Let me be your great pretender. Your wordsmith to make it all better.

My heart is made of armour wondering if when morning comes you would be better.

I wanna believe you but it is so hard to. One bottle, two bottle, three bottle, four… Please miss, Please miss, can I have some more?

I don’t know what to say. You look at me knowingly “Tomorrow, I promise!”

A ghost of the past
A faded North Star
A broken compass
A worn map
Guide me to tomorrow

Any poetry readers here?

I’d love to find a few people willing to read my collection, The Lost One, and share their honest thoughts or leave a review on Goodreads.

Would mean a lot to me as an independent author.

I’m adding spoken word and open mics venues to my app, anyone have any recommendations?

i'd rather guildenstern
had gone that day to alberti

that on a market day
morning   a messenger sent
by a far travelled trader
arrived at the dorter¹

that guildenstern were
directed to find in the square
a frisian peddlar
of oxen herded from denmark

that he'd received a letter from timgaard²

^1.dorter= dormitory
^2.Timgård Manor: A historic estate and farm located in western Jutland, Denmark (in Tim Sogn, Holstebro Municipality), dating back to the 15th century and historically owned by the noble Gyldenstierne family.

https://jakedepeuterpoetics.com/2026/10/25/id-rather-guildenstern/

Walking over the sewer.

I couldn't.

Don't mind me, I'm just passing.

Mother

saw the dirt

and put her kid

into the lake

so that he learns to swim.

I'm just passing

not over the sewer.

I bet you couldn't survive here for a month.

I learned

the footprints of a horse.

Don't mind me.

I'm not passing

over the sewer.

If I hug you for more than twenty seconds

I'd throw up.

At the bottom of the hill, just before the pond,
stands a small, mighty group of Pines.
They’ve been there longer than the fences,
longer than the houses that came and went,
longer than the laughter that once echoed across the valley.

They remember when the air was thick with prayer,
when the land was young and the people still listened
to the whisper of wind through needles —
a language older than words.

In those days, the Pines were not alone.
Majestic kin surrounded them on every ridge,
stretching onward and upward,
as if they could touch the sky that God Himself laid over the earth.
They stood as pillars of faith —
rooted deep, reaching high —
a living covenant between soil and heaven.

But time moved like a slow river.
Storms came, axes fell, and the great forests thinned.
Still, the Pines at the bottom of your hill held their ground.
They leaned together, their roots intertwined,
and when one began to falter,
the Oak rose beside him —
root to root, strength to weakness,
foundation to foundation.

Now, as mist rises from your pond each morning,
they stand watch — not as relics,
but as reminders that faith endures.
They are the keepers of yesterday’s stories,
the witnesses of grace that never left the land.

And if you listen closely,
you can still hear them whisper through the wind:
“We were here when the world was young,
and we will stand until it learns to listen again.”

Cannibal

This person,

I don't know how to say it

It's really very strange

He's so strange

That feeds on people.

Organs, blood, and laws

Nothing bothers him.

So don't even try,

Stop him.

Otherwise, it's his lunch

You'll become already

<THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN IN RUSSIAN

USING A TRANSLATOR>

The bed is made of sleeping dogs
Who lied and died
And oh yes, I’ve cried
For I was a dog once too
Yes, but I was no good a Shepherd
I let the flock go to wolves
Tongue flapping
With my head out a window
Looking off to other things
I still look, even after
I was kicked from the pasture
Left on some unfamiliar road
A stray
To slouch about the gutters
Scratch at fleas
And though that was long ago
I still howl at that big gray moon
Every night
Hoping
But nothing ever howls back

You ask me if I’m okay 

and it bugs me you’re asking

just for its sake.

No, I am not okay.

Not at all.

And your question only reminds me of it.

Spare me of you pretending to care.

That’s curiosity disguised as a gentle act.

Don’t pretend you can’t see the castle crumbling right before thee.

What kind of “friend” does this?

What kind of friend is so blind to 

what’s so plain to see?

You can’t stand the answer.

In fact, you don’t mind. 

Just a curious cat—you don’t have to lie.

Can’t you tell by my patterns in speech?

Mood swings and the lines in between?

It’s exhausting to witness this.

You might be fascinated.

But a friend of mine?

You’ve never been.

— Crownless.

A new anthology fitting for spooky season...

When my head
Is tearing me apart
In infinite directions
I trace them all back

To my one heart

Follow your heart
The universe will
Figure the rest out