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Best Poems Written by Aarron Tuckett

Below are the all-time best Aarron Tuckett poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Aarron Tuckett Poem

Nothing Remains

You died.
And nothing happened.

No whisper.
No light.
No shift in the air.
Only the room—
exactly as it was,
minus you.

I stood there,
expecting something.
A crack in the fabric.
A sign.
A sound.
Anything.

But all I found
was stillness
carrying on
without effort,
without care.

They spoke your name
as if it held weight.
But even that faded
before the echo could finish.

No afterlife.
No message.
No you.

Just a body
emptied
and a silence
that doesn’t remember
what it’s missing.

Grief isn’t proof of love.
It’s the body glitching,
trying to react
to an absence
too complete to comprehend.

You are gone.
And the world
never noticed.

And soon,
so will I.
So will all of us.
Forgotten,
unmarked,
folded back into nothing.
Exactly where we came from.

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The Only Thing That Looks Good in Black and White

Nothing is simple,
but we carve it clean—
label it, box it,
turn a question into a rule,
a rule into a law,
a law into a weapon,
and call the wreckage order.

We crave control,
but sharpen our knives in chaos.
We demand honesty,
but crucify the truth.
We worship free thought,
but silence it before it speaks.

We want change,
but only if it looks
like what we already know.

A zebra is the only thing
that looks good in black and white.
Everything else—
everything real—
drowns in the blur between.

We say we hate the system,
but gut each other
before we ever fight it.
We demand peace,
but kneel to the loudest fist.
We claim we want the truth,
but only if it sings us to sleep.

The universe isn’t laughing.
It’s watching the clock.
Time is running out.

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We Are So Connected, Yet We Can’t See Each Other Anymore

We sit inches apart,
glowing screens between us,
a thousand miles wide.

We speak in echoes,
algorithm-fed replies,
pre-packaged thoughts
we never owned.

I send you a message.
You send back a reaction.
A digital thumb,
a cartoon heart,
a flicker of presence—
then gone.

We gather in crowded rooms,
silent, heads bowed in reverence
to the gospel of notifications.
A congregation of ghosts,
all here,
all absent.

Your voice is there, but flattened.
Your eyes are there, but dimmed.
I reach for you—
but you are buffering.

And yet, we post proof of life,
a curated display
of curated selves,
hoping someone, somewhere,
will see beyond the pixels,
will touch something real.

But no one does.

Because we are so connected,
yet we can’t see each other anymore.

Details | Aarron Tuckett Poem

The Shape of Love

Love was once a wildfire, reckless and bright,
igniting every touch, setting the night alight.
We spoke in heat, in whispered desire,
hearts beating wild, hands tracing fire.

But love is not meant to stay a flame,
not a spark that burns and flickers the same.
It softens, it deepens, it learns how to stay—
not just in longing, but in the light of day.

It shifts in the quiet, reshapes in the dark,
a slow-burning ember where once was a spark.
It is not lesser—it is not lost,
but tempered by time, by trust, by cost.

Now love is steady, a warmth that endures,
woven in laughter, in gestures, in words.
It’s your hand on my back as I pass,
the glance that lingers, the quiet that lasts.

It’s coffee waiting before I wake,
a blanket pulled close for comfort’s sake.
It’s the sound of my name, not urgent, not wild,
but spoken with care, with years reconciled.

Desire may fade, but devotion remains,
etched in the rhythms, the soft, sweet refrains.
Intimacy shifts, but it never departs,
it lingers in trust, in well-worn hearts.

Love is not lesser for burning low—
it is richer, fuller, and more certain to grow.
Not the fire of then,
but the foundation of now.

Not the spark,
but the glow that remains.

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The Weight of Hope

The banner of hope drapes across my shoulders,
once weightless, now a stone-bound chain.
Each step scrapes me thinner,
a slow retreat, grinding against the wall.

Hope was meant to lift me,
but it drags like wet cloth,
clings like hands that won’t let go,
tightens like a rope disguised as a lifeline.

I carry it because I must,
because without it, what else is there?
Yet with every breath, it steals more—
talking everything, taking everything.

I hold on, not out of faith,
but because I have forgotten
what it means to be weightless.

Details | Aarron Tuckett Poem

Code of Contempt

Emboldened by whispers,
echoes curdled in algorithmic rot—
electronic voices hiss their sermons,
venom soaked in coded politeness,
dripping beneath polished avatars.

Hate seeps
through curated feeds,
a slow infection
wrapped in memes,
seducing the young,
the angry,
the aimless—
until ideology feels like identity.

