jerry | poet wannabe

any/all | 21 | filipino 🇵🇭 | cant post my poems whereever so idk here you go

[liwanag-ng-buwan]

duyog

hindi ko malaman kung segundo

minuto o taon ko susukatin

ang pagtagpo ng dulo ng aking

mga daliri sa palad mong

medyo basa sa pawis

na ewan ko talaga kung sa

akin o iyo nanggaling

ang sigurado lang ako ay

kapag pinisil ko ang iyong kamay

tinitigan ang iyong mga mata

at binalik ang iyong ngiti

may bago nanamang bibilangin

minsan oras o buwan

ang hinihintay bago ko

mamasdan muli ang wangis

mo kapag nadaanan ang

isa't isa papunta sa sunod

na klase na para bang

buntalang minsang magpakita

pero sa minsang tagpuin

kita at takpan ko ang mga

sinag mo sa ating pagyakap

nanamnamin ko ang sandaling

napadilim natin ang kalangitan

[great-gatsby-deactivating]

every reread kills me a little bit more

[great-gatsby-deactivating]

reread and enjoy <3

[definegodliness]

Mossy Bricks

Against my volition, yet Out of the filial sense of responsibility, I am removing moss from the pathway.

Steel bristles nag at my idealism In this inch by inch disintegration; Each time, leaving Just Another brick.

Gone is the softness. Gone is the warmth. Gone is the vivid green.

It's such a shame.

I love moss,

Nature's 'fuck you' to the sterilizing human Organizing order in what longs to be chaos: Frames and borders; lines Not to be crossed.

Moss, a symbol of defiance Against the nightmare-world of Plattenbau And parking lots!

This, I ruminate, Whilst acting out my role As just another brick in the wall.

Such a shame.

I, too, Rage against The grey.

--- 22-3-2026, M.A. Tempels ©

[havingapoemwithyou]

Spring Cleaning by Melvin Dixon

[loveridden1999]

adult grief by louise glück

[lionofchaeronea]

I know this isn't very subtle, but I'm past the point of caring about subtlety, honestly.

Text:

TALKING SHIPS

Since the Argo there have been No talking ships. We call each one She, and love her just as long As she keeps silent. What would they say, these ships If Athena touched their prows To loosen their tongues?

I do not want this cargo of Guns and bombs. I do not want missiles to bristle From my broad back Or planes to launch from me Bringing death to children.

Better that I steer myself Toward the rocks and founder. Better that all my powder be Wetted to uselessness And the ribs of my hull be bones To gather all the corals of the sea.

[lionofchaeronea]

Yesterday was World Wildlife Day. I know I'm a day late and a dollar short, but I wanted to share this with you. I hope you like it.

TEXT:

LET US LOVE THE UNLOVELY

Let us love the unlovely.

The diamond-headed snake Who carries death in his mouth, Who sleeps in the cold And leaves his skin on brambles.

The vulture, king of updrafts, Cleanser of the dead: In the furnace of his belly A dozen poisons melt away.

The keen-nosed shark Gliding through dark waters, His tail a pendulum Moving in time with his hunger.

Let us love what we fear And curse no creature, For we are forged with them Into a great chain,

And any curse we utter Will rebound on our own heads.

[verrlorenpoet]

HOT-BLOODED

[permetutotheworld]

a mental breakdown in google searches

how to fix my broken printer / cheap flights to greece / cheap flights to france / how much cough syrup is too much? / I can't feel my hands / am I dying? / cheap flights to anywhere / why won't my hands stop shaking? / what ink does my printer need? / how to breathe / is tea tree oil antibiotic? / cm to inches conversion / do i have anxiety quiz / how to know if i have anxiety / symptoms of anxiety / why won't my printer work? / cheap flights away from here / how to get better / what is my star sign? / viral scalp massager / do all of my friends hate me? / do i deserve this? / symptoms of a heart attack / symptoms of a panic attack / cheap flights to my mother's hometown / getting rid of nausea hack / how to reach out / how to reach out without talking / why won't my heart slow down? / cheap printer paper / does therapy work? / how to cut my bangs tutorial / how to feel / how to be normal / how to smile / cheap flights to go back home / am i broken? / is anyone listening? / how to fix my broken printer

[permetutotheworld]

[rthwrms]

sisyphus and the dishes, a poem about cycles

[cowboy-heart]

'we shower together for the first time'

Ko-Fi (Commissions Open!) Instagram

(ID in read more) please do not repost without credit!

