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Evil secret account for evil secret posts

[tee-jay-49]

-> INTRO 𖦹

This my EVIL and TOP SECRETE account where I can post all the cringey stuff I write- so if you see this and know who i am, awesome 😼

->You can call me tj (derived from my middle names.. aren’t I unique and secretive)

->I’m 16 💥 so don’t be weird

->[he/him]

-> my favourite poets are Emily Dickinson, Keaton st James, Oscar Wilde and John Keats, although I read whatever I can find :)

Most of my poems are shit but whoooo cares I am filled with joy and whimsy !! ⋆｡°✩ 𖦹

Aswell as poetry there may also be some random posts that appear here simply because people I know irl follow my main and somethings are not for their eyes 😔 I enjoy to be rather cringe and somethings are better when you have a sense of anonymity

Okay, thanks for reading 😼 I can’t promise that I will post like Ever but ….! I have a lot of poems I’ve written and not posted so maybe I’ll get around to that

[tee-jay-49]

Not to feelings post or anything guys but I feel so loved and cared for at this very current moment :(( wait this is a good thing

[tee-jay-49]

WAITING

It’s the quiet hum of the refrigerator in my brothers empty bedroom as I try and sleep in his cold bed. It’s the stillness of night and the coolness of his room. It’s the smell of summer rain against warm concrete. It’s the gentle ticking of the clock as I cook for myself. It’s the sound of rattling keys on hooks, the feeling of an empty bus, the flowers in my garden, the box of tissues in my living room, the bricks of my house, the skin on my bones.

It’s the angel walking toward me on a silent road. His arms are open wide. He’s ready. I’ve been ready for so long. In his glow he shows me memories. I’m five years old in the first one, I’m building a tower out of these cheap plastic yellow bricks and it’s falling over and I’m rebuilding it, and it’s falling again and I’m rebuilding it and it keeps falling and I keep rebuilding and it never stops falling. In this one I’m seven, learning how to ride a bike. My knee is still bleeding. I’m ready. There is a flash of light and all of a sudden I’m 10 and I’m on my knees on the rough carpet of my old bedroom, and I’m crying, I’m pleading, I’m begging to stop waiting, that I know that I’m ready, that I’m sure, but no one can hear me, I’m screaming to no one, no one will ever hear me and no one will ever come.

They’re knocking down the library where I grew up. I see its hollow shell of destruction as I pass by on the bus and it makes me sick.why have they done this? What are they taking it? Why are the ripping salvation from the lonely kids hands, tearing it down in front of them? ‘Libraries are dangerous,’ they say, ‘you should see the books that they had.’ No one sees the tear tracks. The hope. ‘It’s for the kids’ it was never for the kids. It will never be about the kids. It’s about the control, about taking things away. The angel tells me that I need to have patience. I tell him that I haven’t any patience left in me, that it’s been drained on my last 16 years trying to stay alive, I tell him that I’m done, that it’s hopeless, that there’s no point.

‘Babies have very strong grip. They can hang, supporting their entire bodies with their feeble arms for upwards of ten minutes.’ The angel tells me, and his voice feels like getting out of the pool on a warm summers day and I want to run, I want to get away, but he has me now, he’s got me. ‘You are ready.’ He tells me. ‘The line is ready.’ I bare my teeth. ‘I know,’ if what I say to him. He smiles, and the air smells like strawberries and grass. ‘The library is gone.’ I’m getting angrier and angrier by the second. The library is gone, and I can’t save it. ‘They are building a new one.’ He says. I know this. ‘Watch its creation. Relish in the beauty of it all.’

I don’t understand. I don’t think that I ever will. The road is spinning. ‘I can’t wait that long.’ I cry out. I want to fall against the floor, pound upon the concrete, wail and cry until someone sees my desperation, until someone feels an ounce of the pain that this waiting has brought to me. ‘But you will.’ The angel says. ‘I know that you will.’ And the light gets so bright that it burns but I can’t look away, I can’t close my eyes, its burning my eyes from my skull and the glass from nearby buildings shatters and it cascades all over me, my skin is torn and the angel is gone, I’m bleeding out into the concrete and there is no angel and there is no library and there is no one who will help me, but there is time. The time is mine.

