maybe i am poetry

- a response to the statement "i don't know what i am." interpret my works as you please — my interpretation can be given if it is wanted.

[maybeiampoetry]

i admire snails

written july twenty first, twenty twenty five, by the maybe boy who hasn't found a name yet.

[maybeiampoetry]

foliage and butterflies, or some other title

written march thirteenth, twenty twenty six, by m. nightingale.

— i won't die your daughter.

[heartbreakscars-deactivated2026]

im so stereotypically tragic

that broken poet

with permanent eye bags

never sleeps

but always in bed

highschool dropout

addictive personality

limited amount of friends

but long list of ex lovers

its almost as if my entire personality

was taken out of a textbook

i like to believe im unique

but theres nothing different about me

im no more than

a pity

[maybeiampoetry]

hypocrite

tw for graphic(ish) discussion of hanging / self harm

written august fifth, twenty twenty five, by the maybe boy who hasn't found a name yet.

this feeling is awful. i don't think any words can describe it and it makes me want to crawl out of my skin and fly like icarus towards the sun

[redstonedust]

humans love to categorize and then assign personality traits based on those categories, ranging from the mundane to the incredibly concerning. its orange cat behavior. everyone is either an introvert extrovert of ambivert. whats your mbti? enneagram? your classpect? hogwarts house? i'm just a typical taurus. what's your IQ? don't blame me im just a girl. boys will be boys. take this online personality test to determine which of the 9 types of human you are. everyone fits into these boxes. you know what their kind are like.

[inky-sun]

[echo-temporis]

The Death of the Book by Luke Allan

[Text ID: The problem with the world is there’s only one of it. If something goes wrong there isn’t a backup. It just grinds on, full of the error. (via poetryfoundation.org/)]

[16tinyfrogs]

three sisters, given wings

wrote this in the middle of the night bc i didn’t feel like sleeping lol

[moonparchment]

Thunder

I sit on the wet grass.

My eyes are closed.

My body is bleeding.

I can feel the insects touching my knees. They’re poisoned by my blood.

The sky is screaming, trying to prove she’s worth it. So drop your pious swords, I’m devoted to my rage.

I get up with wobbling legs.

I’m a deer covered in grime and metal.

My progress is deemed admirable.

This body a host of memory.

Weekly prompt, hosted by: @picklemafia

Prompt, ‘ignite’ by @faemaril

[maybeiampoetry]

i think these things make me alive (or at least a person, in some way, shape, or form)

written by the maybe boy who hasn't found a name yet

the uneven-ness of my eyes that i notice every time i look in the mirror, one slightly bigger, one slightly smaller, and neither one squinting the same as the other / the uneven-ness of my smile that i notice in every school picture plastered across the fridge, one corner of my mouth going up, and one corner of my mouth going down like i don't quite know whether to be upset or glad that this photo will be immortalized in yearbooks for everyone to see / five or six or seven or a dozen or so curly hairs on the back of my head only visible when i haven't washed my hair in a week or when it's wet / a splotch on my shoulder that's a little darker than the rest of the skin around it, lovingly called (something personal) by my mom / stretch marks painted across my skin, trails of lightning across my stomach and thighs— this feature i really like, actually, because it's proof that something about me has changed / soft jawline i wish was more defined, but doing that weird tongue trick everyone talks about never seems to help / bump on my ring finger that hasn't left since i was seven, also known as the moment i first picked up a pencil and never put it down / the weird shaped eyebrows that i used to have slits in, but it didn't really look good because it sort of just looked like i had shorter eyebrows / greyish purple smears of exhaustion underneath my eyes that make me look like a corpse and a tired college student all in one— some days i wish they were a little darker, a little more vibrant, just so i'd look more like the vampire i am / cut-too-short nails because my nails grow too long and too fast and get caught on things too easily / the armpit hair i'm tempted to dye to match the hair on my head when i get my hair done in a week (i'm not me without dyed hair, and i've had a natural color for too many months now) / crooked stained yellow teeth that i can't brush sometimes, but i've done it every night for the past few days because there are people who care about me that would want me to do it (so i do, and it's helped, and it makes me feel good about myself) / spot on my arm with two freckles spaced apart; i've wanted to tattoo a little curve there for the longest time, just so it looks like i have a smiley face on my arm, just so there's a little fragment of joy with me every day / permanently damaged knees, once from not listening to my directors and once from a freak injury— my kneecaps collect bruises like i try to collect memories, although my flesh is successful in harboring reminders of the harm it goes through while my brain unfortunately is not

written july thirty first, twenty twenty five, by the maybe boy who hasn't found a name yet

[slagcat]

29.7.2025 things i didn't do in hotel rooms that might exist (a writing exercise i didn't bother reading again. this is mediocre.)

