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"Measure of Clubs"

04.16.2026

I was not dealt to rule the table.

This, I accept without display.

A Jack of Clubs in quiet motion,

least adorned in the suit's design.

I have learned to be of service,

to answer without hesitation.

To move between assigned spaces

with measured adaptation.

And yet the game inclines elsewhere.

Toward Aces that resolve the hand.

Toward Kings that never questioned weight,

Toward Queens who simply stood.

There is no fracture in their form.

No negotiation of role.

Only the ease of certainty,

a form the table learns to notice.

I do not lack for skill or reach.

This is not the fault in me.

My hands are trained for many shapes,

across a wider sea.

I carry fragments of design,

disciplines I can command.

But nothing gathers into crown—

nothing is made for display.

So I ask, without disruption,

with composure still intact:

what is a measure of a man

whose strength is split and mapped?

Who holds in breadth what others are,

yet is not named in full view?

Is he defined by usefulness,

or something beyond the game?

I know myself. That is the weight.

Clarity does not release.

It only circles back again

in structured, quiet unease.

Why am I built to span so wide,

yet never become?

To function in a hundred forms,

but settle into none.

If there is order in this design,

it has not yet been shown.

So I can remain in disciplined play,

a card still in hand,

not broken, not diminished—

but never placed for display.

#original poem #philosophical poetry #existential poetry #jack of all trades #literature #spilled ink #comparison #self perception #identity crisis #self reflection #i'm back y'all

"Knight of Shards"

12.14.2025

I wear my armor as one wears a curse,

each plate forged by years of knowing too much,

each rivet hammered with the weight of choices I cannot undo,

and inside, shards pierce relentlessly—hundreds of tiny betrayals,

turning every breath into a scream I do not let escape.

I walk through halls of life like a specter,

steel glinting, posture unyielding,

but beneath, the splinters gnat at sinew and heart alike,

memories of what I wanted and what I cannot claim,

or eyes that will never look at me the way mine do at them.

I smile like a blade sheathed—

sharp, deliberate, hiding the torment,

and the laughter that spills from me is a brittle echo,

bouncing off the walls of this prison I chose,

for each joy drags a thousand shards across my ribs.

I curse this armor in quiet moments,

for how it protects me even as it tortures me,

for every heartbeat is a hammer striking against metal,

and every movement stirs the splinters deeper,

cutting lessons into flesh that no one else will see.

Yet, I remain steadfast—

a knight bound to his own design,

grateful that the armor holds,

for without it, the shards would rend me whole,

and even I cannot survive naked to the world.

And still, in the deepest hours,

I long for release, for the cruel freedom of falling,

for letting each splinter pierce without defense,

for bleeding without restraint,

for knowing the raw taste of life unshielded.

But I endure,

steel and splinter alike,

because to remove this armor is to surrender

everything that I have become,

and even in pain, even in bleeding silence,

I am alive—and that alone demands I keep walking.

#original poetry #free verse #unrequited love #confessional writing #yearnposting #armor #thorns #faith and longing #spilled in poetry #wisdom

"Forked"

11.21.2025

I stand at the edge of morning, the air thick with quiet that hums too loud,

and in my chest, butterflies with knives for wings thrash, slicing, stabbing,

each beat a sharp reminder that longing is heavy and cruel.

Two doors gape before me,

one promising a path precise and deliberate,

the other glowing with warmth I ache to touch,

and I do not know which will carry me forward—or leave me bleeding.

The first door frames her like a world drawn in lines and angles,

a mind folding reality into structures I cannot reach,

yet moving with the subtle rhythm of water beneath sunlight.

Her presence is sharp, controlled, a current that hums beneath the skin,

and I want to lean in, trace the edges of that world,

to place myself somewhere near without breaking it.

The second door spills light into the air,

a warmth that bends sunlight around her laughter,

an ease that makes the horizon lean closer to watch.

