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azureBeach7097
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PathStep 1 Compassion hearts49 Forum posts21 Forum upvotes34 Current upvotes34 Age GroupAdult Last activeJanuary, 2026 Member sinceMay 15, 2025
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Under The Sink
Poetry / by azureBeach7097
Last post
 July 7th, 2025
...See more What would happen if I carved my lips and pinned them to the faucet’s mouth? Would they taint the water, or sweeten its flow? Beneath the sink, the cupboard yawns, what do I see? My heart and my feet, stitched into the pipes’ cold veins. And I think: this may be me. I see myself in eyeless things: faucets, drains, their unblinking gaze always meeting mine. How? Do they taste the air, or simply know that I’m here? Answers are drains: they swallow, never hold. I split open my chest more pipes, coiled and hollow, no core to claim. What’s left to grip when the self is only rust and empty streams?
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I felt the words leave me/before I had the chance to speak
Poetry / by azureBeach7097
Last post
 June 20th, 2025
...See more Title (Intended format): I felt the words leave me before I had the chance to speak Have you felt words claw your throat, their sonic ash searing the tongue, a bile no silence can unweave? We’re taught to sing their hollow psalm, yet they spill like wounds, raw and wrong. In the cubicle’s hum, I learned their sting— phrases chained to scripts, unsaid. Are they children, born of dread, or siblings, scarred by tongues long dead, slaves we wield, yet fear to name? No. They rise from graves of speech, not mating, not alive, but carved from voices stilled, their letters starved. Each word a corpse we dare to weave, we thread their bones to call it song. Tonight, I spit their bitter weight, refuse the lie that words are kind. They’re scars I speak, yet leave behind, a liturgy of cinders, unswayed, still burning where my voice is freed.
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Live.
Poetry / by azureBeach7097
Last post
 June 6th, 2025
...See more Have you ever burned with the need to get out? To scream so loud the silence morphed to life, only to find your voice herded into a throat-shaped cage that drills you to follow not your will, but a map they’ve already set, etched in the marrow of this dying today. Your tongue stirs awake, but today you speak only six words, the rest blinked out, like stars beneath a curfew someone set. Your fire banked low, the blueprint of your life drowned. You run, but ghosts will follow, shadows pressing their knees as you fall into. There’s nothing left but walls to break into, laws welded from ash that still govern today. They say, be wild like fire, but demand you follow smoke’s collapse, exiled again and burned out by fumes that feast on memory and life, while swearing everything was rightly set. The standard clutches so tight, your eyes set into stone. You scream, but the cry folds into dust. Old titans’ laws shackle your life— their iron hymns forever playing loud today, still birthing scripts you’re told to live out, still laughing when you flinch, still shouting follow. Who am I kidding? You were born to follow. You bowed so long your spine just set. It’s easier to rot in riches than flame out, to sip old lies and never dive into the silence buried under all of today, where something raw once lived and called it life. So here we sit, just echoes imitating life, watching weak fires flicker. We hope it follows through, but we know: the structure owns today. I still dream of sun, though it long since set. I don’t want survival; I want to fall into a blaze that doesn’t ask me to burn out. Well, my friend, today is the toll I pay for life. I’ve broken out of the maze—will you still follow? Let’s run into the fire. Only our burnt skin will be set. (a sestina)
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Word Migration
Poetry / by azureBeach7097
Last post
 June 7th, 2025
...See more I told myself it was time to open my mouth. My words had festered too long, dampened beneath the tongue, suffocating in their own saliva. The hole in my face tore wide, convulsing— a wound that gave birth to letter-clots and stunted phrases. On their way out, they splintered my teeth, tore at the corners of my lips. They gasped for air, hungered for flesh— they needed to be heard. But the world’s ears were closed. So my language flew, feral and bitter, into the nearest skull— slid through the tight seams of a stranger’s naked ear. They crawled inside, gnawed at soft tissue, chewed thought into pulp. And from that brainmush they built their nest. My words, homeless no longer, made their dwelling in someone else's silence. Now they live, however grotesque their genesis, a savage hymn that refuses to die. Though I am left a ghost within my own silence, and still my language survives, though it came at the cost of our peace.
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Marginalia
Poetry / by azureBeach7097
Last post
 June 8th, 2025
...See more You slipped through a crack in the line a comma undone, a sentence unspun. I caught you mid-fall, your face against mine, a collision of verbs where silence had run. We lived between margins, where time left its stain. You grew like an asterisk, I stayed like a name. I prayed we'd be canon, but we were just drafts. Each chapter crossed out with red-lettered shafts. Then the sky took you back, just a footnote, a breath. Now I'm the blank space that outlives your death.
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Liminalistic
Poetry / by azureBeach7097
Last post
 June 8th, 2025
...See more Life between spaces. Can breath mean anything if all it's done is fog up glass? Freedom’s grip is just as tight, the chain around my neck just so happens to be a rope. My eyes caught a door with no knob, so I squeezed through the hole yet still, I am no key. I am the dotted line between the solid ones. I am the hyphens linking point-to-point. So while I lie between the countable and void, I exist as both and neither and still, somehow, I’m me. I began my journey by strangling my reflection. I wanted to swap places. It didn’t work— so now, when I look into bodies of silver lakes, I see nothing. Not even my golden mistakes.
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Spirals
Poetry / by azureBeach7097
Last post
 May 31st, 2025
...See more I kept running up or was I falling through? The stairs turned to vapor, yet the chasm never grew. I buried my joy in a well that breathed dust. It coughed once at midnight, then sealed itself shut. I’m tethered to sky, yet stitched through the floor— the clouds feed me silence, and the dirt wanted more. I swam through mirrors, each ripple a wound. I drowned in the silver yet wasn’t consumed. I never asked for a crown, but it bloomed from my skin. Thorns curled like questions and anointed me within. I was meant to be motion, but they pinned me with names. Hung words on my shoulders and called them my shame. I long to be adjective a color, a phase. But I live as a noun, stagnant beneath the days. They dressed me in gold, then laughed in brown. As if rust was a joke and not a burial gown What is a spiral, but a mere circle breaking down?
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Pokey
Poetry / by azureBeach7097
Last post
 May 28th, 2025
...See more I’ve been thinking of dismounting my horse tired of hanging here, my feet no longer touching, only swinging in empty air. I’m exhausted from being on top of my horse What would happen if I stepped                off? The fall itself wouldn’t frighten me it’s the silence that waits beneath, pitch-black with no name. Yet maybe the dark holds a shelter I crave a cold refuge my tethered life cannot offer. I would love to jump off, to shed these reins and purposes, but I know if I did, my horse would mourn my absence, and I, too, would miss its chains.
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