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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
I met ANGIE in a bar where grief drank quiet,
where HONKY TONK WOMEN spilled perfume and regret.
She moved like WILD HORSES with nowhere left to run—
said, “I’m safer UNDER MY THUMB than out in the open.”
She kissed like a dare and left like smoke.
On RUBY TUESDAY, she vanished into rain,
murmuring, “YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT,”
and I didn’t even try to stop her.
She used to laugh when we lost at TUMBLIN DICE,
but the last time she smiled, she was already gone.
I tried to PAINT IT BLACK, but some songs keep bleeding.
The Rolling Stones still hum behind my ribs.
Every track she touched skips now—
her chorus etched in static.
She didn’t take her coat,
just the part of me that knew how to stay warm.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
for the ones losing hair, light, and hope—this is you.
They said I was nothing special.
Just a crawling thing,
skin too thin,
eyes too tired,
body too slow to ever matter.
I heard them whisper.
“He looks worse every day.”
“She’s losing her hair now.”
“Poor thing.”
And worse—
the pity in their voices
cut more than the words.
I wanted to hide.
Wanted to leave this skin,
this pain,
this mirror that won’t show me
who I used to be.
But something small inside me
held on.
Not loudly—
just enough to breathe.
They don’t see
how much it hurts
to keep trying.
To wake up with tubes and needles
and still smile for the ones who visit.
To fight
even when the fight
has taken everything.
But still—
I keep going.
Not because it’s easy.
Because it matters.
Like a caterpillar
mocked for its shape,
for the way it moves,
for how “ugly” it looks
while becoming.
No one claps
for the struggle in the cocoon.
No one sees the tearing,
the blood,
the near-death quiet
before wings happen.
But one day,
I will rise.
Not perfect.
Not untouched.
But real.
Alive.
Wings colored by every wound I survived.
And if you ever feel
too broken to be beautiful again,
remember—
a butterfly was once barely breathing too.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
I swallowed words like razors in the dark,
A thousand cuts across my broken skin,
They told me "silence"—so I hid the spark,
While screaming softly, bleeding deep within.
The mirror lied: it whispered I was whole,
But fractures ran beneath the painted face.
I smiled and nodded, playing the doomed role,
While scars—my silent hymns—betrayed my grace.
They told me love was safe, but it was fire,
A flame that licked and burned my fragile core.
I danced on glass, mistaking wounds for choir,
And sang my pain to walls that asked for more.
Now I refuse the comfort of the lie,
For silence kills, but screaming helps me fly.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
Silence isn’t quiet —
it’s the scream stuck in my throat,
the venom dripping from broken teeth,
the promise shattered on cracked floors.
Your silence is a fist
beating against my ribs,
each unanswered breath a knife twisting deeper,
a war waging beneath broken skin.
I claw at shadows
grasping ghosts that slip through bleeding fingers,
love drowned in the dark,
where silence is a battlefield
and nothing survives.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
The Promise
She was silent, calm — never one for lies.
Always believing in true love,
Her idea of love was someone to rely on,
Someone who’d stand by her
Even when their views didn’t align.
Someone who might not always agree,
But for her sake, stood by her side,
Who’d talk through right and wrong,
And calm her fears when nights were long.
She didn’t want someone like herself —
She wanted someone different,
Someone worth changing for,
Someone willing to change for her.
A bond built over differences,
Shared hobbies, new dreams learned together.
She wanted to cover him
In the warmth of love,
To hold him close like a child,
Someone she could open up to.
Even if misunderstood,
She was ready to fight —
For them.
Someone who wouldn’t give up on their love,
Someone who’d fight for her —
That was all she needed.
She was willing to give everything —
Even her life.
Maybe it sounds like a line from a poem,
But she meant it,
Believed in love, trust, forgiveness,
And never holding grudges.
The Silence
But everything changed
When she realized her wish might never come true.
Maybe finding someone
Was never as simple as she dreamed.
The one she thought was the one —
Was not.
Or maybe he was — who knows? —
But he never gave her what she wished for.
Even when she tried,
Maybe because he never saw
How deeply she cared,
How much she fought to stay.
Now she’s lost belief
In something so precious.
She shut herself away,
Closed off from the world,
Stopped speaking to everyone.
She longed for him,
Wished to hear his voice again —
To have him back,
More than anything.
And then, after long months,
A question haunts her mind:
Is he really the one?
Will he ever give up something for me?
Genuinely, willingly — not out of anger?
Were those moments I thought special — special to him too?
Was it really love?
Should she give up?
But how can she give up on someone
She loves so deeply?