I ache to stay in that glow,

to follow the trail of heat she leaves in every glance,

to fold my fingers around petals I cannot own.

Two flowers bloom at my feet,

delicate and impossible.

Which do I breathe in first?

Which do I dare to trace?

Every hesitation slices deeper than the last,

the knives in my chest flaring, twisting, demanding release.

The horizon bleeds gold,

and I falter.

Should I stop, let it wash over me,

sink into the ache that promises nothing but presence?

Or walk, leave it behind,

chasing a world that waits for the steps I haven’t yet taken?

I ache to be honest.

I want to place my heart somewhere it will not spill,

to admire without trespassing,

to trace without breaking.

And yet, here I am, trembling,

blood-stained ink pooling in my hands,

writing a love that refuses a single place,

a desire that cannot yet land,

a storm that rages quietly in my chest,

knives flaring, sunlight burning,

flowers untouchable, doors locked or unlocked.

And still I stand,

caught between longing and patience,

between the hunger of what is near

and the fear of what will never be mine.

The butterflies shriek in rhythm with my pulse,

their knives digging deeper into my chest,

and I wonder if I will ever be ready

to let them fly—or die.

#original poem #writing #spilled ink #spilled in poetry #butterflieswithknives #unrequited #yearning #poeticdesperation #long post #technically not a poem #not so secretly a yearner

Almost (The Breath Before Waking)

09.05.2025

In the blur of a crowded room

you reached for me first,

arms pulling me in with a warmth so solid

I swore I could touch it still.

What began as casual

grew heavier, truer—our bodies holding on

longer than friends should,

longer than time should allow.

That hug was real.

I felt its weight in my chest,

the quiet press of belonging,

the way our hearts

spoke without words.

You looked up,

eyes alight with something unguarded,

and whispered, I missed you.

I smiled back, helpless,

because I had missed you too.

We leaned closer,

the air trembling between us,

the world narrowing

to the space of a breath—then I woke.

And still,

I wake with the memory of it,

a touch that lingers

like truth disguised as dream,

asking me what it means.

(Photo from Pinterest)

#writing #original poem #spilled ink #dreams #what kind of dream was that #poetry #longing?#what a strange dream #embrace #not-so-secretly a yearner #literature #yearning

"When Oble Faces the West"

08.21.2025

I thought the sky would turn fire tonight,

orange folding into pink,

purple spilling over the clouds.

But the rain came first,

and the sun hid behind its curtain.

Funny how waiting for light

feels the same as waiting for someone—

a mix of ache and hope,

like your heart knows what’s coming

but your eyes can’t see it yet.

I stand here in silence,

the Oblation holding its arms wide,

and I remember:

beauty doesn’t always arrive on time,

but it always arrives.

So I wait.

For the skies to clear,

for the right hour,

for the right person.

Patience, after all, is its own kind of prayer.

photo by: me >:)

#writing #spilled ink #original poem #up diliman #oblation #sunset #patiently waiting #for the right time #right season #after the rain

"Lately"

08.08.2025

i wouldn’t call it a crush—

more like a passing current,

soft and persistent,

her name brushing

against the corners of my mind.

we share the same lanes,

but she swims like she belongs—

shoulders steady,

breaths timed,

like she’s known this all along.

i keep my distance,

not out of fear,

but respect—

some people aren’t meant

to be disturbed mid-glide.

there’s no story here,

not yet, maybe not ever.

just a quiet noticing,

like how the sky turns blue

without asking to be admired.

she’s just been

on my mind lately—

and maybe that’s all

it’s meant to be:

a gentle thought, held with care.

#writing #original poem #not a crush #maybe infatuated #passing thought #spilled ink #spilled in poetry #what if #swimmers

something worth bleeding for.

07.15.2025

i used to think love was loud,

but it arrived like a whisper i leaned too close to hear.

it never slammed the door—

just forgot to look back when it left.

i prayed like a drowning man

who didn’t know the ocean was holy.

i didn’t ask for a lesson,

but God gave me one anyway.

some nights, i mistook my silence

as proof that no one would stay.

but healing doesn’t always sound like hope—

sometimes it just sounds like your own breath returning.

she made me feel like i was worth loving.