[tee-jay-49]

HOME

i. Four walls, roofs over heads, and food on plates. Clothes on backs and beds to lay upon. The sound of slamming doors. The sound of nothing at all. Knees drawn against a bare chest, short and shallow gasps thrown out between cries of ‘I’m sorry’. Blood on bathroom floors, drawn from oneself. The sound of someone leaving. The uncertain silence of not knowing when, or if, they will return. Isolation. Emptiness. Broken wine bottles on tile floors and slurred words; ‘it’s your fault, it’s your fault, it’s your fault,’

ii. Moonlight forests. A black abyss of welcome, shiny white pinholes scattering the darkness. The sound of bird songs through the quiet. A warm breeze. Dew from the grass seeping through clothes, sprawled face up to the sky- feeling infinite. Nothing tied down. Open land. Open hearts. Walks long before the sun rises. No where to go. Everywhere to be. Places to see. A desire to be more. Escapism. Freedom. Alone, yet not lonely.

iii. Late night conversations about the stars and the wind and the things that we wouldn’t dare utter in the daylight. Hundreds of miles between us. Blurred words on a screen. Studio ghibli movie nights. The sound of another’s breathing down the crackly phone line. Drifting off to sleep. Sharing music. Soft lights on evenings as the sun sets. Warm inside jokes that feel familiar to breathing in the air of summer nights. Peace. Comfort. Contentment. Missing someone so far away. Drawn together, somehow, but ultimately, together.

[tee-jay-49]

IM STILL HERE

I miss my dad. He’s downstairs. I can hear him cheering at the tv. Football, probably, or formula one. How can I miss someone who’s right here? How can I miss someone I spoke to maybe four hours ago?

I miss the way he looked at me. The way he’d smile at me before I told him. Before I said those awful words that snatched away his daughter. I miss the way he’d give me little nicknames and how he’d ruffle my hair in the mornings before he left for work. I miss how we used to sit in the conservatory together and make up songs, how our band was called L.A.D and how he’d put on a voice and sing the words I wrote in blue gel pen “ah! What’s that noise?” And how he’d laugh as I drummed on the fake wooden floor and how everything felt like it was going to be okay, because he was here and he was my dad and nothing was ever going to change how much he loved me.

I miss how he’d grab onto my tiny hands as I learnt how to skate. How he’d cheer me on from the side of the ramps in winter when I knew he was shivering, but he showed up anyways. How he told me that he was proud of me, even when I fell. I miss how we’d go on bike rides to the middle of nowhere together on evenings when we could have been doing anything else. I miss how he’d throw me in the pool in summer, and how we’d play sharks and he’d give me piggy backs and race me and we’d have water fights and he’d dare me to go down the biggest water slide and how he was always there to catch me at the bottom when I was scared, every single time, like how he promised, he was always there.

I miss him so badly that it hurts, but he’s right there. I can’t get to him, not anymore. I look at old photos and I feel sick at the way that he’d look- how happy we looked. I find myself wondering what changed, but it was me, wasn’t it? After all, what else could it have been? What else could have brought the awkward silences and the uncomfortable car drives and the embarrassment on his face any time he tried to talk to me about who I am? What else could have made him so distant? Could anything else have built up this invisible wall between us that I can’t knock down no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I try to force myself to be more like him and to like the things he likes so we had something to talk about, something in common but it all feels hollow now, and it’s futile, and everyone knows it?

Sometimes I wish that he hated me. I think that would be easier. It would be easier to deal with him refusing to call me his child than him just refusing to call me his son. I think I’d rather him shout and scream again, threaten to leave like he did when I was 6 and being told that it was my fault- this,, right now- this is my fault. I wish he’d refuse to address me at all than address me wrong, with that look in his eyes I convinced myself was him learning and him trying to come to terms with everything, was him dealing with this change.

It doesn’t take six years.

He’s not a bad guy. He’s a good dad. Most of the time. He’s made mistakes. I forgive him. No matter what he’s done, I’ll always forgive him for it. All of it. He doesn’t see me as his son. He does everything for me. He doesn’t even do the simplest things for me. We used to go play football in the garden together. He loves me, I’m sure of that. I don’t know if he actually loves me, or the version of me he made up to help him cope with “loosing a daughter”. I’m still here. I’m. Still. Here. I’m. Still. Here. I’m. Still. Here. I am still right here.

[tee-jay-49]

Dear my oldest friend,

Do you ever still think of me? Do

You still remember me?

I see you in every piece of stolen sunlight,

Thrown softly against the walls in the afternoons.

I had your laughter in every birds song,

And remember the smile that it brought me.

The smell of freshly mowed grass

Always takes me back to that summer-

Do you remember?

The one with the inflatable pools

And the cheap cola ice lollies, the

Juice streaming down our wrists.

The one with the bike rides to nowhere

And the water fights in hot concrete floor,

The Ham sandwiches that your mum made

(She always said that they were made with love)

I remember your dog splashing in the pool

With us, his claws squeaking against the rubber.

I still remember your black &white kitchen floor.

Is that chip still there from when I smashed that plate?

Is the hole in your heart

The same as mine?

Do you ever miss me

The way I miss you?

I always think of you on your birthday,

April 6th, ten days before mine.

You always bragged about being older.

