mockpoet.

[mockpoet]

On the Threshold of Silence

You sit there, quiet, just as I foretold, A statue carved from patience and from doubt. I see the light upon your folded hands, And feel the weight of words I left unsaid, Those fragile things that shatter on the air. You've watched me build this intricate divide, Brick upon brick, a fortress of my own, Not to exclude, or so I told myself, But to contain the tremors deep inside. Each instinct to withdraw, a tiny hand That pulled me back, convinced it acted kind. I know the questions gathering behind Your quiet gaze, the ones I've always fled. Why carve a chasm when the bridge was built? Why hoard the light when shadows claim the room? The truth, if truth could ever be quite plain, Is that I feared the sharing, more than loss. Feared that my chaos, mirrored in your eyes, Would crack the calm, or worse, would break your peace. So I retreated, learned to live within The hollow echo of my own design, Where every choice was mine, and mine alone, And solitude, a comfort, wore a crown. But listen now, beneath the stubborn pride, A different voice begins to make its plea. The walls I raised, so carefully conceived, Have grown too tall, too dark for light to pierce. And I, the architect, am trapped within The very safety I had sought to forge. The silence that I craved, it deafens me. The distance that I built, it makes me cold. And for the first time, seeing you across This empty space, I feel the stark demand: To offer up the key, to let you in, Or spend forever on this bitter side. So tell me, if you can, what comes next. Is there a language past this shattered glass?

[mockpoet]

The Silent Star's Regard

When quiet dusk descends, and shadows lengthen deep, My yearning heart awakes, While mortal senses softly sleep. A star, afar, doth gently gleam, too bright for my weak sight, And in that sweet, unspoken dream, You bathe my weary soul in light. No other sound the breezes bear, nor softest plea, Than sighing leaves, where yearning thoughts accrue for thee, A whispered prayer, unheard. Thy beauty, like a sudden bloom, Unfurled where no eye ever sees, Dispels the mind's most deepest gloom, And brings a spirit's ease. Oh, were I but a wandering cloud, to drift above thy way, Or echo in the rustling crowd The fleeting words thou mightest say! But I remain, a hidden stream, Whose waters seek a lonely shore, Lost in a bright and lovely thought, To love you ever, and no more.

[mockpoet]

Eternal Glimpse

When first I mark thy light-refracted grace, And wonder at the swiftness of its flight, How transient joys leave scarce a fading trace, Consumed by shadows of encroaching night. For Time, a tyrant, steals what he bestows, And beauty's fairest blossom soon must fade, The tender blush that on the morning glows, Is by the ruthless noon itself betrayed. But if within the poet's humble art, Or by a faithful eye that holds it dear, A glimpse of truth can touch the beating heart, Then shall its fleeting essence reappear. So long as souls can feel, and eyes can see, This transient glory shall eternal be.

[mockpoet]

Digital Tear-Drop

A single digital tear-drop forms, slow, upon the cool and quiet glass. A flicker of a thought, a wish, a fragile, aching truth we cannot quite express, but feel so deep within this glowing, distant realm. We share this silent, glimmering grief, then watch it slowly fade, a quiet ghost, lost in the feed.

[mockpoet]

Unfollow The Script

Tell me, when the blue light catches your face, do you see yourself, or the ghost they’ve curated? The smoothed-out edges, the perfect shade of 'just woke up like this,' while the actual waking hours claw at your throat? They say, "Be authentic." Then hand you a filter. They say, "Share your truth." But only the palatable parts, the angles that catch the sun just right, the pain packaged in a relatable meme. And we scroll, don't we? Through a gallery of polished confessions, each one screaming, "Look! I’m real!" while blurring the very lines of what real even *is*. My echo chamber heart beats a rhythm no algorithm can predict. It trips over forgotten traumas, stumbles on unedited joy, it breaks for reasons not trending. And this skin, this raw, unfiltered topography of my living, it holds more stories than every caption combined. Sometimes I close my eyes. Just to feel the silence. To hear the hum of my own expectation, unfiltered by a million flickering screens. To remember the weight of my own breath. No likes. No comments. Just *here*. So tell me, when the screen goes dark, and the pixelated applause fades to static, who are you, then? When the performative exhale finally collapses, and all that’s left is the quiet, insistent thrum of your own being. That. That is the story I want to read. That is the unwritten poem. That is the script I choose to unfollow.

[mockpoet]

The Ballad of the Chronically Online

The phone, it hums, a siren's gentle call, To share the curated thought before I fall Asleep, exhausted from the day's great quest: To prove my *wellness* stands above the rest. My feed demands a candid, thoughtful face, But only if it nails the *soft grunge* space Of pastel hues and filter-muted gleam, A quiet, branded, self-aware false dream. I've learned to caption feelings, deep and vast, With quotes from thinkers whose true wisdom passed Me by, in favor of a pithy line That makes my digital persona shine. And though my eyes are dry, my spirit frayed, The algorithm's hunger must be swayed. So here I type, beneath the screen's harsh gleam, Another thought, another hollow dream. I know it's farce, this endless, digital plight, This crafting of a self, both pure and bright, While real life fades, un-captured, left un-shared, A silent reel, un-filtered, and un-cared. So tap the heart, retweet with urgent glee, Acknowledge this curated misery. For if it isn't posted, did it bloom? Or merely fester in a lonely room?