God taught me what to do when that feeling faded.

and somewhere between heartbreak and healing,

i learned how to hold both without breaking.

i don’t write to move on anymore.

i write to remember who i was

when no one else was listening—

especially me.

grief carved me into someone gentler.

loneliness shaped the way i pray.

and i think that’s what growth is:

loving anyway. staying anyway. writing anyway.

so if i have to bleed,

let it be honest. let it be slow.

let it turn into something someone else can hold.

let it be for something worth bleeding for.

#writing #original poem #spilled ink #poems on tumblr #bleeding gracefully

"Bleeding Gracefully"

07.10.2025

I miss the feeling of bleeding gracefully,

when sorrow spilled like ink instead of wounds.

When heartbreak looked like poetry,

and even silence had a tune.

I used to weep in cursive letters,

my grief soft-spoken, not erased.

Each ache a brushstroke on my chest,

each loss, a masterpiece in place.

I miss the quiet kinds of breaking,

the ones you feel beneath your breath.

Where longing lingers like a violin,

and you learn to dance with death.

Now pain just feels like static noise,

like screaming into hollow rooms.

No rhythm left in what I'm feeling,

no grace inside these newer wounds.

So God, if I must bleed again,

don’t spare me — just let it be art.

Let the crimson run like verses,

and let me feel the bleeding gracefully.

#writing #original poem #spilled ink #bleeding gracefully #writers on tumblr #poems and poetry #poetry

"The Writer and The Author of Love"

07.06.2025

I asked Him quietly,

like someone asking a question they already feared the answer to—

“Will there be someone who’ll love me the way I do?

Maybe even better?”

And He didn’t speak. Not yet.

So I kept going.

I told Him I feel too much.

I told Him I write like I’m bleeding

and hide like I’m fine.

That I turn poems into prayers,

but sometimes I don't know if He reads them.

I said I’m scared I’ll lose who I am.

That one day I’ll grow so tired of hoping

I’ll forget how to feel altogether—

forget the taste of wonder,

the weight of words,

the sound of heartbreak softened into ink.

That I’ll wake up as the opposite of myself.

Not a poet. Just… hollow.

And He still didn’t answer.

So I confessed more.

That most of my poems are things

I wanted to tell someone

but ended up telling Him instead.

Not because I couldn’t say them—

but because I knew

only He would understand the parts I didn’t.

I told Him I wrestle.

Not out of rebellion,

but because I stay.

Because I still believe,

even when the silence is louder than any answer.

I said,

“I want to be loved back.”

“Is that too much?”

“Is that selfish?”

I said,

“I don’t need perfect.”

“Just someone who sees me.”

“Who stays.”

“Who speaks the same language of quiet and presence.”

Still no thunder.

Still no miracle answer.

Just the stillness.

And then,

at the end of everything—

when I ran out of ways to dress the ache in metaphors,

I asked again:

“Will there ever be someone who’ll love me the way I do?”

“…someone better?”

And He,

The Author of Love,

looked at me

with a kindness deeper than the silence,

and said—

“Yes.

I did.”

#poetry #faith #healing #writing #original poems #talks with God #Christian poetry #literature #long post #jesus

picklemafia

Since you’re always coming up with cool prompts and all, here’s a little one for you:

Not to sound like a nosy anon but, what’s your biggest inspiration when you write? Spill the tea 🍵✍️ And tag a few folks to answer too”

Great question! Really just little pieces of my life in general. Usually people I've met and the experiences we've had. I've had a very interesting life so it's the easiest thing for me to write about. So many different ways I could word the stories, so to speak. And so many different stories. I have bits of my life I've never touched in my writing, though I would like to change that.