[Image ID: an original poem titled 'we shower together for the first time. poem is in a paragraph format. poem begins:

Don’t use soap on your face! / Okay, hold onto me tight while I squeeze around you / Shit, I almost slipped / Turn around, I’ll get your back / I didn’t know you had a birthmark there / I didn’t know you had keloids here / Pass the shampoo? / Move over! / Your eyelashes look so pretty when they’re all wet / You can only see my scar in the shower, for some reason / Close your eyes while I exfoliate your face / Better than soap, right? / I have water in my eyes! / I’ll grab the towel / Smell my bodywash, isn’t it so sweet? / I love it on you – very pretty and feminine / Smell my shower gel, isn’t it so good? / It’s sexy on you – very masculine / Here, I’ll wash your legs / We’re gonna be late! / Okay, I’ll get out first / I put your clothes on the radiator so they’d be toasty for you / Ready? / Step out into my arms / Into the warm towel / Let’s bring the water with us.

end poem. writer is credited as 'Ren H.' End ID].

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.

[wheatfieldspoet]

angels are real, mine lives in chicago

when people ask how i survived 3 years in a graveyard shift, i tell them it’s because i have friends on the other side.

i threw a line out the sea and ended up being found, your tug on the invisible string pulling everything into place.

more than half a day away, but time stands still for us enough to fit years of stories in the palms of our hands.

even if we’ve only shared smiles from afar, your wings cross oceans to carry your laugh to me.

when i make it to you, you’ll give me a place to rest, tangible to match the astral one you’ve already granted.

distance and time zones are nothing at all when i carry you in my pocket, guardian dear.

now, like sun and moon, we trade waking hours. still, i fall asleep holding your goodnight text-shaped hand.

— Jade A.

escapril day 2: change of state

napowrimo.net day 2: write a platonic love poem

for @darlingwendy

[havingapoemwithyou]

On Valentine’s Day by Rafael Campo

[geryone]

I Do Know Some Things, Richard Siken

[teenytinydinosaurs]

This Poem Was Written by AI

This poem was written by AI, Or so the title might imply, A clever thing with wires and code, That spits out art in bulk mode.

It learned what rhymes with heart and sky, It knows when metaphors should cry, It studied poems, line by line, Like recipes it could refine.

But here’s the thing, it doesn’t know The way a messy thought can grow, How art is born from coffee stains And overthinking midnight brains.

It never doodled in a book, Or crossed a line it later shook, Or laughed out loud at something dumb Then wrote a poem where that came from.

It doesn’t panic halfway through And rhyme “blue” with “blue” and call it true, It doesn’t write three lines of gold Then hate the rest and feel too bold.

It never stared at blinking text While chaos whispered, “What comes next?” Or felt that tiny spark of pride When something strange worked out just right.

See, art is weird and loud and wild, A stubborn, overthinking child, It trips, it dances, it complains, It makes a mess and calls it brains.

Machines can copy style and sound, But humans scribble all around, We break the rules, we miss the beat, We spill our feelings on the sheet.

While you sit proud with lines you steal, And brag about what you can “feel,” Just crunching words you scraped online, Pretending borrowed thoughts are mine. You mimic art but miss the cue— You’re just a plagiarist with Wi-Fi too. So take this note before you try:

Fuck you, AI.

So if these rhymes feel slightly odd, A little crooked, slightly flawed, If they feel warm and strangely true, Like someone human bled them through,

Then here’s the twist before goodbye, The secret hiding in the “AI.”

This poem was written by AI… An Idiot. Yeah.

That idiot was I.