Poems Made By Fools Like Me

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Left with Echoes

April 5, 2026 The coffee’s black, the kitchen’s still, The clock just ticks against its will. I reach for you through muscle memory, To find a ghost, a hollowed treasury.

I trace the dent upon your side, The place where secrets used to hide. Now every shadow looks like grace, A cruel projection of your face.

I walk the halls and check the lock, Trapped in the rhythm of the shock. The hallway light is flickering low, A pulse that’s hesitant to go.

The sun begins its slow ascent, To mock the time we should have spent. I close my eyes to catch the spark, But I’m just dancing in the dark.

The bed’s too cold, the sheets don’t hold, The story’s done, the truth is told. I’m left with echoes, sharp and thin, Of a life I can’t get back within.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Without You

March 22, 2026

I loved you

in small, quiet ways,

in the way I saved your words,

in the way

I waited just to hear your voice.

Then one day,

You were gone like a door left open

and the wind took everything.

Now the days feel long,

and nights feel even longer.

I still think of you

when I see your favorite things,

and it hurts every time.

I don’t know how to stop missing you.

I don’t know how to feel okay.

But my heart keeps going,

slow and sore,

like it’s tryingto learn the world again

without you.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Giving Up

March 19, 2026

What if I give up? Give up hoping, Give up that this overthinking will stop?

What if I finally let the silence win, let it wrap around my ribs like how it always wanted to?

What if I stop fighting the nights that stretch too long, stop pretending mornings feel like new beginnings?

What if I admit that some thoughts don’t leave, they just learn how to whisper harsher than before so no one notices I’m still breaking?

But then, what if giving up isn’t quiet at all?

What if it echoes, louder than every sound I ever made?

Every whine, every gasp, every moan, And maybe… maybe I’m not tired of hoping, just tired of hoping alone.

Why am I still breaking in the same places?

What if I give up trying to explain why my chest feels heavy for no reason I can name, why my mind keeps running even when I’m already exhausted?

What if I stop reaching out, stop talking, stop ranting?

The pauses in my sentences, the way I say “I’m not fine” just a little too quickly?

What if I let myself disappear? not enough for anyone to ask, but enough that I don’t have to keep pretending?

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Daily Grind

March 17, 2026

When should I stop my daily grind? Is it when I completely lose my mind? I never wanted this to be my fate Yet I realized it too late That I'm the person that is measured By something that can keep my family and I insured

So every morning I lace up the day, Trade quiet dreams for bills to pay. A clock becomes the judge of worth, Each ticking second pricing birth.

I tell myself it’s noble strain... To shoulder love through quiet pain. To build a roof from sleepless nights, And keep the dark outside the lights.

But somewhere deep a question stays, Beneath the blur of working days: If life is spent to make life sure, What is the living truly for?

Perhaps the answer isn’t far... Not in the grind, but who we are. For worth was never meant to be A line on forms of policy.

And maybe rest is not defeat, Nor stepping off the endless beat, But learning gently, day by day, That living isn’t just the pay.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Slipping Through the Cracks

March 14, 2026

How many times do I have to plead?

How many times do I have to undo things that can't be undone?

I watch the skies turn dark

No clouds are parting for me

To see any light

Was I always meant to be this down?

I want to be grateful,

I want to see that things are looking up

But then, the rain began to pour

Fat rain drops down my face

Or maybe they are mine...

The sky and I have learned

The same language of falling.

The pavement drinks the storm

Every drop a quiet drum

Beating out the questionI keep asking no one

How long does a night last

When you’re the only one awake?

How long does hope wait

Before it slips through the cracks?

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

By Fools Like Me

February 19, 2026

If fools write mindless poems like this Where are the poems that are made in bliss? Are those poems lost at sea? Or is it kept and torn freely? From a poet that's scorned, And inevitably mourned. Did he or she lose their mind? If then, what did they eventually find? Have they found comfort or thoughts that triggers? Or sadness that truly and endlessly lingers? Through tears and fears and battles won, I hope they find a solid one A solid reason to live and heave– And find in their written words, a reprieve. Each and every word is the key, To poems that are made by fools like me.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Self-Preservation

February 13, 2026

Tears stain the keys of my laptop, My body reacts to every disrespect that I swallowed whole Deactivating... Ruminating... No more stooping low, Low enough to bend and break my bones, Pleasing wolves cloaked in sapphire. My heart closes up, With each clickity clack, I feel a shiver run down my spine A voice whispers, "No more feeding on crumbs mistaken for feasts." "You've been kind enough." "Patient enough." "Soft enough..." "Foolish enough..." "...To bleed for hands that never held themselves accountable..." "You've translated your love  too many times in languages that you don't even speak..." "They don't get it, so stop." So I preserved myself inside an unbreakable glass jar, Where no one can use me or wring me dry. If anyone opens the lid, I'll let God close it again. Not because I've become distrustful, But I learned the hard way—the hardest, To ever let someone in... only to watch me fall apart. Love is beautiful, yes, But not to the point, Where I have to ruin myself for others' entertainment. I've been there, And I'm never going back. I see myself changing. Keeping the lid of this jar tight, And not hoping for a savior, As it turns out I always save myself, Even when I'm with self-proclaimed saviors.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