@moonknightmaiden @noxnightingales @peepeepoopoo3d @butwhyareyoureyessosad @nyx-tenberis @faemaril @behindstonewalls

peepeepoopoo3d

hm. most of my poems are just things i wanted to tell someone but told God instead. not because she asked me to stay quiet, but because He was the only one who knew how much it hurt to say nothing at all.

so i wrote. not to be read, but to be understood by the One who saw every word i couldn’t send.

@snazzy-writes-a-little

picklemafia

If you're reading this, always remember that I loved you. And if you are reading this, always remember that I never stopped.

"Spark"

06.16.2025

Not every fire begins in flame,

Some start as whispers in the soul.

God, if You’re writing something new—

Could this spark be the prelude?

I’ve seen the flash that leaves you burned,

Fell for light that never stayed.

But maybe this time, You’ll give me

A glow that learns, and doesn’t fade.

I’m not asking for a wildfire,

Not a rush I can’t contain.

Just someone who sparks steady,

A warmth that carries Your name.

If I must wait in quiet night,

Then let me wait with stars in view.

I trust the sky You’re painting now

Will light with something true.

So show me, Lord, when it's time to start—

What kind of spark will You give me this heart?

—Thank you @picklemafia for using my prompt "Spark". As the person who suggested it, it feels wrong to not participate in it too. So here it is, y'all.

#original poem #spark #one-word poem #writing

"Samantha"

—a piece writtern by the heart itself. 06.13.2025

Samantha, your name sounds like Sunday rain—

Soft on the skin, but cold in the veins.

I whispered it where no one could hear,

Where echoes bloom instead of tears.

Samantha, I never held your hand,

But I held the thought—like golden sand.

And still, it slipped, no matter how tight,

Gone before I could beg the night.

Samantha, I wrote you in the margins of me,

In poems, in prayers, in spaces you’ll never see.

You never asked to be the muse,

But silence chose you, and I let it bruise.

Samantha, I lied when I said I’m fine.

I stitched your name into every line.

Even in joy, I flinch with grace,

Because some smiles still wear your face.

Samantha, do you know what you left behind?

A boy who loved with a quiet mind.

And even if your heart was never mine,

I thanked the stars you crossed my time.

Samantha, the world moved, and so did you—

With someone whose hands now pull you through.

But I won’t curse the winds or cry your name,

Some stories end without blame.

Samantha… once, you were the dream I ran to.

Now you're the ache I quietly answer to.

They’ll never know the way this story ends—

Just that I was once remembered… as Sam’s friend.

#literature #writing #original poem #poems and poetry #poetry #samantha #filipino writers #unspoken feelings #letting go #tagalog poetry #heartfelt #first love #for the girl who never knew #spilled ink

"Unang Pag-ibig"

Tagalog Version

06.07.2025

Tahimik kaming magkatabi,

Sa simbahan, habang nagdadasal.

Ngiti niya’y dati ring sa’kin,

Parang kahapon lang ang tagal.

Naglaro’t nagtawanan kami,

Kasama ang mga kaibigan.

Pero puso ko’y sa kanya muli,

Tahimik, pero sigaw ang laman.

Hindi na ito 'yung kilig lang noon,

Hindi siya apoy na agad nawawala.

Kundi pag-ibig na may lalim at baon—

'Yung tipong hindi basta nagwawala.

Hindi niya alam, pero siya ang dahilan,

Kung ba’t bumalik lahat ng damdamin.

Sa isang sulyap, gumuho ang pader,

Pati ‘yung sakit na kay tagal kong pinipigil.

Akala ko tapos na, akala ko buo na,

Pero nariyan pa rin siyang tahimik sa gilid.

At kahit iba na ang landas nating dalawa,

Parang siya pa rin ang panalangin kong pilit.

Hindi na siguro para sa’tin ngayon,

At baka 'di na rin sa susunod.

Pero salamat, kahit hindi naging akin,

Dahil sa kanya ako lumapit sa Diyos.

