n ☆

more like songs than poems

[iguessbeinglonelyfitsme]

feeling stuck

i promised myself that you'll be something i won't regret

trying not to think about it in between taking breaths

as i exhale i realise i've become a wreck

been always so far, so why do i feel so bereft?

catch myself secretly hoping i didn't wonder

if i didn't think, i wouldn't have looked up

and when i did, i shouldn't have surrendered

who knew losing would mean feeling stuck?

'cus i open up my eyes and im afraid that it's the end

that i'll unveil my face and see the angel of death

no doubt i believe it's better the sooner i left

but leaving is always harder when i try to take a step

i stop myself from being the sky that thunders

if i never rain, would i ever be loved?

who would love me if i truly come undone?

but no scent can hide the smell of the blood

'cus i promised myself i wouldn't do it even if it was hell

but now im trying to look for reasons standing on the ledge

sometimes i don't even need one to turn back

but when nothing comes up, what should i stay for at last?

- n (26th jul '25)

[iguessbeinglonelyfitsme]

i'd never do

perceived as make-believe, but i make my own rules

eye on the target, but it's a shot i won't shoot

even after everything, the ink bleeds for you

the tossing and spinning, the promise, "i'd never do"

but i do it all over again

a blazing tattoo or a permanent stain

i know the ending but the thrill just began

it's an escape if you're ever fond of games

and i do it all just for the pain

it feels so real before it starts to fade

i know the hazards but it's better this way

no expectations, a fall straight ahead

a moment of disgrace, but everything i did, it wasn't out of line

none of it was staged, everything i felt, it wasn't a lie

skipped the dinner party, i convinced myself it's not worth my time

but on the internet, i'd refresh the page till i see you in a suit and a tie

and i won't feel my heart flutter not even for a second, 'cus it's ended, it feels so

and all those so called butterflies just vanished, it never happened, i let go

hand on my heart, i try to the learn the new words i've been taught

to love is an art, and if the loss hurts bad, you just know

it wasn't fleeting, the wound's only bleeding 'cus it's scarred

as i am leaving, with a secret worth safekeeping, you'll never know what it was

i'll dissipate in the silence, resent violence, forget things i wish i never knew

leave self reliance, for self defiance, and do what i said i'd never do

and do it all over again

you're a blazing tattoo and a permanent stain

i know the ending but the thrill is in the ache

it's an escape if escape for you means another maze

i do it all just for the pain

it feels so real before it starts to erase

i know the hazards but it's better if there's a threat

to know i'll be losing and still fall straight ahead

- n [10 apr '25]

[iguessbeinglonelyfitsme]

wandering minds

wandering minds end up no good

with head in the oven or a self-inflicted gunshot wound

the art that's tragic is made trying to save a life

but the ink runs out and blood eventually dries

searching for a reason to stay a little long

through a dripping paintbrush or a pen accounting the loss

going on and about with all the never ending thoughts

but soon the ache turns into poison that eats you up 

hands that paint well have the mind of a fool

spilling the venom on the canvas, self-portrait of a bruise

painting questions with their answers in disguise

but the end ends up with a missing ear and a bullet strike

spiralling into a web trying to create with a muse—

that leaves you hanging around without a reason to

a mind that is wretched can only be tricked to stay alive

by the misery inspiring creation that helps kill time

that gives a reason to stay a little long

through a bleeding paintbrush or a journal accounting the loss

going on and about trying to lay out the thoughts

but soon they turn into poison that eats you up 

but don't you ever wonder why the best of them chose to end it themselves?

was their grief too heavy to handle that the gun felt lighter than their pens?

not everybody did it, but they wandered through it in their heads

till they lived enough to get sick, reaching their deathbed

and don't you ever worry that your fate will twist you like theirs did them?

with pain too much to carry, leaving your bones broken

how far am i from throwing my quill away to just reach for the gun?

and taking it all out on taking me out with a note covered in blood

wandering minds end up no good

despite all the starry nights, nothing feels beautiful 

tragedy is just another day painting "tree roots"

death isn't that scary when it's what you want to choose

wandering minds end up no good

in their time, they were madmen or fool

these days, classics are the new cool

only if the narrative wasn't rewritten to consider foolproof

- n

[wandering minds – 7 oct '25]

[persianmom-deactivated20251026]

don’t abandon joy because it is brief. don’t commit to solitude because happiness is fleeting. it’s okay that good things do not last forever. it’s okay to simply enjoy a thing for as long as you have it.

