#spilledwords

[disappointend]

the intimacy of kissing someone’s forehead

[thetypewriterdaily]

growing can wear you out in ways others may never see. you don’t have to pretend the journey hasn’t left you tired. you don’t have to smile through the ache in your bones or hide the weight you’ve been carrying for so long. you don’t have to choose between being proud and being tired. you’re allowed to feel both. and both parts of you deserve to be seen, held and met with kindness 🤍

instagram

[penumbrapens]

My mother’s trust issues are leaking into my chest and I’ve got my father’s nose and his tendency to stop calling back so I’m sorry about the 9 missed calls I have from you and the 6 voicemails I never played I swear I’d love you if I could.

[madmansmisc]

[instruth]

EPISODE 2, SEASON 1.

“… Continuing John’s Perception of Sudden Brightness—singing the blues…”

The New Celestial Series Today…

——————————————————————

When The Church Bell Rings

Truth comes in an Instant—

Momentarily, glaringly Bright

Some see it, some do Not

Then—changes to a calm Blue

Most feel this wondrous Peace.

Like a church bell Ringing

From a distant Hill

All hear its Calling

Some hearts Stirring

Most continue Sleeping.

Till it becomes a Dream

Believe it or Not—

Let the Dream speak to You

If you do, then you’re Blessed

It’s a Dream Within A Dream.

Above the arc of the Rainbow

Blue birds sail the sky of Blue

Close your eyes—and Listen

Cup your ears so you will See

And recognize the face of Truth.

a premonition

underneath the deep blue sea

clearer than crystal

with distinct understanding

of the conception of truth.

©Johnny J P Lee

28 August 2025

HAIBUN Modified:

Gogyoshiren20 + Tanka 5-7-5-7-7

IMAGES—courtesy of Sanjogsonsand

[citate]

Surround yourself with positive people who believe in your dreams, encourage your ideas, support your ambitions, and bring out the best in you.

- Roy Bennett

[haveithemoonlight]

It goes without saying, I think of you, ever so fondly when the moon is at its peak. Glaring. Staggering. Engaging. Shining so brightly against the darkness that is the canvas it took refuge in. The moon whose presence isn't always announced on a daily basis, but is there, always there, omnipresent amongst the presence of other stars who seek to shine just as brightly as it does. It goes through a multitude of phases, the moon, to the point that sometimes you would think she doesn't exist or is simply a black void but she's there. Just there. Always there for you.

I think of you when the sky is painted with shades of grey, tired of living life in black, white or color. When the first drop of tears fall from the sky and it rains, soft yet unyielding at first but eventually making its presence known as it cries, breaks, staggers and falls. The rain has begun to pour and the sound of the pitter patter it makes on the roof is difficult to ignore, especially on days when she's having a bad day and the rain decides to turn into a storm. But even so, I find myself holding my hand out, allowing those pitter patter, drops of tears to touch my skin and I think about you. It rains and my instinct is to call you and tell you that it is raining, could it possibly be raining there too?

I think about you when I've had one, no two, maybe even three cuppas for the day. A ritual and a sought after comfort that was set for the beginning of the day and sometimes, for when the clock strikes before midnight. I think about you. With each sip, I feel the warmth we both enjoy and I can't help but get that lingering feeling of being close to you. Left to wonder if you've taken your share and if I should make you one when we get home after work because I will always miss and yearn for that smile on your lips after each sip.

I think about you. I remember you. I honor you.

I think about you, especially today of all days.

[sanders1665]

The Feast of Neon Saints

I press my face to the glass—

red, green, gold, a heartbeat of bulbs

spelling peace in a language no one speaks.

Inside, mannequins wear salvation

priced to move before the next quarter.

A child tugs his mother’s sleeve,

points at the glowing tree,

and learns the first true prayer:

I want.

Tomorrow the ornaments will sag,

the lights will dim,

and he will cry for reasons

he cannot yet name.

We shuffle past in wool and debt,

heads bowed to the small gods

we cradle in our palms.

They feed us miracles in 4K—

wars reduced to thumbnails,

grief to emoji,

love to a swipe.

Laughter leaks from earbuds,

thin and metallic,

a counterfeit echo

of the old fires

where voices once rose raw

across the dark plains.

The saints are gone from the niches.

Someone draped them in plastic sheets

the color of guilt,

or perhaps of mercy—

it’s hard to tell anymore.

Their stone eyes still stare

but no one meets them.

We crown the new prophets instead:

the influencer with borrowed skin,

the politician with rented teeth,

the billionaire who sells us

the air we poison.

They smell of vanilla and lies,

and we inhale like it’s incense.

Truth is a leper now,

bell clanging in the alley,

shunned for the scabs of honesty.

Falsehood wears cologne

and sits at the high table,

toasting our health

while slipping nightshade

into the wine.

We wade ankle-deep through the same mud

our grandmothers knelt in

to plant the first seeds of wonder.

Above us, billboards promise paradise

in twelve monthly payments.

We keep our eyes down,

afraid to look up

and see the sky

has forgotten our names.

At night the plains return.

I hear them under the traffic,

under the ads, under the hum

of ten thousand screens—

the low drum of feet running,

the crackle of real fire,

the unashamed howl

of people who still knew

how to need.

I wake with ash on my tongue

and neon bleeding through the curtains,

the saints still wrapped,

the liars still crowned,

and tomorrow

just another window

lighting up

to sell me

the same old dark.