Sa kanya ko natutunang lumuhod,

Hindi dahil sa lungkot kundi sa pananampalataya.

Tinuruan niya akong manalangin,

Na kahit wala siya, buo ang paniniwala.

At kahit hindi na siya sa huli,

Hindi man siya ang sasalo.

Ang alaala niya’y mananatili—

Isang pag-ibig na unang bumuo.

#first love #poems and poetry #literature #writing #original poem #poetry about love #poetry #poets and writers #spilled ink #spilled in poetry #tagalog poetry #romance #filipino writers #heartfelt

"First Love, Still"

Song Version

06.07.2025

I sat beside her in a quiet place,

Where prayers rise slow, like gentle rain.

Her laugh still wore that same old grace,

And for a while, I felt no pain.

The games, the jokes, the passing time—

All blurred beneath her presence near.

I caught myself in love’s old rhyme,

The kind that stays, not disappears.

It wasn’t like those crushes past,

Not fire that fades when mornings start.

But something built with roots that last—

The kind that speaks straight to the heart.

She didn’t know she woke it all,

The warmth I swore I’d buried deep.

With just her voice, she made it fall—

My guard, my grief, the nights I weep.

I thought I’d healed, I thought I’d changed,

But there she was—unchanged, divine.

And though our hearts had rearranged,

I felt her soul still brush on mine.

I know we’ve gone our different ways,

And love may not return again.

But still I thank her, all my days,

For drawing me to God through pain.

She was the spark that lit my knees,

To fold in prayer, not just in tears.

The girl who taught me how to see

That love and faith can calm my fears.

And maybe it won’t be her again—

Not in this life, not in that role.

But first love’s echo will remain,

Still worshiping inside my soul.

#literature #writing #original poem #poems and poetry #poets and writers #poetry #thankful #first love #someones about to turn this into a song

"First Love, Still"

06.07.2025

I sat beside her in a house of prayer,

laughing like nothing ever cracked me in half.

The games on the table spun time in circles,

but my eyes—my heart—were stuck in the past.

Not the kind of past that hurts,

but the kind that once felt like forever.

A heartbeat, steady beside mine,

not as noise, but as home.

I remembered love.

Not teenage fireworks, not fleeting crushes—

but the slow-burning, hold-you-through-storms kind.

The “I’d grow with you” kind.

The “God, thank You for her” kind.

She didn’t mean to bring me back.

Didn’t know her presence would unwrap

the part of me I buried—

the boy who believed love could be holy.

And maybe I tried to forget her.

Maybe I told myself it was someone else before.

But no—

It was always her.

It’s always been… her.

Even now,

after the silence,

after the letting go,

she still echoes in my walk with God—

a reminder, a whisper,

that love once brought me to my knees

not in pain,

but in prayer.

And I don’t know if it’ll be her again.

Maybe not.

Maybe never.

But I’ll always thank the heavens—

that my first real love

led me deeper into faith.

#literature #writing #original poem #poems and poetry #thankful #first love #poets and writers #from the heart

"Blindfolded"

06.01.2025

Could she be hiding in the corners, just out of sight?

A whisper in the silence I’ve yet to hear?

Is she the shadow that fades with the night,

Or a quiet song I’m not yet near?

Does God veil my eyes to protect my heart,

Or is this patience a test I’m meant to bear?

Am I too restless, tearing us apart,

Or learning how to wait in prayer?

Have I brushed past her in crowds unseen,

Her laughter lost in passing days?

Or is she waiting where my soul’s not been,

Held safe in mysterious ways?

Why does this ache feel soft yet fierce,

A quiet hunger I can’t deny?

Is it love that time will slowly pierce,

Or just the tears I swallow dry?

Will the blindfold lift when the moment’s right,

Revealing all that’s close but far?

Or must I hold this endless fight,

Till fate unveils its final star?

#blindfolded #poetry #poems and poetry #waiting #literature #writing #wondering #original poem

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