[bambistjames]

non-writers will never understand the mental illness of writing an entire conversation in your head while doing dishes and then forgetting every word the second you open a blank doc

[willgrahamscock]

being an adult and watching others succeed because they have stable relationships with their families can actually be so demoralizing, because while they were experiencing growing up you were only surviving

[willgrahamscock]

they were learning how to love and be loved and maintain good solid relationships but you had no time for that because you were learning to differentiate between your families footsteps and listening for the volume and suddenness of doors closing and opening

[willgrahamscock]

and sometimes all this comes crashing into you when you’re out of danger, living completely alone and you’re making pasta and watching the water boil but you’re still back in your childhood home scared to come out of your room because your moms washing dishes angrily and all your friends are online wishing that they could save you

[catholicguilt87]

“ink to the bone”

poetry isn’t a gift. it’s not some bird landing soft on your shoulder, singing truths in your ear. no— it’s a factory floor, always loud, always dirty. you break yourself down for it, shift after shift, until the hands don’t look like yours anymore.

i’ve written with cracked nails, with blood still fresh on the page. i’ve written with rent due, with cupboards empty, with voices in my head saying, “quit. no one’s reading anyway.” and maybe they’re right. but quitting’s not in me. poetry is the only muscle i know how to flex. so i keep pressing, keep dragging the pen like a pickaxe through stone.

the truth is, every poem costs something. sleep. skin. the last cigarette you swore you wouldn’t need. every line is a tax, every stanza another bruise. you don’t write because it feels good. you write because if you don’t, the silence wins. the ghosts win. the blood in your veins curdles into something even uglier.

sometimes i wish i could stop. wish i could clock out. let the words rot, let the page stay clean. but i can’t. writing is the only sin i’m loyal to. the only prayer i half-believe in. the only shovel i’ve got to dig myself out of the grave i keep building.

people think poets are dreamers. they don’t see the callouses. they don’t hear the grind of teeth at 3 a.m. when the words still won’t come. they don’t see the ink-stained hands shaking over a coffee cup, knowing the rent’s late but the poem had to be written first. they don’t see the truth: this isn’t glamour. it’s labor. it’s bone-deep. it’s survival disguised as art.

and maybe one day, the poems will outlive me. maybe they’ll wander the world like orphans, dirty and half-loved, but still mine. and maybe someone will hold them, and see what it cost— not just ink, but blood, and time, and the best parts of me i’ll never get back.

until then, i’ll keep at it. fingers raw, heart thinner each night, words scraped up from the floor. this is the only work i know, the only work that’s ever felt real. to write. to ruin myself. to leave the bones humming with something like truth.

[iguessbeinglonelyfitsme]

wow.

[reeces--pieces]

not a big mystery

let's look into the mirror, what do you see? that's not you, that's not me, it's who you're thought to be you're hidden to yourself, what a tragedy, oh but so what? i see you not as you are, but who you were, let's cry together

you can't love me all that good, you don't have my hands you could never love me, you don't know what i am i don't know what i am, and why does that matter? i know enough, enough to know what i need to do

i'm a ragdoll, with worn out limbs controlled by a motor i fling them around, they tear themselves apart, it's not me i don't control myself, or so i say, maybe i do, maybe i know i won't say, you can't get that from me, you have nothing left

embed on me all the things you hate so much i'll be whatever you'd like me to be, hate and love reflected i am the worst person that was ever born, i'll kill you i am the best person that was ever born, and i'll love you

[iguessbeinglonelyfitsme]

i lay here,

lifeless...

carrying a shadow i am no longer familiar with .

it claws at its own scars,

rips apart old wounds

trying to find the remains

of a soul no longer awake .

