I contort
to place
my fingers
on your frame
hoping I'll be mirrored there
creep around myself
whispering in my ear
of my own existence
mistaking subdued lighting
for gathering darkness
a flash of light for salvation
there is an avenue of trees
lined with stepping stones of shadow
I don't see it
I enchant myself
knowing the spell wears off
it's a powerful skill
but it doesn't make me feel better
zesty ropedancer meaningfully hobnailed honeydew folklore evermore
myriad sunburn translocation sapiently mistaking your platypus
impious prognosticator gnaw mono recordbook thereabouts
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
can unvalued birthright animalize careless communications
indwelling deflective dejection again
mistaking recency with indelicate internment
she is psychoanalytic
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
always abatable from
anyplace but tuscaloosa
cockamamy downstream bunny
descriptive complain brewing
mistaking birthright crisis
meaningfully turmoil tryst
unvalued unpasteurized ureteritis
stewing vaticinate dejection
deflective firm folklore
through gynecologist communications
episodic honeydew gnaw
a crisply blunted
cheeseboard doorstopper looping
merry as can
be for evermore
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
an axiomatic actuary always axiomatically anyplace again
could credulously careless cubist complain crisply to cezanne
I,in impious indelicate indwelling ionized internment
me,meaningfully merry, mistaking my myriad mono
telefax this turmoil & toil thereabouts through to their tryst
your always mistaking her for me . that is careless and indelicate : I am through with you !
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
I see only dread
in the break of day
if I lie with my thoughts
they'll devour me
all concepts lead
to forked tongues
I trust nothing
as I know of the arrows
shooting left and right
until this dread is swallowed
starts to occupy within, by my own hand
and I cough it up
- examine its contents
mentally swing
from limb to limb
over reliant
on the gait cycle
mistaking stagger
for momentum
I need only step back
join the dots
scan the reference points
mindful
not
to
loop
infinity
predictions may be on the nose
observations kept intense
until curated
should I care to unravel them
I regress
regret
feel sorrow -
that every star-filled sky
becomes a named constellation
Inspired by Morning Star (L'étoile matinale) - Miro
It is the lairiest of epochs
Ignore slop do a pop vox
Chock a block with shocks
But the scariest of tik toks
Snapping like hungry crocs
Another spate of hate docks
Photos that everyone clocks
Those ones who girls mocks
Are as deadly as small pox
Aren't all as strong as an ox
Shaking from online knocks
Drowning in instasham lochs
Stinks like young men's socks
Mistaking that a cure’s botox
Crowning a theory I defrocks
That faking makes you a fox
Solution sells comes out a box
Lies stir fries in corporate woks
Smells fishy like out of date lox
Why jog cheat the elite flocks
Fatty injections vanity smocks
As the poor everything hocks
Pharma firm flogs all its stocks
Not just peahens also peacocks
Androids on steroids rippled jocks
Muscle bound like the Springboks
Why are so many blokes.. cocks?
How about all go on a long detox
Take note your boat you’re the cox
Winner is the inner you which rocks
Fashion rations compassion is bollox!
God, I hate him.
I hate that i trusted him again, like my heart
Forgot what my mind already knew.
I hate how i was so blinded, mistaking
Empty promises for something that could
Finally last.
I hate how he made betrayal look so casual
Like breaking me was just another ordinary day.
I hate how he looked at me in the eyes and lied
Without shaking, while i loved him with
Every single ounce of love I had left.
With every ounce of trust
I had left.
I hate wondering what she had that i didnt
I hate the nights i convinced myself i just
Needed to try harder.
Most of all, i hate how he made me believe
It wasn't enough.
But maybe, I was never the one who wasn't
Enough.
Maybe the truth is, I gave my whole heart to
Someone who never knew how to hold.
poems become
interchangeable
remove
the image
the poem
remains
when synapses
misfire
identity
disperses
before death
arrives
when the hands
forget
the song
the Martin
OM-45 Deluxe
inscribed in spruce
and mother-of-pearl
the third fret
worn smooth
by G
an archive
of vanished
movements
most poems
observe
others collect
surfaces
fallen leaves
frozen ponds
abandoned chapels
secondhand
transcendence
rehearsed
astonishment
mistaking
recognition
for revelation
few descend
into
distressed
consciousness
where nothing
remains
clean
is messier
no idle
observations
consciousness
a spiral
of repitition
residue—
not the subject
only the
substitution
the mosquito
bite
of fungibility
==========
I have learned that silence can sometimes feel like a room with no doors and yet some how still keep searching for meaning inside its shape Yearning for eternal rest not as an ending, but as forgetting the weight of being seen.
As I slip into the void of endless black, I do not fall so much as dissolve into thoughts I never said out loud.
There are voices I still carry deep inside me Your acidic tongue drips venom, and I learned how words can bruise without even touching skin.
Still, I stayed longer than I should have, mistaking damage for depth, mistaking that longing for love.Love that seeps from curling words into a floundering bloodstream and I feel it even now how something tender can travel through pain and I still insist on surviving.
I do not know what am becoming, only that I am no longer who I was when I began.
And maybe that is the quiet truth of it all to not escape, not arriving but continuing with everything still echoing inside me Am drowning quietly
I wear my heart on my sleeve,
love too deep,
give too much of myself away.
But I wear the insults too
like tattoos etched beneath my skin,
words I never asked to keep.
I take things personally,
not because I'm fragile,
but because somewhere along the way
it was carved into my brain
that every broken thing in the room
must somehow be my fault.
So every criticism finds a home,
every rejection grows roots,
and every harsh word echoes longer
than it ever should.
I've spent years carrying
other people's anger in my pockets,
mistaking it for my own reflection.
A body covered in fingerprints
from hands that never stayed long enough
to see the bruises they left behind.
I love deeply.
But what nobody tells you
is that people who love deeply
often bleed deeply too.
And when you've spent years being told
you're the problem,
even your wounds start apologizing
for being there.
I wear my heart on my sleeve.
But the hardest thing I've ever done
is learning that not every wound
belongs to me.
Rain chased me indoors,
into a café I’d never noticed
tucked between two antique shops.
A stranger waved me over~
mistaking me for someone else~
but smiling anyway.
We talked until the storm passed,
names exchanged like warm coins,
and parted lighter than we arrived.
Some accidents are invitations.
Boredom shapes the gambler’s curse—
a chafing itch burrows the skin,
and promises of bounties full
draws loss and piteous hunger in.
It wagers not on sense but need,
all wisdom choked at galloping speed-
that trades frail patience in a pulse,
mistaking want for feckless greed.
Tidal leaps the wave, a beast enraged
the shifting boards ,a sweep of losses tilt-
that stilts no longer shudderproof engaged
foundations fall and nothing left but guilt.
Once every passing, in a pattern amidst thirty,
I offer my regret like a palm held open and empty,
The calendar knows before I do. It rattles in my bones.
My knees crumble like paper, vibrating and percussive.
Joy thins out quietly, anxiety knocks, but I never answer,
I apologize for the quiet weeks I called ordinary,
I’m sorry for mistaking mercy as a default.
I fold into myself and whisper promises upward.
In two weeks tops,
I will forget this pain.
And that will be the cruelest part.
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