I remember your old room,

The grey blanket that we shared and

All the movies that we watched.

You told me that your favourite song was ‘girl on fire’

That was when we were eight. I wonder what it is now.

I wonder if you ever think of me.

I saw you in the supermarket last year.

It was like seeing a ghost.

Did you know that it’s been nine years since we spoke last?

You still have the same smile, by the way,

Although it’s not for me anymore.

Your eyes drifted past me in the cereal isle,

Not an inch of recognition on your face.

You looked like a memory, not a person.

I hope you learnt to be a person again.

Sometimes I think that I hate you

When you promised that you’d

Call and that you’d write, and that we’d sleep over still

After you left. But you never did.

You never even answered me.

You promised you’d stay in contact.

Forever, you said. Do you remember?

Because I do. I don’t think I could forget.

Part of my soul is made up from you,

The way you taught me to tie knots

And how to crack open bottles with your teeth,

How to bite ice cream without toothache,

How to make chains with the daisies in my garden.

I see you everywhere. In everything.

I don’t really hate you.

You know that, don’t you?

I miss you. That’s the truth. Sometimes,

I miss you so bad that it hurts, and I think that

I’m dying.

Im sorry, for what it’s worth.

I just hope that one day you’ll forgive me

For never forgetting

[tee-jay-49]

WHGTAT "M" ANONYGG SAIDIF

LMAOOOO thanks bro im 99999% sure ik who this is so thank you thank you!!

[tee-jay-49]

IM IN A HALLWAY BEING TRAMPLED BY SCHOOLFLOWS AAYDURHFHFJJRH BUT YEAH WHAT M SAID AAAA ILL LEAVE A GOOD MESSGAWBWHEN IM KOT DYINGG HELLGP

LMAO??) DONT DIE BRO🙏🙏

[tee-jay-49]

I loved reading all your poems, some of them I even went over a few times because I liked them so much I wanted to really understand them.

I'm so glad to have met you and to have become your friend, and I'm honoured I got to see this side of yourself through this account. Thank you for sharing :)

love you lots dude, you're super cool ! <3

-M

I actually shed a tear over this thank you so so much :(( honestly I can’t explain how much this means to me

I’m very glad to have met you too!! Your super super cool and very sweet 🙏🙏 love you too man :))

[tee-jay-49]

can you tell my oscar wilde complete collection to hurry up pls with your poetry aura

Hurry hurry… poetic aura urges it closer… and other terminology

[tee-jay-49]

(Evil and ominous aura radiating off of me)

Hello TJ ........

Gurlpgurlp I wonder who this may be 😁😁(evil and intimidating)

[tee-jay-49]

Wind

i. The wind whispers its secrets to us. It screams them out in the howling of a storm, begging and pleading like poor tortured souls, like unpardoned sinners searching for forgiveness, searching and never fining- always just out of their grasp, flying through the tips of their fingers. It’s screaming as it reaches, all the time, it’s screaming out a truth- a harsh, violent truth that we try and ignore, but it won’t let us, uprooting trees and sending its wreck flying through the air- weightless. Free. Empty.

ii. The wind is waht makes us complete. Its power resides in all unruly hearts, in all the restless youth with big feelings and big eyes and dreams of a better tomorrow. It rests in every roar of uproarious laughter , in every sob and in every wail, in all dreams and all our stories. Wind is what fuels the artists. It plucks at strings in its melodies of melancholy and it kisses the hand of every poet and every painter who leaves a stroke of their love behind on paper. It dances above them as the work, passionate and proud as they try to be.

iii. The wind is dangerous. It’s a warning sign to turn back, to reside in the four walls of our homes where the truth can’t reach us and the cold can’t yet freeze our bones and chill our souls. It’s distressing. It tells a story of nothing short of utter tragedy, soaked in pain and in agony. It surrounds us like a blanket in the coldest of nights- it’s suffocating and yet it’s safe. There’s comfort in its hostility. There’s peace within the violence of the sinners cries, screaming out to us, begging for forgiveness. Peace within the haunting sobs of ‘I beseech you, set me free,’, the words that echo through the minds of the restless artists with a pen and idea, and a longing that they can’t place- a longing to be within the wind and become a part of the message of the sinners that is left behind in its howls and wails of warning. A desire to be something more. A yearning to be heard and to be listened to.

[tee-jay-49]

The end of times

The walls are less haunted now,

But maybe it’s because we’re older, and we’re taller

And the windows don’t seem like prison bars

But gaps of freedom to a world that is bigger.

A world that is bigger than scrawled letters

And marching in unison through silent courtyards.

A world in which poetry means something,

Where is it for more than a grade

Or a cheap test score.

A world where love is more than awkward movie dates

With people who don’t care about you, and don’t care for love .

