Sopales con Cafe

[warmthcoffee]

My hands don’t seem to work—

the way I want them to,

the way they used to.

Foam appendages,

pirouette between my fingertips,

a song and dance,

of push and pull.

I’m fumbling with my keys again.

My hands don’t seem to move—

the way I need them to,

the way they used to.

Ashes line palmar creases,

filtering my grip.

Tobacco litter,

endless,

signs that I fall further still.

A House of Mirrors,

made of lard,

points inward toward my mouth.

I’m visceral and starving,

ravenous and hunched,

bloated and vicious;

a baker’s dozen just for lunch.

My hands don’t seem to move,

the way I want them to,

the way they used to.

My heart is viscous,

a spiteful chasm,

swallowing affection whole.

A constant, shameless, outing;

crying out a wish for home.

I feel your hands around my neck.

I wonder if you wondered too,

wondered as I wonder now?

Why don’t my hands move,

as I want them to?

Or did your hands move

by design,

precise,

controlled —

exactly as you meant them to?

And now, I see you in her eyes.

I hate that you’re still there,

and I will, ever sick and desperate,

beg for you to love me still.

I feel your hands around my throat —

loving, always tender.

Not like theirs,

deliberate, heavy —

pressing me down into silence.

I feel your grip, loose and frightened,

hesitant to love me.

Why else am I here,

if I am not the love I give?

If I am not the love you take,

then I am naught but borrowed anguish —

a lonesome vessel,

empty save for borrowed fear.

Please, my darling, loving soul,

show me that you want me still.

I feel such guilt at wanting more,

at begging you to hold me tighter.

Your hands never seem to move

the way I want them to,

the way they used to.

[warmthcoffee]

[spadeknight-poetrydemon]

Poem of the week #53

Title: Fill in the blank

Within ones voice there lies ability.

The verbs nouns and ajectives are containers.

We fill them with meaning.

Denotation and conotation.

These are the tools of the trade.

Like a law officers gun.

Or a the gun of a thug.

The tools exist for everone.

Priests, patrons, actors, writers.

Politicians.

Idealists.

Radicals.

It is best to be familiar with the weapons of the enemy.

Don't let them fool you.

Because they will try.

Stay steadfast.

And resolute.

And also realize the mistake you just made.

I never stated who the enemy is.

But you think you know who im talking about.

[crmsnmth]

These Words are My Time Machine

I sit with a pen like it owes me something like it remembers a version of me I misplaced ink hovering, hesitant over the ghosts of a sentence

The page doesn't judge just waits, blank as a winter field asking me to bleed a little honesty into its silence

And I do

because these words are my time machine they drag me backward without permission to cigarette smoke and cracked laughter to her voice folding around my name like it meant something permanent

I write to rewind the small moments the ones that didn't feel important until they were gone a glance, a joke the way the light hit her face like it had chosen her

But the ink stutters memory isn't loyal it edits, distorts turns sharp edges soft and soft things into knives

Still, I keep writing

because sometimes the past lets me touch it again just for a second through a line that lands right through a word that tastes like then

And sometimes I write forward instead invent futures I don't believe in give myself endings that don't leave me standing alone in the aftermath of almost

That's the trick of it, I guess poetry isn't truth it's what I wish truth had been or what I'm too afraid to live

So I keep building these fragile machines out of broken language and stubborn hope pressing my fingers into the gears until something moves

Until I move

Because if I stop writing time just happens to me when I write I get to decide where it goes

[geh4sunny]

Shadow slave inktober day 7: Weaver

[scarymonsters-protectivespirits]

[warmthcoffee]

I am a lame horse,

waiting to be shot.

A once great prize winner,

an attraction all around,

now an embered steel bearing,

melded orient to pitcher’s mound.

The leather fast approaches.

I shiver, and I yell.

I tremble, and I quiver.

The batter’s boxed me into hell.

I want to die running,

and so I close my eyes.

In my head I’m

crazed,

frantic -

panting at the line.

The leather snaps,

and soon I’m off,

dashing out the gate.

I feel the starter pistol’s thunder.

One last great escape.

I feel the starter pistol’s roar.

The iron starts to burn.

The finish line falls below me.

Dear ——— , did I soar?

My feet are far too heavy.

I’ve collapsed across the floor.

I’ve faded, spiraled, dizzied;

a prizewinner no more.

[heavensghost]

‘Love is an organic thing. It rots and softens.’