The Shift

December 29, 2025

Today, the 29th of December, 2025. You were supposed to be here with me and my family. Giving yourself a chance to get to know them. To know the people who made me who I am. But you made your choice in every “let’s see” whenever I invited you to a gathering. Your schedule was always more important than mine. You only saw me when it was convenient for you. Now I’m gone. And I know you’ll feel the absence of my warmth. You’ll feel the shift, that I’m no longer the pursuer. Since you’re very spiritual, as you say, you’ll feel it. And that shift will create a hole in your life that nothing can fill. No bike rides. No amount of positivity. Nada. You’ll start asking questions, the same ones that lived in my mind when I overthought. Was I too distant? Was I too much? And when you finally see me with someone else, someone who truly treats me right, gives me princess treatment, and reassures me that I’m the only one... you’ll break down and wish that it was still you.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

To be Chosen

December 28, 2025 When you said thank you Thank you for the good memories And the bad experiences I was shattered That was the moment I realized That we were over I wanted you to chase after me I wanted you to care I wanted you to tell me That you would never give up on me Because although our values don’t align Although many would walk away I have the heart To fight for you I just want to know That someone will fight for me That someone has the guts This time to say, “I choose you, despite the circumstances, Despite your flaws, In spite of your unpredictability.” But that only happens in movies, Don’t they? I was always meant not to be chosen Not to be fought for I just want one person to tell me, “You’re worth all the hurt, All the pain, Because I love you.” I only want someone who will love me Loudly, Publicly, And without shame. I long for someone To be transparent, To take me seriously, And irrevocably.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Cutting the Red String

December 27, 2025 Cutting the red string was hard. Not because you were kind— but because I stayed. I spoke. You dismissed. Over and over. You never took me seriously. I never met your parents. Never met your sister. I never met you. Over ten months, and you still didn’t listen. Didn’t act. Didn’t choose. Didn’t name me as anything that mattered. You kept me vague. Optional. Unclaimed. When I ended it, you stayed light. Positive. Untouched. So don’t mistake that for strength. I cut the red string because carrying it alone was killing me. And if that makes me the one who bleeds— so be it.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

These Voices In My Head

December 9, 2025 I hope one day That the mental choir Becomes voiceless As they try to rule my life Indeed, it's a strife "How many times do you hear them?" My shrink always asks Every damn second I answer her fast All the congruency disappears Whenever they're present But no matter, I don't relent Did I manifest them? Maybe, maybe not But I pray to Dear God For them to totally fade To the void They belong there Not in the present timeline Someday They won't be surviving I'll wait Until that day comes I'll continue on striving

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

If I Told Her

May 5, 2025 She’s the kind of girl who calls the shots. She directs. She edits. She dreams in wide frames. Sometimes I think about telling her— Not in a loud way, but like a scene you don’t forget. A quiet confession caught in golden light. Would it have mattered? Would I have stood a chance, next to all the men probably swooning, just as fast, just as breathless? If I were someone else— reborn, rewritten, even made different— I’d still find her. Still get on one knee, still ask her, no matter the body, time, or world. Because every time she walks in, she’s cinematic. The kind of girl stars gather around. And in my head, she’s the ending I always root for. I’d give her something no one else offered: ease. safety. the feeling of being chosen without her having to fight for it. I’d never claim to deserve her. But I’d show up, every day, loyal. certain. hers. No one else. Just her. Always her. —Maybe not this lifetime… But still hers in every version of me.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

The Man Who Raised The Bar

May 21, 2025

People say I have to lower my standards. They say I'm too much, too picky, too guarded. But I did once… and I look at my Dad— How can I lower it When he set it that high? He didn’t just tell me I mattered—he showed me. He became the first man To work for my trust back again, Not with grand gestures, But with quiet, consistent care. Like saying, "I want to be worthy of your smile," and meaning every word. He’s the first man To ever treat me Like I deserve the world— Not because I had to earn it, Not because I had to beg for it, But because I exist. Like any other person. Like I belong. Like being respected wasn't a reward, But a right. He’s imperfect, yes— Human and flawed in ways only I know. But he’s the first man To ever make me feel Cherished and respected Without confusing it for control, Without asking me to shrink, Without making me question my worth . So no— I can’t lower my standards. Because he raised them, By showing me what it looks like When love walks in integrity.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

