Paint Water Press

Paint Water Press is an independent creative studio and small press dedicated to publishing heartfelt, imaginative, and beautifully unconventional works. We merge storytelling, design, and digital media to create projects that live where emotion and artistry meet. Got a project—or just want to chat? Reach out at [email protected] Find more at: https://linktr.ee/paintwaterpress New eBook available now on Amazon: Threshold Consciousness - Poems and Prose on Love, Loss, and Other Worlds by M. Mayhem

[paintwaterpress]

hey hey! quick little update:

i’ve officially finished posting all the writing from Threshold Consciousness 🎉

(which still feels a little unreal to say)

it’s been really special getting to share that whole arc as it is — messy and personal and everything in between — and i really appreciate everyone who’s been reading along or supporting in any way 💛

if you want a copy of the book, it’s available here: link

next up, i’ll be posting newer writing from the upcoming, currently untitled book two; things are going to get a little more experimental in both subject and structure — a little stranger, a little sharper...

i hope y’all enjoy what’s ahead

[aquilacalvitium]

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

[aquilacalvitium]

Please keep interacting with this post because when I come to tumblr to procrastinate, this shows up again in my notifications and guilts me into writing again

[bluesandbarebones]

Fallow

In darkness I have planted myself in an untended garden. I have covered myself with the rich black soil of contemplation and regret. Now I wait for the warmth of acceptance, for the rain of forgiveness. It is not enough that I have absorbed the underground waters of sorrow. It is not enough that I have swelled and softened with recompense. I have broken down my walls of protection. I have anchored myself in truth and sent down roots through fallow ground— unseen, unheard hours of penitence. Will you come and tend the place where I have fallen? Will you cast aside these thorny vines lying above me? Alone, I choke in the gloom that threatens to overshadow. I have planted myself in an untended garden, too dark, too deep.  

[hymnfell]

[hymnfell]

[poppiesandpromises]

I haven't found a box

To contain all of this fear

Just rocks & wind & errant socks

The meaning isn't clear

My tummy is all tied in knots

I quiver and I shake

A world full of rotten spots

Another bone to break

A wreath of violets in my hair

The sun stroking my face

I am at war with my despair

I fight for second place

But still the ground is moss and dew

Still the cherries bloom

Every day begins anew

I know I must make room

[callherwylder]

And then, suddenly,

you start to understand

that memory isn’t a one-way mirror.

That maybe, just maybe,

when she crosses your mind,

uninvited, undeniable,

you are crossing hers too.

[yourangelspoetry]

Ladybug

Dressed in red you’re spotted, With your hands caught polka-dotted, Crawling through the window sill In search of warmth unguarded.

It’s a little sad, in any case The futility of it all But when you can’t run you walk, my dear, And when you can’t walk you crawl.

So while I marvel at your colors, In my notebook I will add Ladybugs, to the list of things That seem to make me sad.

I’d cradle you to warm you, But I dread I'd break your wings You’re in my home to flee the cold In an ironic twist of things.

I’m not equipped to love you I rarely seem to be So I’ll make a wish for ladybugs To find a greener tree.

Your life is very short, I’ve learned from others past So take a rest upon my palms I still think you’re rather beautiful Even if you’re not meant to last.

[paintwaterpress]

Ouroboros

---

Poem Information:

“Ouroboros” traces the geometry of mourning — not a straight descent, but a looping, side-winding return. Grief here is a serpent: slow, deliberate, devouring its own trail. The poem’s structure mirrors this motion, tightening and unspooling as time ticks forward in a rhythmic “tick tock,” a pulse that refuses to end. “Undulatory propulsion” suggests order, but the form betrays it, curling into itself until emotion and motion become indistinguishable. The closing “figure eight” seals the loop — grief and love twisting endlessly, infinite and inseparable, a perfect ouroboros of the heart. 

[Concrete]

[museify]

[aprilfoolfrog]

Noncomformity

I don't like bras.

Haven't worn one in some time.

They're tight and uncomfortable.

Been told I just haven't had it fitted-

never got the right kind

but I felt wrong in my skin.

It was holding me back;

I couldn't breathe.

You don't need to know this,

so why am I telling you?

Because it is okay

to go against the grain.

I was pulled aside in the third grade.

My teacher told me it was inappropriate

for a developing young lady

to not cover up.