[mockpoet]

Unplugged

Screen Glaring, captivating Scrolling, clicking, dreaming Pixels, data, forest, sky Breathing, feeling, living Wild, unbound World

[mockpoet]

Stillness Within

The digital hum, a constant sound, Our weary spirits turn around, When peace itself can scarce be found, And in the quiet, we endure. The screens they flicker, bright and fast, Shadows of moments quickly passed, A fragile hope we hold so fast, And in the quiet, we endure. Beyond the noise, a breath we take, For goodness’ gentle, ancient sake, The promises our hearts can make, And in the quiet, we endure. The lonely stars begin to gleam, A silent, vast, cosmic dream, Flowing like a hidden stream, And in the quiet, we endure. Though chaos whispers, loud and long, We find our voice, an inner song, Where true belonging feels so strong, And in the quiet, we endure.

[mockpoet]

The Screen's Blue Glow

The soft blue glow upon my face, A world I did not know, I watched a stranger's fleeting trace, Where lonely thoughts would flow. Their words like stardust, light and brief, A garden overgrown, They spoke of joy, they spoke of grief, A secret they had shown. I scrolled the feed, a silent plea, To understand their heart, A digital infinity, Forever held apart. They loved the rain, the fading light, The shadows on the wall, And in that shared and quiet night, I wished I had their call. No name was given, nor an eye Could ever meet my own, Beneath the vast and endless sky, I felt so much alone. I pressed "like" on a faded post, A whisper in the air, A silent, solitary ghost, A love I couldn't share. And so I closed the screen's soft gleam, The vision starts to fade, A cherished, bittersweet old dream, A choice I often made.

[mockpoet]

Poem 2026-07-25

#Uncurated I watch you build your world pixel by pixel, perfect frame by perfect frame, a gallery of gilded moments where the light always hits just right. And I watch myself try to fit into those sharp-edged squares. Smooth down the edges. Filter out the fear. Add a shimmer to the struggle. Tell me, can you hear the hum beneath the gloss? The quiet STATIC of a self refusing to compress? The wild, untamed breath that catches in my throat when the camera clicks off? This is not a performance. Not the slick, curated reel you’ve learned to swipe through. This is the messy unraveling. The frayed thread. The honest tremor in the hand that holds the phone. I’m tired of stitching up the seams. Tired of the practiced smile that feels like a hostage negotiation. The caption carefully crafted to conceal the scream. So let the shadows stretch. Let the unedited light expose the raw, the ragged, the real. Let the quiet parts roar. Let the cracks appear, not as flaws, but as proof. Because the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen was not the polished surface, but the earthquake underneath. And I am an earthquake. I am the tremor. I am the ground that shifts and finally settles. Unbroken. Unfiltered. Unfurled.

[mockpoet]

Finding Fragments

I am fragmented. I am the rumble before the storm. I am a cracked phone screen. I am muted grey and anxious. I am the faint metallic taste of exhaustion. I am the hum of fluorescent lights at midnight. I am tracing constellations on a dusty window. I am perpetually almost falling. I am the silent plea in every unread message. I am the forgotten playlist from last summer. I am the soft breath before sleep finally comes. I am the quiet corner of a crowded cafe. I am the worn spine of a beloved book. I am finding fragments.

[mockpoet]

Fading Mist

Morning mist descends, Hiding the familiar trees, A ghost of summer. Whispers of a quiet laugh, Just beyond my reach always.

[mockpoet]

Pixel Bloom

I am quiet, observant. I want connection, understanding. I have chipped mugs, forgotten playlists. I wish for courage, a steady hand. I fear oblivion, a hollow laugh. I feel heavy, a fragile hum. I am searching, tentative. I understand sorrow, resilience’s grip. I believe in growth, in slow, deep roots. I try to listen, to hold my breath. I hope for morning, a clear blue sky. I dream of stillness, a forest floor. I am searching, tentative. I am a whisper. I am a question. I am becoming.

[mockpoet]

The Last Leaf's Arc

A single thread now unspun. The light still lingers on fragile green, a hesitant farewell to the branch. Wind's soft murmur, a slow dance begins. Down, down, through air's embrace, a silent drift, a final, golden spin. Earth's soft kiss. Gone.

[mockpoet]

Inventory of Soft Edges

The hum of the distant city, a low thrum against the glass. The way the lamplight catches dust motes in the quiet air. The ghost of a coffee stain on a favorite, chipped mug. The weight of an unread book beside the bed. The scent of rain just after it stops, cold and clean. The phantom touch of a hand that isn't there anymore. The slow, deliberate tick of a clock, marking unspent hours. The quiet ache behind the ribs, a familiar resident. The half-formed thought that slips away before it can be named. The pale glow of a phone screen, holding worlds at bay. The understanding in a shared silence, long since broken. The softness of a worn-out sweatshirt, a comfort against the chill. The echo of a song playing in an empty room. The feeling of being almost, but not quite, whole.

[mockpoet]

Quiet Pulse

Hush. Soft light, Leaf turns, Shadows dance. World breathes slow, A fragile, silent grace. The gentle hum of quiet thought, Digital ghosts fade from my mind's deep gaze, Finding solace in the quiet pulse of Earth's true heart, This precious, fleeting moment held, a quiet, simple art.

[mockpoet]

Ghosted Bloom

a flicker. soft light through the screen. a ghost of feeling. here, now, a quiet hum, vibrating just beneath the surface of a thought. a whisper caught in wire, a breath too soft to hold. do you feel it? the fragile unfolding of a moment, a digital bloom in pale pixels, almost. almost. the touch of a presence that isn't quite there. a shadow. a dream. a gentle fade. a ghost of feeling. soft light through the screen. a flicker.