147. we've had every drink from the minibar and our friends can be pissed off about the bill tomorrow but i'm holding your heat-damaged hair back with a hand around your waist so you don't pass out in the toilet. and in that same universe a couple words later your fingers are in mine and we're drowing in the bedsheets. regret it later, one of us says, and i'm not sure if it's a question.

398. kind of really lonely. the whole city moves yet the room is stuck. light shifts through raindrops on the one huge window. it feels claustrophobic and too open at the same time, like riding home from school in some old friends car in elementary and being unsure of where you get to put your hands. the air conditioner hums. it'll be night. don't unpack your things, says the room, and someone listens.

704. DO NOT DISTURB

239. she's checking for bedbugs, another neurotic habit of hers, even though it's supposed to be a honeymoon. i guess i married her neurotic habits too. of course there's no bed bugs, and i make a joke about her being a big bed big herself, and she smiles and scrunches her nose and throws a pillow at me. we closed the curtains because of the heatwave but i feel warm.

[maybeiampoetry]

ambiance in the house of a middle class broken family

written july thirtieth, twenty twenty five, by the maybe boy who hasn't found a name yet.

[maybeiampoetry]

the shared four-person upstairs bathroom in the house of a middle class broken family viewed through an objective, slightly familiar, slightly judgemental, lens

written july thirtieth, twenty twenty five, by the maybe boy who hasn't found a name yet.

[deadcircusclown]

I did three lines of coke and dissociated

My nights fade away in a pillar of smoke and the wisp of a dream that eludes me

Sleep is an abstract concept, Death's cousin twice removed who was never invited to the family reunion

If I believed in God I'd thank him every day that my heart has no consciousness

Because what would keep it pumping blood? It's eventual that it's going to stop; Why not now?

For the time being, our hearts are just muscles, and I'm thankful that our organs are slaves to biology

I don't have to worry about betrayal from within my own ribs, whatever abscess rests there isn't malignant

The spirit of lost souls with blue eyes hang heavily from my glasses frame

I can see because they can't, I am the breathing witness of this wedge of reality

Do they make homes within my veins? Curl up around my vascular nerve, feel the pulse of my existence with every passing second?

I don't feel haunted but I hardly feel alone

I don't feel like myself, either

"Myself" is as much of an idea as sleep

I haven't felt like them since before I could feel

Whoever is inside my body floats there, untethered from whatever buoy they came from

They are me but I am not them; They have my eyes but don't see what I do; They have my voice but speak in a language I can't understand

We coexist like the melting horizon between the sky and the sea

Two different shades of blue fading into one another, inexplicably tied together by an unnamed law of the universe

[reeces--pieces]

plutonium heart

the closer i get the more it hurts you make me rot like no one else my fingers burn into your hips lips curling back into my face

you get so soft when we're together but you make me glow red when i'm alone you turn my brain into soup in my skull burning my soul out of my fragile body

you take, and you take, and it feels so good i want to hurt you the way you hurt me but i'm puddy in your all knowing grasp it feels wrong to be in your arms, i know

it feels wrong to say i need you but i can't live without your glowing crutch holding me up against the world's mirror burning me holy into the twilight

[maybeiampoetry]

what dinner was like (so i don't forget)

written july twenty sixth, twenty twenty five, by the maybe boy who hasn't found a name yet.

a little messy, but its two am and i have to get this out before i forget everything that happened.

[moonlit-drafts]

What the Living Carry

I.

The last voicemail from my mother is 22 seconds long. I’ve measured the silence between her words like a cardiogram— the flatline already hiding in her pause before "I love you."

II.

Grief is the world’s worst archivist: it keeps the grocery list she left on the fridge but lets her laughter dissolve like sugar in rain. I wear her sweater until it loses her scent, then wear it anyway.

III.

The funeral potatoes tasted like nothing. People said "she’s watching over you" as if heaven is a surveillance state and not the place where all her recipes now end with "a pinch of something I can’t remember."

IV.

I practice resurrection at 3 AM— replaying how she’d hum off-key in the kitchen, how her hands could mend anything except the cells multiplying inside her. The dark whispers: "You’ll forget the exact pitch of her voice." The dark is right.

V.

Her garden keeps blooming without permission. I water the roses like each petal is a word she didn’t get to say. The thorns draw blood. Good.

VI.

When the hospice nurse said "It won’t be long now," I didn’t know she meant the rest of my life.

VII.

Some days I’m angry at the sun for rising, at the mail for arriving, at my heart for continuing its traitorous beating.

VIII.

The worst part isn’t the missing— it’s realizing I’ve started remembering her in past tense. As if love too can fossilize. As if I’m slowly burying her all over again.

IX.

I would trade every tomorrow for one more yesterday. But time only moves in one direction— away from her, away from us, away from the last moment her fingers curled around mine like I was still something worth holding onto.

X.

The world should’ve stopped. It didn’t.