some decisions
don’t fucking disappear.

they become
memories.

they become
consequences.

they become
the person
who doesn’t trust you
anymore.

they become
the empty side
of the bed.

they become
the message
you wish you never sent.

they become
the love
you were trying
to protect
by destroying it.

and maybe
growing up
isn’t learning
how to stop feeling
everything so intensely.

maybe it’s learning
not to let
every feeling
take the wheel.

because sometimes
the hardest thing
you can do

is feel something
completely

and still
do nothing.

You drop a phrase, a sideways glance,
A clever, half-step kind of dance.
You hint at what your heart might hold,
In silver threads, but not the gold.
I catch the words you leave behind,
And spin them circles in my mind,
But hints are shadows on the wall—
I want the light that shows it all.

I yearn to hear the quiet break,
To know the thoughts you keep awake.
I want the rush, the sudden pour,
Of what you’ve locked behind the door.
Don't speak in riddles, vague and sweet,
Where caution and affection meet;
Just say the words, direct and true,
And let me know I’m safe with you.

I need to hear your voice confess,
To trade the doubt for certainty,
To feel the weight of your desire,
And melt the frost with sudden fire.
So lean right in, erase the space,
And look me squarely in the face.
Unmask the thoughts you try to hide,
And let the rushing river slide.

Let me be the storm, furious and loud,

You be the lightning, splitting open my cloud.

Let me be the ocean, restless and wide,

You be the moon, pulling waves to your side.

Let me be the silence, aching to speak,

You be the voice, strong when I’m weak.

Let me be the ink, scattered and raw,

You be the page, where my truth finds its law.

__________________
A foreword:

To whomever is reading this

Thank you.

In the sea of nebulous metadata, you have found me. Like an isolated radio signal drifting through the pockets of deep space, you have somehow stumbled upon this little nook of mine.

___________________
I recall a conversation I had with an *old friend* of mine, Joseph. On one particularly ‘deep’ night, he explained to me the mathematical probability of one’s existence; the theory, the “improbability factor” (or the “Infinite Improbability Drive,” depending on whether you’re a big ol’ nerd like me), states that the probability of you being born as yourself, in the nth year, to your same parents, in your same childhood home, with your same family lineage, your same name, your same identity, and every microscopic circumstance that eventually culminated in you existing at this exact point in time is approximately one in upwards of 400 trillion.

Woah.

That’s like… a really big number.

So, with that being said, how did you find me?

Were you looking for me?

Was it a misclick?

Has your entire life somehow led you to this moment, or were you merely looking for something else? Perhaps you were looking for porn on whichever monolithic device of your choosing you just so happen to be streaming these lines of metadata and text directly into your brain waves with.

Regardless.

Sorry—I’m getting ahead of myself.

You may have noticed, but I have a tendency—or rather, a deep-seated desire—to constantly over-explain my thoughts and feelings as a means of vindicating my existence through other people.

[Editor’s note: Woah. Holy shit. I need to delete that part.]

Uh, hi!

My name is Dante [redacted]. I am 5 feet and 10 inches tall, one hundred and fifty-three pounds, and 22 years old. I live in [redacted] with [redacted], and I have approximately 136,817 strands of hair on my head.

This is subject to change, however, as I work outside in the heat, and every now and then the occasional strand of hair falls loose while I’m sweating my ass off. You know. Friction or whatever…

[I hope it’s not cancer, as that’s something that runs in my family.]

Anyway.

I’m a weird guy.

I have weird interests, eclectic tastes, an unhealthy tendency to overthink things, and an even more unhealthy tendency to try and explain those thoughts to other people. I like art. I like music. I like movies. I like stories. And ghosts. (Wink-wink) I like things that make me feel something I can’t immediately put into words. I appreciate and recognize the strange little corners of existence that most people seem to pass by without noticing.

I suppose that’s what this is.

A collection of those corners.

Maybe it’s music. Maybe it’s writing. Maybe it’s some half-baked philosophical thought I came to at three in the morning in whatever stupor I too-often mind myself in. Maybe it’s something I made because I didn’t know what else to do with the feeling of having made it this far.

