#rant poetry

[engels-travels]

Hesitant,

Because I dreamt about you last night

In the way you talked about the sunset

I dreamt you reached out first,

I dreamt I wasn't your drifting memory

Or an afterthought for deciding you care

I dreamt I mattered to you in that moment.

I wish I had mattered to you before.

I'm trying to not treat myself like the problem

I took accountability for your hurt

I flinched when you doubled over

I took punches for you where I should have just left

I'm trying to treat myself better, like I could be the forethought in someone's head

But I keep thinking about that letter, or that time where I wasn't good enough or

My gut feeling telling me it was time to let go.

I keep thinking about those sad doe eyes, and whether I want to think about blue ones instead

Because the ocean hurts less to think about than your forest right now.

[aprilfoolfrog]

I'm tired of seeing

Fox News on my feed.

Get out of here.

Upsidedown flag at post office concerns community

I don't want to hear

about the false outrage

from the people who don't know

what it means or are

making it out to be some huge

sin again the head cheto.

I frankly am glad they're

flying it upside down-

if this is even real.

We are in distress

and a lot of us are fucking

pretending we aren't.

It doesn't affect me so everythings fine

Well, they said it's not American to fly it upsidedown

Well, they said-

Please. Think for yourself.

We have this magic rectangle

at our disposal always.

You can do research.

It takes five minutes to skim through

a few different articles

to access what is real and what isn't

for yourself.

Maybe you'll even find out

that people lie

and the government is ran

by people.

He is not a god and it's weird

if you believe that he is.

Written by AprilFool 🐸

1/10/2026

[sunnyboybutch]

Yeah great crowd tonight. Anyway this one is called "Texts to my dad", and it's an excerpt from a note I keep in my phone where I put texts I want to send my dad.

1.7.26

Rage is not enough to describe what I feel towards you. Every time I see the headlines I see you. I see you reading it and guffawing, shrugging. I see your rotted brain reasoning it away, squelching in a manner of disgusting mental loops and twirls to avoid anything that might question your morality.

I feel sick at the thought of having ever loved you, at having ever wanted to earn any kind of love back from you. I feel terrible, terrible lonelieness and grief that I will carry until I die, at the thought of who I thought you were.

I hope you lay awake at night. I hope you feel like shit. I hope every birthday, every holiday, every fathers day, my absence haunts you like a wraith. I hope you stumble to your deathbed and cry out for me and hear nothing in return.

[kleinewordpress]

paranoia

the clock. the clock is ticking. the clock makes a mockery of my wrinkling, disheveled form and i am driven mad by the sound of metal hands turning pushing me forward forward forward.

the fountain drips water - life - essence as rotten and pure as all things must be, and are, and will become. it burns my ears. it screeches my thoughts to a running halt; a rushing oxymoron as i am transposed onto stark white paper jettisoned out from the squeal of ink cartridges. no color feels enough. i am monochrome, monotone, dull, lifeless --- it is a mockery of it, all the same.

i am alone in the house. i am by myself. they could get me. they could take me they could ruin me but i have been ruined, so i fear i should not be afraid. the racing racing screeching whine of a rusty hamster wheel is the only sound that reaches my ears from the cottoning fuzz of my frenzied brain. i am alone. i am by myself. no one to haunt me. no one to listen. none to protect, none to hold. i am but a man at the dining room table storming on keys as if they are the ones who had wronged me but i know better; but, i am not better.

there is no clock. i hear no sound. why did i hear the ticking? where did the ticking come from? why did my ears feel the ticking if nothing is here to tick? what am i doing here, alone, in the panic of a self-imposed 2 AM graveyard shift, with nothing but my most intrusive thoughts for comfort? it's a comfort as effective as a brick to the head for a pillow, but a comfort nonetheless in its painful familiarity.

sometimes i want to cry, knowing that i can prove myself to no one. i could be accused of every wrong in the world and find myself unable to seek counsel, denied the opportunity to self-defend, stripped of all that renders me less-than-whole-but-more-than-empty. it is a pervasive fear, as most of mine are. the kind of dread one cannot escape short of dismantling the system in which they fail to thrive but are at least surviving -- perhaps, it is a kind of learned helplessness.

nothing aches more than the pain of knowing that i will never know if you are out to get me until you are already here. who are you? have you seen these words before? but how, would you have seen them before, when i am writing them on this blank page in this frenzied mania as a farce of self-soothing rocking myself back and forth in the chair as my mind will not quiet my soul will not listen my brain will not still my hands are starting to shake. it's cold i am cold my fingers feel wet with the chill of twilight air i take a breath. i still don't know the answer.

has someone else typed my words, been blessed with this same twisted divine revelation of miserable proportions? when i say i write as a man possessed perhaps there is another prophet such as i who does the same, and we are simply carrying out the same fated phrases.

to know that my words are my own and yet not to fear that what i create is what i must be, and am, and will become to imagine the ticking of that damned clock all the longer as i am pushed towards an uncertain future i did not ask for and may never receive:

who is out to get me, tonight?

