Poetry irrelevant thoughts

[bayleen]

I wish I could write poetry the way my eyes do
I wish I could explain how the wind kisses the trees and sends the porch chimes into a frenzy.​

 

[bayleen]

If the moon fell into my arms,
I would hold her as if she were my own.
But if she slipped from my hands,
he would steal her light away.

I lack the strength to guard her glow,
he tells me, "It's just human nature,
it's just evolution."

But I fear we are an abomination.
He'll burn her, destroy her,
and then cry when it destroys him.
He knows it's wrong,
but his heart is blinded by the light.

The glaciers are melting,
fires have devoured my sycamore trees,
and he’s laughing on his moon.

I scream, I shout,
but he silences me with a grin:
“I trump your science." He says.
And what’s science against a man’s wants?​

 

[bayleen]

Coffee is my obsession,
black as the night when no stars dare linger.
It whispers to me in the language of shadows,
its bitterness an intimate truth I can’t unlearn.

Each sip is an offering,
each swallow a hymn to something ancient.

They call me old-fashioned,
as if my love for the past is a flaw.
An old soul, they say,
but they don’t know the weight of it—
how coffee cradles me when the world feels sharp.

This is not the chaos of a Red Bull,
or the cheap promises of canned energy.
Coffee is the earth’s heartbeat in liquid form,
Coffee is different—ancient, patient.
A ritual carved into mornings,
a quiet ceremony of life and longing.

In its blackest form,
it doesn’t energize me; it resuscitates me.
Each sip pulls me closer to myself,
like the tide to the shore, inevitable and constant.

They say it's addiction
I say it's devotion.

No other drink, no other force,
holds a candle to its darkness,
It is not just coffee;
it is the pulse beneath my skin.​

 

[bayleen]

2025 feels like a fading hue,
Promises of color, yet all is blue.
Waiting for change, a spark to ignite,
But all I find is the same old night.

Another feeling, another slip,
A fleeting hope from my fingertips.
If only the clock could bend, rewind,
To find the time I left behind.​

 

[bayleen]

They ask me why I never speak,
why my words come slow, like fractured light
spilling through the cracks of a locked door.
But how do you shape a scream into something soft?
How do you make a wound sound beautiful?

I keep my voice in my pocket, folded small,
tucked between the lint and the loose change
of all the times I almost said something—
but swallowed it down like a stone.
It sits heavy in my ribs,
a language only I can hear.

I press my pain into paper, into walls,
into the spaces between footsteps.
I lace my sorrow into sentences,
send them into the wind
like whispers that never find their way home.

Somewhere, someone must know this feeling—
to speak in tremors, to drown in silence,
to watch the world pass by
without ever leaving a mark.

I wonder if echoes ever grieve
for the voices they once belonged to.​

 

[bayleen]

Tw: ed
I kneel before the porcelain altar,
whisper prayers between dry lips,
fingers down my throat like rosary beads.

They say beauty is effortless,
but I carve it out of myself,
scrape it from my bones,
spit it into the drain

I fold myself like paper,
thin and fragile, easy to tear.
They say beauty is delicate,
so I cut myself down
until I barely exist and watch it spiral away.

I keep my secrets in the porcelain altar,
spit them out between gasps of air.
The taste of salt and shame lingers,
but I tell myself this is discipline,
that hunger is a choice I have mastered.

My body is a tide pulling back,
smaller, smaller, smaller—
until I am nothing but 99% water,
a fading outline, a hunger that never ends.

They tell me I am shrinking,
that I need to stop,
but I don’t know how to be full
without drowning.​

 

[bayleen]

She left her shoes by the door.
She left the light on in her room.
She left her cup in the sink, half full,
the water still waiting for her lips.

The night swallowed her like a closing throat,
spit her out in the belly of a car
with no license plate, no headlights,
just the sound of tires whispering
down a road she will never return from.

Her breath fogged against the car window,
a ghost of herself,
thin and fleeting.
She wrote her name on the glass,
but it faded before the next stoplight.

And somewhere, miles away,
her father is calling her phone,
listening to the ring,
the pause,
the voice that will never say hello again.

Her dog is waiting at the door,
ears pricked, tail curled,
waiting for footsteps that will never come.

By morning, the air will taste the same.
By noon, the sky will still be blue.
By evening, her mother will set the table for three.

She will not know the chairs are all wrong.
She will not know that somewhere,
miles away, a girl who looks like her
is pressed into dirt too shallow to keep a secret.

She is what they never talk about.
the unsolved cases,
the red string on the wall that never connects.
She is the reason why some houses sit empty,
why the wind howls through broken windows,
why some women come back in caskets.

They will search for her.
They will dig up forests,
peel back the dirt with trembling hands,
praying to find a girl,
praying not to find a body.

They will not find her.

Not whole.
Not breathing.
Not anything that can still be called a girl.

They will put her face on posters,
on milk cartons,
on the evening news.
A blonde girl with soft eyes,
a name too fragile for a headstone.

They will call it a tragedy.
They will say her name like an apology.
They will call her a runaway
because it is easier than saying she was taken.

Because if they say that,
then they must admit he is still out there.

And he is.

Walking past missing posters with dead eyes,
drinking coffee in gas stations,
humming in checkout lines.​