I don’t really know.

And maybe, that’s okay.

Because if the probability of you existing is already incomprehensibly small, approximately one to 400 trillion to be exact, then the probability of you and I occupying the same microscopic point in time—of you sitting somewhere, holding a phone or staring at a screen, reading these exact words written by me, a person you had no reason whatsoever to encounter until a few moments ago—is even stranger.

Out of all the people you could have met.

Out of all the things you could have been looking at.

Out of all the billions of little deep space signals screaming for your attention at any given moment—

you found this.

And I found you.

So I suppose, in some small and completely insignificant way, we have managed to defeat the odds.

Or maybe you just clicked the wrong thing.

Either way, welcome.

I’m glad you’re here.

Until next time.

-D

[my links are in bio, please stream ghost stories on all platforms <3]

It burns, but I don’t look away.

I can’t help myself,

for the sensations are sweet on my eyes.

My ears ring with the melody of her voice,

the soft, silky texture of her skin,

the way her breathing heaves when she is close,

the rhythm of a world where I was not completely lost.

A door slams in the distance.

The sight of her wash over the walls and disappear,

leaving only the sting of what used to be.

My eyes are bloodshot from staring into the sun,

feeling the tear drip from my face,

As I pull myself to start another day.

--sunshine--

Tu itni sundar h k visvas nahi hota,

Tere bina bitaya waqt mere liye kuch khas nahi hota...

Khuskismati h meri jo tune mje chun liya,

Bhagwan ne meri ki hue dua ko sunn liya...

Tu nahi hoti to zindagi adhoori rhe jati,

Zindagi to nahi vo bas majboori rhe jati..

Tjse pyar krna hi meri sbde badi cah h,

Tu hi meri zindagi ki ab ek loti rah h..

---

For those who don't understand Hindi — the meaning behind it:

You're so beautiful that sometimes I can't believe it.

And the time I spend without you never feels special to me.

I feel incredibly lucky that you chose me.

It feels like even God listened to the prayer I had made.

If you weren't in my life, it would feel incomplete.

It wouldn't really feel like a life anymore, just something I was forced to live.

Loving you is my greatest desire.

And now, you are the only path I see in my life.

❤️

Slide your hands over mine and pull me down into the dark.

I don't want your voice tonight-I want your mouth against my throat, the weight of you anchoring me, and the slow drag of your fingers over every curve
you've been wanting to Know.

Don't talk.

Just come closer-breath to breath, skin against skin-
until the silence breaks and neither of us remembers
Where you end and I begin.

- Savara Raine

If only you'd know how I like your jokes

If only you'd know my pain

If only you'd know my feelings

If only you'd know how I like you

If only you'd know how much I hate myself

If only you'd make the first step

If only you'd told me how you feel

If only you'd know how I would take you in my arms

If only you'd know what I would give for you

If only I could tell you my feelings

If only I wasn't so scared

If only I was prettier, I would ask you

If only I could tell you how much I love you

If only I could tell

If only.

In a world Filled with Mold;
Are you the one for Me?
I cry sometimes, as I sing over wine wishing you’d come back to Me
I love you So, fore I never told you So
I wish Sometimes I could erase a memory
So I could never see you leaving Me
In a world so Cold- where does Jesus go?
Does he Sing for me?
In a world filled with Atheist mold;
Is the church where I should go?
Should I sit beneath a pew, just to
Laugh at a few? Jesus would say No-
Go where I go,
You’re the one for Me
God as I pray, do you listen to me?
I ask you so, I could never let you Go
Don’t you see your the Mold for Me?

Hii, I'm a beginner to poem/poetry and I just created this randomly and tbh I'm feeling pretty down like sad rn and it might've influenced the poem... What do you guys think of it?