R.I.P CHIVALRY

May 20, 2025 Do men even know what it feels like to never be chosen first? To show up for someone in silence, only to be met with absence. I’m not asking for daily texts, not even daily I love yous. I’ve let go of expectations because they were used against me— used to call me needy, used to call me too much. I’ve softened myself, smoothed my edges, held my tongue, just to not be that woman again. But every time he says, “I’ll try,” I watch the hope in me run dry. I still cry— I still die, while wide awake. How many more times do I shrink myself just to fit into someone’s maybe? I only want one person now. No one else. I shouted in the empty void, Who must I convince for it to finally be me? It’s tiring. They say I focus too much on the negative. But is it negative if it’s just the truth? If I’ve given light and only received shadows? If I’ve poured love and only felt lack? After all the healing I’ve done, why do I still feel disposable? Like I’m convenient, but never permanent. I’ve worked hard on myself. Not just for love— for me. But still, I wonder, is self-worth ever enough when the world keeps handing you less? They say the right man will treat a woman right. Then why do so many men not know how to handle a woman who’s done the work, who knows what she brings, who doesn’t settle for crumbs? Aren’t they ashamed? Men today want to be chased, to be courted, to be desired— but never required to show up. When did the roles reverse? Because if I were a man, I wouldn’t let my woman carry the weight. I wouldn’t let her overthink her place in my life. If she only wanted me, I’d prove she was the only one— not with empty words, but with presence, with peace, with effort. If I were a man, I'd never let her wonder where she stands. I’d hold her hand even when she’s silent, and make sure she never had to beg for reassurance. Because if a woman like her still chooses me after all the pain she's seen— I’d count that as grace. And I’d never waste it.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Where The Oak Cracks

May 17, 2025

Sometimes my body pleads for someone to catch me— in the quiet, it murmurs, "You’re so weary. You’ve carried enough." But even with all the loves I hold now, I remain the one expected to endure. To recalibrate my thoughts, to wear a carefully stitched mask— the kind no prescription can dissolve, no meditation can mend, no legion of mindset coaches could ever reach. Not even ten sacred hours of sleep would offer reprieve.

They tell me to reframe it, to find the light, as if perspective alone could lift the weight. I’ve tried. God knows I’m still trying. But even that— the act of trying— has grown impossibly heavy. And what fills me instead is ache. These days, it’s just ache. A slow, splintering pain that comes from needing to explain myself to those who only half-listen.

Still, I am the one who tends, the one who anchors— the oak, they think, unshakable— though I’ve long forgotten how to ask for help without choking on the silence.

They treat healing like a race with a finish line. But even when I wear the smile, they don’t see the battle raging quietly beneath my skin.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

How Can You Sleep At Night?

May 4, 2025

3 AM: the mirror splinters into a parliament of crows, each shard a verdict. You glide through rooms like Saturn, frost-rimmed orbits gleaming, while I scavenge constellations from the embers of my fraying tapestry.

How can you sleep at night? You, who turned bridges to tinder, struck a match, and swore the smoke was April’s bloom. I am the phoenix pyre, you are the spark— how can you breathe in this ashen dark?

I swallowed every script—crumple, fade, erase— and folded myself into a paper lantern, thin as faith.

You crowned yourself with gilt-plated lies, my ovations fueling your hollow empire. Now my silence ticks like a clockwork of neglect.

How can you sleep at night? You, who siphon daylight, who cracked the sky’s spine till the equator snapped. Who mistook my bones for kindling, my voice for echoes.

I am the scar, you are the surgery— how can you dream while my blood stains the ledger?

They sold me your love as scripture, so I carved my ribs into a cathedral. Shipwrecked bones; my voice, a moth-gnawed psalm. You snore through tempests

I navigate blind, your flaws silt beneath the floorboards, while I solve tectonic algebra in the ceiling’s cracks.

How can you sleep at night? You, who loot constellations to line your pockets, who branded my wildfire “arson” in your court.

I am the shadow, you are the eclipse You built a labyrinth inside my chest corridors of apologies I never spoke. Your laughter, a symphony of static; my pulse, the metronome you broke.

Dawn arrives, but you’ve already erased

the night’s debris. I sweep the fossils of your grace. The moon carves my skin into origami— cranes that never flew, vows that never landed.

You collect my quiet like taxidermy, display it as proof I never demanded a single star. But the sky’s a blackened vault, and I’m the interest compounding in the fault.

How can you sleep at night? You, who weaponized the tides, who drained my ocean. The bed sags with the weight of unsung wars, your side pristine, mine cratered like the moon.

You’ve hung my love in gilded metaphor, framed my collapse as a tragic tune. But I’ve burned the sheet music.

The ash? A start.

How can you sleep at night?

You never learned the art.

[poemsmadebyfoolslikeme]

Cindy Was Right

May 4, 2025 Cindy was right. I love too much— they say it's soft, they say it's such a foolish way to lose your fight— but hearts like mine still burn so bright.

Cindy was right. I wore their pain like second skin, held space for storms they held within. I stayed through seasons they let go— while they watched flowers, I braved snow.

Cindy was right. To feel too deep can break you fast, when you’re the first and always last. Your hands are kind, your voice sincere— but no one stays to truly hear.

Cindy was right— being broken too much isn't weak. It’s scars that sing, though none dare speak. It’s giving warmth with bloodied hands, while no one helps you learn to stand.

Cindy was right. I poured my light in every room, but they just let me chase my doom. They smiled in sun, I cried in rain— my open heart, their silent gain.

Cindy was right. I said “I’m sorry” far too loud for caring more than they allowed. As if compassion had a cost— as if my love meant I was lost.

Cindy was right. I begged for crumbs, still fed them gold. They left me out, alone and cold. They took my fire, then left me bare— while I still hoped that they would care.

Cindy was right. The warmest hearts are worn and tired, from lifting others uninspired. We don’t burn out from giving all— we burn from never being called.