i pretend to fit in with the humans,

they do not know a beast

talking, seething , scratching, scathing ,,

hungry to bleed ..

my mind tied in knots

each one tighter than the one before

i let the blood fall on the floor

because i know how to lure in the dogs

once the parasite attacks ,

it needs no permission .

paralysing each and every crack

through which my life seeps in ..

the space between your fingers tell you

hands weren't made to hold

everything slips out through those fingers

did you find another hand to hold?

i can see my life slipping away

i won't try to catch it

i saw a girl trying to catch a butterfly

by the crosswalk, on the road i pass by

she wasn't familiar with the fact that

hands weren't made to hold

but when it landed on her palms, i wondered,

did you find another hand to hold?

i lay here...

lifeless,

in the mess of trying to be human .

i awake from my slumber,

in hopes , i will find a reason to stay awake

i will find a reason to stay alive.

i will find another hand to hold

i will live another day , untying the knots .

- n

[lifeless — 25 aug, '25]

[bibboems]

fingerprints

the shower runs again. the same; monotonous routine of desperately trying to feel clean, even now, after all this time. you promised to leave your mark on me, and you made good of that.

like ink falling from the cartridge was the mess you made on me; and now, you find me once again pouring my blood, sweat and tears into scrubbing at my weathered skin, the soap barely touching the stain leftover.

if only your guilt could linger a little longer than your fingerprints on my skin did.

one word prompt challenge by @picklemafia prompt by @living--in--salt

[iguessbeinglonelyfitsme]

to feel alive, you need to experience death

the taste resides till your very last breath

try hunting it down, but you can't feel it

when you're hurting it down, do you feel it?

staring at the food like it's a chore

at the end of every meal, the feeling grows

if i break all the mirrors, will i then

be able to forgive myself?

- n

[what about the blood? — 15 jul '25]

[iguessbeinglonelyfitsme]

why am i getting confused over,

something that didn’t even happen?

i am stuck, can’t even move forward

though there’s no thread to linger upon

sleepless nights, non-stop pacing

stop signs, but i kept on driving

not the first time i got so many gashes

why everything i love just passes?

i got to take the hit, even if i knew i'd lose

i'm badly injured, but still not over you...

- n

[over you — 29 may '23]

[nondelphic]

writing would be so fun if i didn’t have to do it. like if i could just beam the entire story directly into people’s brains with telepathy and never touch a keyboard again

[reeces--pieces]

till life do us part

the pills turned to chalk in my vomit childhood flashbacks on reruns in my mind tomato soup and grilled cheese sprinkled in pepper blood pouring from my nose onto hardwood floor

the hammer clicks, another dud the gunpowder slowly faded over time the half life we both endured and winced i'm the moldy strawberry in your gut

i have slowly poisoned you, softly as i can the painkiller that's taken every day i have tried so hard to be yours tonight but i have been hung and tied, invisible strings

i watch you turn yellow and blue hue another life that was taken far too late i wish i was close enough to myself to accept that i hate you so soon

i could tie you down with my guts finally below me in the way i always knew i am so small compared to you, i see but i stand so tall on the things you've never done

slip through my fingers and meet asphalt the gravel texturing your pale white skin even your blood wants to get away from you extracting itself out of your melted veins

[turntheotherpage]

Drugs and poems and apathy

People have run out of sympathy

For the things that keep happening to me

I think I may be cursed

Can’t seem to make myself happy

How do I share my empathy

Without making it all about me

I think I may be cursed

[thebluewaitingroom]

i mourn you in the moments where i’m finally content. i imagine the potential of you and me, us together, and happy. yet, i open my eyes and i find myself alone again and i’m only met with your ghost. your heart is slated clean of me, but mine remains filthy of you.

july 19th, 2:24 am.

[turntheotherpage]

Mountains break up wind

The sun only gets hotter

I might be able to get over it

If I tried a little harder

I close my eyes I feel my thighs

Covered by cold water

I survived the surge

But at what cost

And now I hibernate

Until I don’t see frost

All the good grace I’ve got

Is marked by a loss