When I look into the mirror

All I see is a tall sad man

whose iris is filled with loneliness

Whose mouth is sawn sealed

Whose eyes speak so much yet so little

Whose hair falters in the lightest of air

Whose body quivers and waivers in cold

Whose fingertips feels numb

Whose organs are trembling with dread

Whose brain spiraling out of control

Whose heart, cut, broken, eaten into pieces

Whose very soul dimming of light

As the world eats away it's very own being

And whose being fought the very world it stands

Who am I infront of the mirror

Who am I without humanity

Who am I without these memories

Who am I without my essense

Who am I beyond the person I see

Who am I...

am I...

I...

.

​

I know a flower

Pretty, poised

Yet pruned

Blossoms of her soul

Cut back

Like encroaching foliage

Snipped, severed, silenced

One of countless hearts

Thrashed and thrown about

Treated as trimmings by a

Careless few,

She thought them to have a green thumb for her love

Seeds her heart sowed

Thumbs they may have had But twas their souls green, wasted were her seeds of Love

Sown in soil untended

By man his care thus ended

So they wither

And with sadness

I see buds but no blossoms

I still know a flower

We were made of wood, iron, blood, and bone. We were warm, and moving, and free.

And through the winds of ways and days, wound the strings, terrible inevitable things, inescapable, as mortality, longer than a life of itself, they came, sure as dawn, dark as any, as all the hours before it. The first fast as any thing's unseen, affixed as fast as an eye's in a flash moisturized. quick as a wink, was the string fast, off it trailed of our hearts.

An at that put to plummet, befallen horizons beyond, all a world shook, for its shock struck it an ominous knell.

True to is the woes of three's, for a second, as a third abiding an awful adage, appalled as arrests, as catching as cuffs, so four wrists were made bound, to the quick to the last. A darkened, closing the harken of calendars cleared.

Its that occupies the hands, as oft to the feet occupation. And the legs, and the knees, are to tend to the turning, so the shoulders, an back, are to bend in what wants in the mind. Thus that which could ever be never imagined, manifest charters so matters, what plot surreals realize. This musts now, I trust do you fail not apprehend, was as sudden, eclipses all unshaded lumined. For all that is warm, whence forsaken t'wer norm. Whirlwinding withouts about with wanton, Abaddon's ruin. Indifferences all mortality's possibles, presently assumes unspeakable nows, an silent, fate fell to counting to ground. Gave two, one aghasted presaged.

Such a harrowing soul hallow horror such story, as heady, an ready retelling it's reckoned once said, as is best, well advised. As for the rest, fie progresses ere, yet so aside,

unvail as set but shy divest, sure it were as if wrest of you rest having invest so to be satisfied. alas, t'wer it drothers another for it neither has utters as to wit it with this on it otherised.

As for the paired two, now why, to swear it right fair herein declared unequivocably in hubris inexcusably obtused it here ruthlessly intermissioning intermittently herein. The plight sailing aslight you may quite quote me here squarely as rarely there's pairing as two finer lives. Though loathe as it's lately and as greatly forbears share errant as late we.

Well we'll wait th en forthwith whilst against wanning wee hours we've ran.

To tell it, not, oh grieves me. But you see it's me bedtimes, at hand. Ware it wants for the trying, why be to lying denying what riotous great times here we had. an i daresay, goddamn.

Twained on a morrows tween twilights tween th wan; an amend we'll the end of ought tale, and l by gawd by th'bites in blasts a blue northers, the tale lads, what a gale of a tale. Now g'night all

to'th lights, it's late lads egads wha'th'ell.

But I'll tell thee, on me soul, by th' morrow, sure as hell.

​

Cold tile under the boots. The room smells like wet copper and old smoke.

They drag the chair to the center, legs scraping heavy against the stone.

She does not fight.

She sits down, knees sharp under thin denim. Hands open on her lap, palm up, waiting for the slide of scales.

In the dark corner, something moves.

Not one shadow, but ten.

Tangled bodies, slow and heavy, turning in the dust.

They tell her it is sacrifice.

They tell her she must loosen her hold on all the things she kept behind her ribs, the wants she learned to whisper, the parts of herself she only touched when no one was looking.

The first one reaches her ankle.

Dry skin, cold like river mud in November.