The walls only seem less haunted,

But now parts of our ghosts fill the walls.

Echoes of our laughter and our childish dreams

Ricochet of hollow brick walls,

Like our mother and father’s before us.

Each mark of pen against cubicle walls,

Each quote from a poem scrawled across a desk,

Each note, discarded on the floor,

They all mean so much more now that

It won’t be us that see them, but the new youth.

The sun dances through open windows,

Kissing the tips of our noses.

We laugh and we cry as we watch

the hours ticking by, knowing that soon

A new group of fresh faces, eager teens will have

Our spot on the yard, have our uniforms

And have our curiosity.

They’ll have our jokes and they’ll have our stories,

Tainted lovingly by the passage of time.

We’ll look back fondly on these times

(Or so we hope)

And we’ll see reflections of ourselves

In the faces of each scared child walking through those walls.

The walls will haunt them at first, too.

They’ll trap them, lock them behind academics,

And they won’t notice that the future is in their hands until it’s too late.

They’ll see our names carved against the bike shed walls

And they’ll smile, thumbing the faded letters.

They’ll see that we got out.

They’ll hear our whispers in the wind

And soon they’ll become apart of the walls, as well.

Whether they want to or not.

The passage of time consumes us all.

[tee-jay-49]

Bird’s morning calls,

Can you hear them?

‘Follow me.’ The crows shout

‘Follow me home.’

They dance in the air

An elegant movement filled with precision

An unnerving skill that humans merely dream of

A sick jealousy fills your bones, doesn’t it?

A deep rooted envy

Of their beauty and of their

Freedom and their passion

They glide across the air

Slicing the morning silence like knives against fresh skin

Murders of crows darken the sky

Moving in a flock. ‘Strength in numbers’ they say

The sky is dark now, painfully dark.

The lake falls eerily silent.

The wind picks up, can you feel it?

Does the cold reach your bones?

Does it freeze your soul?

Are you ready?

The crows dive above you, taunting you

‘Join us.’ They scream ‘come home.’

As you rake your step

Of from the edge.

For a brief moment

A moment of pure bliss

You glide through the air. Effortless.

Weightless.

Elegant and precise.

It’s as if you were born to fly.

You were born to fly.

The crows catch you,

Mid free-fall from the edge

And they carry you home.

[tee-jay-49]

early mornings frost kisses the grass gently,

covers the floor with a soft chill.

rays of light dare to peak out, dare

to break through the thick clouds-

showering the skies with its warm embrace

of pink and orange hues.

Birds call out to the sleeping buildings

"A new day has come," they sing

as the town begins to stir.

Huddled in coats and soft scarves,

workers and schoolkids alike begin their days

all too heavy and tired to appreciate

the fact that the whole world is waiting for them.

Escapism sits in their fingertips,

flying 'round like leaves in the morning breeze

"Do something with your life!" it cries,

but nobody can hear it.

(perhaps they can, but refuse to listen)

they carry on with life as it as,

As the sun sets and rises again. Sets

and then it rises

sets and rises. Again and again.

some days it takes longer than others

to rise.

But its hopeful light always emerges from the dark

bringing forth a new day, and a new chance-

don't let it go to waste.

[tee-jay-49]

A dull ache haunts his ribs

He’s doubled in pain, grimacing as he moves

He’s hiding his face with a slouch,

Ashamed of what he is.

The tape that binds his chest may as well

But hold him together

Gripping him to reality,

Stopping him from slipping away (again)

He knows that people are disgusted by him

Often times he is disgusted by himself

Disgusted by the thought of a boy,

Washing blood out of his boxers

In the bathroom sink.

Or hiding his chest

Swimming in large and loose hoodies.

He doesn’t speak as much anymore

Out of the shame

And the hatred that he holds for his voice.

But they never listened anyways

Not to a boy with the voice of a girl.

so he sinks into the background

Longing to fade away

And become merely a fond memory,

Or a faded name

That lay upon a stone

“Loved daughter”, it would read

“Beloved niece”, “granddaughter”

In his obituary, the wrong name would be written

And he would be buried in a dress

So that his family wouldn’t be ashamed anymore.

He would die after living only as

The ghost of the girl he was forced to be

So he hoped to live long enough

So that this wouldn’t have to happen

And that when his time would come

For him to move on, to another life

He would be remembered,

Remembered truly

He hoped that, one day, he would

No longer be ashamed

And people wouldn’t be disgusted.

He swore to kill the girl he was

And from her broken parts

Rebuild himself as the man he is

And always was

[tee-jay-49]

Woke up from a dream of drowning in the lake near my childhood home in a cold sweat, wrote an incoherent poem about how my blanket feels too much like the blanket from December when I was 6 years old and passed out again to have a dream about a tomato jumping over a red armchair over and over again