A curriculum of fear
streamed without consent,
etched into abandoned timelines,
where education once should have stood.
Now, only digital ruins remain—
barren soil
where thought might have grown.

This isn’t chaos.
It’s code.
Written to polarize,
to radicalize,
to dehumanize.

They teach with silence,
they preach with fragments,
they baptize with blame.

Their design is surgical—
not to inform,
but to fester.
Not to question,
but to conquer.
To crown the cruel
and cast the rest as fuel.

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The River Takes Everything

The years don’t ask for permission—
they arrive unannounced,
ripping through the walls we once called skin,
scraping the edges of what we believed would last,
etching names into dust.

Strength bends before the slow tide,
not in defeat, but in recognition—
the battle was never ours to win.
We call it endurance,
but it is merely motion—
forward, like rain drilling hunger into stone,
erasing mountains one drop at a time.

I watched my grandfather claw at the sheets,
his fingers curling through the air,
grasping at something only he could see.
Even then, the river pulled—
dragging him inch by inch
toward the mouth of the sea.

Time does not wound.
It does not heal.
It does not pause for reckoning.
It only moves—
a river without mercy,
indifferent to the bodies it carries,
the voices it drowns,
the names it swallows before they are even cold.

And yet, we hold—
brittle bridges of bone and memory,
stacking our moments like stones against the flood,
as if trembling hands could dam the current,
as if resistance could be anything more
than the illusion of stillness in a moving tide.

But the river is patient.
It will have us all.
It takes without knowing,
forgets without grief,
and leaves only echoes where names once stood.

There is no escape.
No deal to be made.
Only the river,
and the experience of being carried through.

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The Weight of a Word

The empty page waits,
unblinking, unshaken,
a void that does not care
whether I fill it
or let it swallow me whole.

Hesitation lingers,
a whisper curling at the edges,
soft at first, then sharper—
What if it’s already been said?
What if it’s not enough?
What if my voice dissolves
before it even reaches the air?

Originality is a tightrope,
a step into nothing,
where the only certainty
is the trembling of my own weight.
The ground below is blank—
or maybe it never existed at all.

But in that emptiness,
something shifts—
a flicker, a pulse,
not of light,
but of something older, deeper,
something waiting beneath the silence,
pressing against the skin of the page.

Ink stirs in my veins.
The silence is not empty.
It is breath before music,
a pause before the storm,
a moment when the world is holding itself still,
waiting to see if I will dare to speak.

So, I breathe.
I let the ink spill,
not as proof, not as a conquest,
but as an offering.

Knowing that every voice
is a note in the song
we were always meant to sing.

And if my voice vanishes,
if it is swallowed by the echoes—

At least I let it exist.

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Phantom Convulsions

It starts gently—like a setting sun,
a tingling drift uncoiling in my abdomen,
tracing meticulous pathways through my frame.

It slithers into my mind, a weight both foreign and familiar,
a harbinger of past collapses,
whispering peril in the language of ghosts.

A whisper becomes a tremor, becomes a howl.
The cold vacuum yawns wide, swallowing every lucid thought.
The world outside disintegrates into shadow.
Fear is no longer a possibility—it is law.

Rational thought fractures,
splintering beneath its weight.

I am hunted—
by echoes, by specters,
by the certainty of failure.

A thousand past mistakes resurface,
each one carved into my skin.
My heart pounds, hammering dread into my ribs,
a steady cadence of self-inflicted peril.

I drift—untethered, lost in a space with no end,
caught in a current I cannot fight,
dragged by a tide I cannot name.

I have strayed from the path.
My only armor is retreat,
a desperate crawl into the deepest alcoves of my mind.

I search for anchors, for proof of the real,
but terror clings to me, thick as tar—
a parasitic thing feeding on certainty,
swallowing past and present whole.

Damn, it’s painful.

I question the steps that led me here,
the fractured frame of my own making.

I am reduced to a child—
small, breakable,
locked in combat with invisible horrors
as they claw their way from the abstract
into the marrow of my bones.

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Exposed?

(A) decade squandered in dread lost to shadows that never asked permission.

(N)egativity seeped in, a silent trespasser carving itself into my marrow.

(X)-rays reveal nothing, yet the ache hums beneath my ribs like a buried scream.

(I) stir in constant panic, clawing at the edges of a moment unraveling in my hands.

(E)ntrapped by an existential shadow, pressing against bloodshot eyes like a veil of lead.

(T)ortured by potential, by shame, by echoes of what will never be spoken.

(Y)earning for escape, but the exit is a mirage, dissolving before I can touch it.