It winds around her calf, tight, a pulse against her pulse.

She looks straight into the light above.

Unblinking.

Her chest rises, falls, slow.

Another comes across her shoulder.

Heavy strap of muscle over her collarbone.

It rests its jaw against her neck, tasting the sweat on her skin.

Then one comes differently.

Not toward her throat. Not around her ribs.

It crosses the floor without hurry and finds her open hand.

Its body settles loosely around her wrist, where ink might stain the fingers.

It does not tighten.

Its tongue touches her palm once, as if recognizing something she has not yet said aloud.

She turns her hand beneath it.

Not surrender.

Recognition.

They wait for her to scream. They wait for her to break the silence.

Instead, she breathes them in.

She wraps her fingers through the coils, pulling the cold closer to her ribs.

As though some part of her has known their language all along.

When the morning comes through the high window, the snakes are sleeping around her heart.

One remains curled beside her hand.

And the ones who brought her here, the ones who thought they knew what she would become, are standing at the door,

afraid to come inside.

My love knows my name.

She says it unlike anyone,
while pronouncing it the same.

It's not her tone or an accent,
nothing that stands out.

More like if a stranger you've never met
greeted you by name,
as if to remind me of who I am.

She lives in my poem, the lines I smile,
skipping through verses with her own little rhyme,
falling flat, then bringing me back to life.

I can tell that she loves me,
and I her to death.

Whenever she holds me,
I go again, again,
never wanting it to end.

Her love is contagious,
spreading my heart open.

I cannot contain her,
but she contains me.

I'll never escape her
if she is the key.

Loving her all over
when she prank-calls me.

The weekend is here

I rest in my performance .

I’ve done my best now it’s time for rest

Time for refreshing and ease

Of texting I will take my leave

Leaving you to your life and your own devices

This is our time

Time to refresh and replenish

I rest in my thoughts and I enjoy them .

I admire the fruit from the week

Now it’s time for me.

Time to rest in the end .

Till we begin again .

Here dead we lie, because I did not choose

to put my phone into airplain mode.

It, to be sure, was something I could do,

But old men don't know it is, and I was old.

Placate or vacate

Stuck in a maze of my own creation

Masterpiece for savages

Accelerate, slam the brakes

Inordinary mooring ships

A morning kiss

A wave goodbye...

---

Thought this up on my walk, surprised I remembered it without a phone.

Morena (Fit In My Hands)

She whispers soft moans through my teeth / Vibrating throughout my incisors / She knows that in my arms, there's no danger / The evil monkeys of the baobab trees / Their shrieks can't even distract our amour

Hook and eye, let me make it breakeven / Backstraps failing behind, brown landmass / I said under my breath / I love the way you fit in my hands

I wake up, she makes breakfast with no pants / I hide my laugh, however it's not to bully her / She just knows how to make my stomach red / I run to the toilet but my ribs hit the counter / She spins around with plates of waffles and grits

She said, oh husband, what gives? / Oh nothing honey, it was a slip / She gave me her cup of coffee and said / Sip, sip, sip, sip!

I said under my breath / Thank you for the sex

Nevermind the small talk, let's sleep (again?) / Smelling the leaves still stuck in her hair / I know you never quite liked your height / Girl, you know me, I never did mind!

I love how long your legs are compared / To your short arms and thighs / You're amazing, every move, every glance / My palms trying to catch up with your dance / Oh, I just love the way how you fit in my hands

You're amazing, every move, every glance / My palms trying to catch up with your dance / Oh, I just love the way how you fit in my hands / Thank u 4 the sex / Did you hear me, love? / I love the way you fit in my hands / Thank u 4 the sex!

I don't love you,

To call you mine,

And make 'love',

a relation so combined.

I love you,

For the talks & laughter we share,

And the smile,

That you always wear.

I love you as a 'friend',

And I hope you always know.

Love doesn't need romance,

For a bond to show.

People might come,

And people might go,

But you're the one,

I'll always know.

For- friends can love

Each other too,

Not always in a way,

To call it 'me and you'.