Someone she cares for more than the world itself?
Knowing he may never come back,
How long will she wait?
Maybe forever.
She remains —
A lonely soul,
Waiting for her love to return.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
I am chaos,
the storm that shatters silence —
thunder rolling through the wreckage,
still breathing, still burning, still me.
They hurt me.
Often.
And I stayed.
Not because I was weak —
but because I believed people were more
than their wounds.
I saw the hidden cracks no one else did.
I loved anyway.
But the tether snapped.
No longer do I chase the lightning
that scars but never warms.
I care — but I don’t cling.
I remember — but I don’t return.
No hatred resides here —
only a quiet goodbye
to the thousand selves who thought love meant bleeding.
I am the fire,
the lightning’s flash —
the storm’s calm eye.
I am Chaostrude.
Not a title.
A becoming.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
At first, it was heaven — pure and bright.
Then came the cry,
A single tear that swelled into a river,
And from that flood, hell was unleashed.
Her world shattered,
Suffering took root deep within her soul.
She was never the same.
Locked away in her room,
Her mind a storm of questions —
Where did it all go wrong?
Was she the darkness itself?
Was it all just a cruel mistake?
Should she have spoken the truth?
Should she have let it go at the start?
Why did she stay?
Why did she believe?
Why did she think it would stay the same?
Was it all... for nothing?
What else could she have done?
After all, we all make mistakes.
But in the end —
How many will truly stay?
Who will remain, care, love,
Stand beside her through the storm?
Who will accept her — flaws and all —
Just as she accepted theirs?
Will there ever be a time
When she can be happy —
Happy with herself?
Free to speak her truth,
Without fearing loss,
Without fearing abandonment?
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
Inspired by Bob Dylan's "Mississippi"
I was the backbone of your dream—
ribs shaped into beams,
my blood seeping slow,
cementing your tower’s base.
You promised a sky of stars,
a rise beyond all shadows—
but I was just a ghost
etched in your blueprint,
a whisper beneath your tower.
We built forever on lies,
stacking stones on my shoulders—
I was your ground,
your silent sacrifice,
the shadow no one names.
You spoke of freedom—
but all I felt was the weight,
a hollow echo in my bones.
You spoke of love—
and I swallowed the silence
you left behind.
Now the dream is dust,
the sky a fractured lie,
and I stand—
an empty scaffold,
a ruin in the wind.
You vanished in fire—
and I’m left to fall.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
Date: June 17, 2025
I wandered through a bleeding dusk,
the wind forgot my name.
A rose was growing from the dust—
I reached, and it became
the fog that hums like swallowed screams.
My lungs forget to breathe.
I taste old blood beneath my tongue.
Each petal cuts me in my sleep—
what did I dare believe?
Each step I took was stitched with fear,
my lungs too tired to cry.
The thorns grew taller year by year—
no stars remained in sky.
The rose I found—its crimson face
still beautiful, still wrong.
It bled me when I touched its grace
and whispered, “You belong.”
I walk through air too thin to hold.
The sky is ash and rust.
I don’t know if I’m growing old—
or simply turning dust.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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Becoming Trude From The Ruins Poem
(The rose you dropped )
Roses are beautiful, ain’t they?
You see them once,
and for a moment
you believe in softness again.
In something that won’t leave.
But beauty tricks you—
it draws your hands close
before you notice the blood.
No one tells you
how much it hurts
to love something
that was born to wilt.
He smiled like safety.
Spoke like a promise.
And I believed,
like I always do—
with my whole damn body.
I reached out,
let him in,
let him touch every place
I swore I’d locked up.
I opened the door,
and he came in like sunlight—
but burned everything
on his way out.
Tell me—
how do you forget hands
that once knew how to hold you
like you were holy?
How do you forget
a face you bled for?
I screamed into pillows,
bit down on the night
so it wouldn’t hear me break.
Every silence was a scream
I didn’t say out loud.
He was the rose—
breathtaking, deadly.
And I was the fool
who thought I could hold him
without losing skin.
I still carry him.
Not in my heart—
he hollowed that out.
But in my marrow.
In the way I flinch
when kindness feels too easy.
Pain doesn’t fade.
It hides.
Waits in the cracks of my ribs
and the backs of my eyes.
Waits for the quiet
to speak again.
Maybe the fulcrum
ain’t in the bloom.
Maybe it’s in the wreckage after.
In the blood you try to wash off,
in the tears that fall
when no one’s watching,
in the silence you swallow
because screaming
never brought him back.
And maybe that’s me.
A rose too—
not the kind you frame in glass,
but the kind you dropped
and never picked up again.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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