[honey-sweet-poet]

I wish I had a best friend.

I wish I had a best friend but I can't tell anyone that because I have so many amazing friends.

But all of my amazing friends have best friends and significant others and they all have that one person who they put above everyone else and who puts them above everyone else too.

And it's not me.

And I wish I had a best friend.

No one talks about how lonely it is to be the third wheel in a friendship. Or the 11th wheel in a friend group

The people I consider myself closest to are best friends. They celebrated one of their birthdays without me.

I wished her a happy birthday and told her I missed her. She's in college, i haven't seen her since she graduated. She said she missed me too. But she didn't invite me to her party.

I wonder sometimes if my friends even like me. But then I remember that's silly. I know they love me. I guess they just don't love me as much as they love each other.

And God i know it has nothing to do with me. You can't control who you connect with. But for once I just wish it would be me!

Am I too much? Am I a pick me for wanting to be picked?

What's so wrong with wanting to be wanted?

[imacanofsprite]

Do you know that feeling?

The one that vibrates through your soul

That makes you shake when you feel it in whole

That feeling resting in your gut 

That rises when you hope, or dream or love?

That feeling which you describe as giddy

Or hopeful, but you know it isn't really 

Because it breaches the surface when you write

Or stare by yourself, up at the sky

You get that feeling when you talk

And you feel as though you're out of practice 

But you get it still when you stay small

It feels like no one's there to listen.

Do you know this feeling now?

Do you wish it would go away?

Or at least leave your happy times alone

Be content arising only on bad days?

Because you know that's why you don't get stage fright

You were shaking with that feeling already

And you know that when you're feeling alright

It shouldn't still be feeling heavy

You know this feeling, it feels fine

It's with you in the good, the bad, the lies

It wipes the tears up off your cheeks

Telling you to go to sleep

Because if you don't, well, people will know

That your energy was just for show

You tell yourself this feeling helps

Even when this feeling gives you hell

You tell yourself you like it here

You want to keep this feeling near 

This feeling whispers in my ear

I know this feeling

It's fear

[celestial-bodies-admirer]

"Society goes forward."

I don't agree.

I'd personally say that just because technology goes forward doesn't mean that people do as well. In fact, some people go backward and I believe that today's literature more than enough proves it. I may not be an expert, but every time I read something old, I take a moment to stop and think: "What happened to the art of writing?". It seems like every book I see people read is about the level of "spice" (aka how much perverted things it includes). Don't get me wrong, there were many problematic and perverted things even back in the day, but I feel like it wasn't as popular as it is now. I find it very sad how when I go to school, most of my classmates read a lot of things that include disgusting topics (I don't mean only perverted things since I can understand that people have their own tastes, but also uncomfortable and illegal things). What happened to thinking about life? What happened to the meaningful writing? What happened to the kind of writing that made us question the world around us? Most writers I see are only focused on the perverted side of human desires. What about the other side? What about the desires that want to know more about our society? What about the desires that want us to know more about the world we live in? Some old books are boring, yes. I won't argue with that. But it may be because you were forced to read it by your teacher or someone else. What if you grabbed an old book that YOU are interested in? You would probably see what I mean. I know a poet who wrote beautiful poems about his dead daughter. His name was Jan Kochanowski (yes, a Polish poet). Our teacher told us to learn one of his poems. Was it annoying to try and remember all of it? Yes, but other than that the poems were beautiful. I know a writer who wrote a beautiful masterpiece of a book. His name was Antoine De Saint-Exupéry. He wrote a beautiful book called "The Little Prince". As someone who doesn't cry often, this made me tear up. It's a beautiful story about adults' flaws, children's innocence, love, friendship, maturing and letting your inner child out. My favorite book. I highly recommend it! I wish people still made books like this. Or maybe they do? Maybe they do, but are not as popular as the "spicy" ones, so not many people know about them? But the problem might also be in the lack of words. We stopped being poetic because it started being "cringe". We adore it when it's said by an attractive fictional character, but we hate it when it happens in real life. For me, it doesn't matter if the poem is "professional". What matters is that someone at least tried because they were seeing the same beauty in poetry that I was. Even if something went wrong. I'm not saying that I'm better than anyone. No, God forbid!!! I can admit that there are many people who are more funny, kind, smart and mature than I am. It's impossible to be the best after all, isn't it? In fact, I can also admit that most people find me boring (due to my interests which include philosophy). I just hope that our literature won't lose all the beauty it once had. But at the end of the day, I'm just a random person on Tumblr who shares their opinion! And to any begginer writers who I may have offended by this: Don't worry! Remember to practice when something doesn't seem right to you! You don't have to be born a pro! Never give up and you will reach your dreams sooner or later :)