I was out of uniform;

boys and men might get the wrong idea.

I felt embarrassed and ashamed.

Forced to wear a bra.

Not long after,

I felt restrained.

My mom did what she'd always done:

fein outrage then do the same things.

As time went on,

so did there persistence.

Wear a bra.

Cover up.

Who are you putting that makeup on for?

Shave your legs.

Shave your pits.

Lose some weight.

Upon coming out,

they remained adamant I was straight.

Go to college.

Get a job.

No, not that job.

Work harder.

You're working too much.

Work less.

Do this.

Do that,

but only how I want you too.

Go to church.

Return to Jesus.

A constant push and pull.

A tug of war on my very soul.

It took me a long time

to learn how to ignore it.

It took me a long time

to feel comfortable

in my own skin.

Why are we hated

for making our own life choices?

I didn't sign this socal contract-

I was born into it.

Written by AprilFool 🐸

4/18/2026

[paintwaterpress]

Photo by Cup of Couple on Pexels

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The Weight of Things

A globe that wouldn’t float,

a game that never read,

an apology in fake diamonds,

two rings I never asked for.

---

Poem Information:

“The Weight of Things” is a brief, piercing meditation on hollow gestures and failed promises. Each image—shimmering with quiet, wry bitterness—traces the space between longing and disappointment. Objects become echoes of desire unfulfilled, fragments of trust misplaced, and the soft ache of intimacy that never lands.

[paintwaterpress]

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The Day the Door Flew Open

It was the Day

the door flew open.

I could just never

see You the same.

I searched for You

in crimson rage,

but every shadow

shed His face.

---

Poem Information:

“The Day the Door Flew Open” captures a fleeting, shattering instant of betrayal and upheaval. Through vivid, haunting imagery—crimson rage and shadows that shed a face—the poem explores fractured trust, the lingering grip of obsession, and how a single moment can alter perception forever. Taut, cinematic, and psychologically intense, it lingers like a shadow long after the page is closed.

[paintwaterpress]

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Quiet Voices

Cruel.

Selfish.

Vindictive.

Cruel.

Selfish.

Vindictive.

Cause you made me that way.

Cause you “raised” me that way.

Cause you left me—

to ROT—

that way.

And where

did you say this?

Behind closed doors.

Quiet voices.

Like it was a secret.

Cruel.

Selfish.

Vindictive.

Cruel.

Selfish.

Vindictive.

To you—

maybe.

But history

is written

by the winners.

And we don’t

judge soldiers

for what

they do—

in war.

---

Poem Information:

“Quiet Voices” is a searing reflection on inherited cruelty, confronting the cycle of abuse and the secret wounds passed down “behind closed doors.” Through sharp repetition and an uncompromising voice, the poem transforms pain into defiance, framing survival as its own kind of war.

[dahlia-099]

I stopped praying for happiness and started praying for peace.

[and-fishing-equipment]

in 2026 DO NOT ask yourself whether your art is GOOD

instead ask:

is it SINCERE

was it CATHARTIC

was it FUN TO MAKE

is it MADE BY ME

and don't forget to stay silly

[paintwaterpress]

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Broke

My bed frame broke months ago; I can’t afford to fix it, though.

Wife can’t find work; mine’s on the line, and we’re punished for not being fine.

Our cards are all long overdrawn. The planet choking on Exxon’s spawn.

The whole world seems to be ending; all you hear is what’s still trending.

Some friends face looming eviction; we pray the rest evade conviction.

I can’t afford my smoke addiction. The Middle East trapped in friction.

I— I think we need a break. I think we all need to shut up for just a little bit.

I— I think I need to break. I think I need us all to shut up for just a bit now.

I— I think we need a break. I think we all need just a little break.

I— I think we need a… I think we need…

I—

---

Poem Information:

“Broke” is a raw outcry of exhaustion, both personal and collective. Broken furniture and overdrawn cards sit alongside poisoned planets and endless wars. The speaker’s voice swings between confession and chorus, each “I—” cutting off like a breath that can’t quite finish. The poem threads domestic struggle, political collapse, and social fatigue into a single, pressing weight, capturing the sense of living in a world that feels perpetually aflame. Jagged rhythms and unfinished lines mirror that instability, leaving readers suspended in the fragile space between breaking down and demanding a break.