Words by Clementine Von Radics

[ultrawistful]

little bit from a longer piece of mine ࿔‧ ֶָ֢˚˖𐦍˖˚ֶָ֢ ‧࿔

[ultrawistful]

little bit from a piece of mine ࿔‧ ֶָ֢˚˖𐦍˖˚ֶָ֢ ‧࿔

[sacred-portal]

[whisperstheheart1]

What Leaves A Mark

lust is a knife drawer no child lock desire is ravenous dips fingernails in mercury leaving silver streaks on everything it touches refuses to hold

love is a damp matchbook buried in the pocket of a coat two winters old a fire hazard really carries every risk you’ve ever wanted to taste soggy in places you never inspected

it lights only when the wind holds the right kind of breath

love is the public restroom at 2 a.m. where desperation huddles in cracked stalls graffiti whispers false promises beautifully scrawled grime forgives and sometimes watches

lust doesn't care for daylight stories it breaks into the library after hours climbs ladders pages borrow and return dog-ears and sweat bookmarking every misplaced name

love eats cold leftovers calls it a feast prays you don't notice it’s wearing yesterday’s patience sometimes it’s the cashier pretending change was just another way to say please come back

lust slams into alleyways trades lips a currency leaves before the drool dries you’ll find it slurring over its own name like a cheap whiskey swallowing every sip it can't yet trace

it's a kind of lust that shatters vases in houses it doesn’t own a kind of love that plaster cracks in the walls hangs up memories calls it home none of it matters all of it does both stain windows leave marks on skin but only one makes you bleed just to prove you still can.

[mk-ranz]

A vision of chrysanthemums- a field narrow and seemingly forever

Somber pinks and tyrannical blues are littered with noisy white

As the sun set and orange embossed horizon, leaving purple high

The narrow field of pink, blue, and some white chrysanthemums glowed

And before, the end of night; here after

The glow of white fashioned in moons presence

The narrow field grew and standing tall, sun flower to sun;

The chrsanthemums grew

-laid now in a pot alone and nurtured

[palecolorinfluencer-deactivated]

Painting entitled "Lovers on a Sofa" (oil on canvas, 1992) by the Dutch artist Deni Ponty.

[jovialtorchlight-deactivated202]

The Kitten Distribution System

The Kitten Distribution System

by jonny bolduc

They come from

A half full bucket of water,

A car engine block,

The back door,

The front door,

A deep midnight, full of stars.

They come from a fast food dumpster,

The middle of a six lane freeway,

a lake,

A shed,

A roof,

thrown out of the window of a truck,

a garbage can.

Wherever they are,

They crawl towards warmth,

Away from the cold

clutch of being alone.

They crawl towards you,

Mewing;

saying;

“You are the warmth.

I choose you, giant.

Scoop me up,

Take me home.

I am cold.

Show me the kindness

I have heard

whispers of

in this world.

Let me rest in a bright spot of sunlight.

Let me curl up on your chest.

Let me choose you.“

[graff1980]

I am exhausted, so tired of the darkness that I long for death’s cold lips to sting and eclipse time’s exodus as I exit this winter’s corruption.

I’ve been stuck in a dying transition as hopeful visions fade into something rotten where daydreams are forgotten, so only human screams, and tears fill my ears.

My empathy is essential but draining my being, killing me in sob filled seconds as my inner temperature drops one degree after another, opposite of a fever because I have burnt out inside and now hold a hollow core.

She beckons me from behind the veil, but I must gird myself because she sings the siren song of silence oh so well.

I am ok or will be once I sleep. I know there is so much for me to stay awake for, but life is war, and I have seen enough battles for everyone’s lifetime, witnessed so many struggles that aren’t mine, and it makes me vacillate between sadness, love, rage, and hate.

Just a break, sometimes I think, if I didn’t wake up that would be ok. Just lower my lids, lower still. I will not feel the anvil of enervation.

Noooooo!!! I can’t. I will see my lovely reaper soon enough, but there are others whom I love, people who need a fighter, and though I’m only level one, there’s so much work left to be done.

And my brother, and my nephews, and my god kids, and my godson’s daughter, and tomorrow, and new stories, and my friends, and weekends, and my poetry,

and what is just because morality is not created by religion or politicians. It is derived from life and living with kindness and compassion.  

-2025

[warmthcoffee]

My love is lying still tonight.

She mourns the loss of who I was,

and how my will laid down to rest,

a victim of sweet sin’s temptation.

Recover me my entrails,

so that I may build once more, anew.

My darling little stardust,

oh how my soul cries out for you.

My love is lying still tonight.

I mourn the loss of love we have.

My guilt at craving her embrace,

is raw, unfettered; surely mad.

I envy virgin lovers,

who hold no bridge from love to hate.

Who haven’t yet heard devil’s siren;

entrails still in rightful place.

This hateful cell’s hollow walls —

clinical in their dissection,

echo forth my prideful vices,

worship ordered medication.

I find God in your neglect.

Your willful silence carries forth

a righteous anger —

love now far removed from mercy.

My love is lying still tonight.

We mourn that which I could’ve been.

My confession now embowelment,

cosmic in self-immolation.

My loving giant mirror star,

I feed off of your light.

Caught inside algolic binds,

my puppet dwarf’s soft mania,

drives its stake of worship through —

my dearest God,

my loving wife.

Tonight I am a dying star,

desperately afraid of ending.

Tonight I’ll love so deep and true,

that blasphemy consumes us.

There you lie, as I stand distant,

endless in my hunger.

Oh my stardust, how I love you.

Forgive me my transgression.

My love is lying still tonight.

Never will she wake.

I am a vampire, turned from God.

She prays dearly for my soul.

I am a vampire,

feeding off my lover’s life.