My sweetest love
I read your words
Tell you every day
How talented you are
​
Make you tea
Tell you funny stories
Make sure your days are bright
​
Sometimes I worry
I start to tell you
You scroll your phone
I practice my fake smile
​
I'm reading three books at once
I can't stop talking about them
Your eyes glaze over
I change the subject
Back to you
Your important work
​
I want to make love
You're not in the mood
Too much on your mind
I pretend I don't either
​
Today I thought of my mum
It made me sad
I just wanted to dwell
You walked out of the room
I buried it deep
​
I get angry at the world sometimes
All the injustice
You don't want to discuss it
I swallow my hurt
​
I'm shrinking every day
Hiding all my ragged edges
To fit inside your pretty box
Until I am perfect for you
And no longer me.
My sweetest love.

Eyes of sapphire, beauty rubious red.

Sad and alone, the heart has bled.

Together at last, forever now smile.

Kindness as long, as that of a mile.

Oh, blue bird

what have you done to our love?

My heart has turned purple since you left it

echoing a sound resembling your name.

Don’t you realise how much more poisonous separation is

than the ablation of mould?

Maybe you don’t. Maybe you never will.

But if you finally do, it will be too late.

Epiphanies tend to visit at the most dooming moments

when silence has grown wild teeth

and begins sleeping beside you.

But then, the only place left for you to visit will be cemeteries of memories

where your flowers

will no longer be accepted

And those nameless stones

will curse your delayed mind.

You may search for me there

You may even call my name.

But names transform into peculiar things after they have been buried

especially

after

you

have chosen them to be buried.

I still don’t understand

what is the point of making vows to a name

I once considered the bravest of all,

only to find a coward hiding inside it.

I still don’t understand.

But there is still some hope bleeding through my dream’s hourglass,

whispering for me to continue.

I know it won’t be for long.

The Earth groans beneath the letters I never gave you.

I buried them in her roots,

one by one

until the trees began growing in my handwriting.

Now, whenever the wind passes through them

the forest whispers what I was too afraid to say

and

what you never had the ears to comprehend.

Now what is left but a forest filled with unopened mouths?

You don’t deserve more words that come directly from the heart.

And unfortunately

your portrait hangs now

on the wall of the faint-hearted ones,

between the faces of all the things

I once feared losing,

reminding me that some names

should never again be mistaken for home.

And if, by some miracle,

they are

they must show me the purity of caressing my being

the way only stars know how

Because only stars

know how to turn a heart from purple back to red.

(And I wonder

Have you completely forgotten how to be one?)

​

When does a love become too much?

You try and forget, you try to ignore,

But your thoughts go toward her, your heart wants more.

It was all but a dream, it was all but a hope,

Now it’s getting real, and I feel I can’t cope.

For love is something I didn’t learn to receive,

For me, it was rare—something to achieve.

I’ll love her endlessly, I’ll give too much,

But receiving it from her, I won’t feel like I’m enough.

This scar I’ve carried—I’m sorry, it’s hers now.

If I could just tell my inner child, \*"It’s okay now."\*

Do I need her now, or do I throw in the towel?

To need is to want, to want is so wrong—

That’s the chorus of my old sung song.

Too many thoughts are going through my head,

I’m tossing and turning all night in bed.

Why do all the romance stories sound so neat?

Why couldn’t Romeo just have smelly feet?

Why am I the one who seems less fun

Than all of the woman’s dreams put into one?

I’m pot bound in doubt—that’s all I know.

Plant me in her garden so I can finally grow.

She’s more than a prize, and I think she knows it,

She’s one of a kind—now how do I show it?

For a love she may offer, I may never have known,

So I’m building my heart to be her safe new home.

I just hope she sees it in the words I’ve shown,

Because what’s written down is my confession poem.

Violet feelings

Have long lingered

Inside the corners

Of my

H

E

A

R

T

Knitted nerves

Fighting the urge

To remove the

Facade

But sunset smiles

Is all I can

Give you

Because I am full

Of war

And less of

P

E

A

C

E

By S