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ne0logy
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PathStep 10 Compassion hearts30 Forum posts5 Forum upvotes16 Current upvotes16 Age GroupAdult Last activeDecember, 2025 Member sinceApril 8, 2025
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Starving
Poetry / by ne0logy
Last post
 September 28th, 2025
...See more let us start here, with a cracked hourglass,  where sand’s final grain gathers into a shape  of a bruised child,  left alone in a cold house. You stand, you wait.  the sun sets and you wait more, sour as lemons crushed  into lukewarm tea. Every darkened thought has a hand,  holds you back by the collar--forgiveness-soft, god-tender-- whispering not yet, not yet...  "you’re only as strong as your ability to stay quiet." and here you are, mid-breath, carving scars from years  into the canvas of a half-drawn face. Running your fingers over the white   as if feeling for a pulse under stretched skin. What will you call it?  The work spills like milk tipped from a table-- white pools on wooden floors seeping into cracks, feeding the flies,  sour-sweet, beautiful in its wrongness, rotting its way  through you. You name it nothing; you’ll leave it to die  unclaimed, another broken relic to the altar of “almost.”    "--do you ever dream, Mother?" you’re asking the empty chair, the god you abandoned at 17, when you couldn’t bend  any longer to prayers written in your father’s handwriting.  he said all you needed was faith--but you only grew to have  faith in your own ruin, your hands too heavy for prayer  but light enough for wine glasses, pills, and pens.    you paint, but hate the brush--its soft betrayal,  its need to dig out pain’s thinnest edge. You wonder if art  is god’s greatest curse, or only a stain left behind  by the need to survive. “The artist must suffer”, they told you,  but why? Whose mercy does your sorrow buy?  You laugh bitterly.    whoever said that has  never tasted hunger--not like this.  “you can’t eat poetry, can’t fill your belly on longing.”    you ask yourself what remains after the striving, after  each day slips its heel on the waxed floors of ambition.  is there peace in the conclusion? Not really, only the waiting room  where every artist sits--half-devoured by their longing,  a chapel of discontent painted the color of dried blood.  maybe my end is just a room empty of dreams,  where each saint sleeps with hunger,  where even desire has grown tired enough to die. 
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Brand New World
Poetry / by ne0logy
Last post
 June 26th, 2025
...See more Today,   The record is over; the needle lifts and returns to its cradle.   Time passes and it settles.   Dust falls and it settles.   Something strange about how a record plays for the last time.   As if,   When ma walks in, dressed in a blur of baby blue and black hair...  She reminds me to eat well and take care of myself.   But it blurs, and it settles.   And so,   They are speaking, animals, both of them.   “This is home.”   One breath, and it topples over.   It settles.   Eventually sleep tucks you in and when you wake up,   the summer sun peeking through the blinds,   It is true.   You are part of a brand-new world.  
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Another one
Poetry / by ne0logy
Last post
 June 26th, 2025
...See more Untitled 6 Ma, I learned the language of leaving  from the way your hands, one cold evening,  held a cigarette like it was a wound.  You'd tap the ash, say love was only a breath—  something to pull in, let go, then forget.  I love you in the way we share the same skin.  I remember the day you softly touched my skin,  said, there’s nothing worth the pain of staying. Leaving was a second job for us—how could we forget  the way old age crinkles skin like paper. In the evening,  you poured whiskey like a prayer, each breath  a sigh that trembled like an old wound.    What is an act of love if not the salting of a wound?  And it’s the feeling of such an act that burns my skin,  you said it was the only way you could hold me, but a single hitched breath  was all it took. And then we go in circles leaving—  the kitchen lit by the soft glow of evening,  and you come back to close the blinds, something you said you'd never forget.    So, each night I taught myself to forget  your voice that sang out like a tender wound.  I hid in the quiet arms of evening,  wished for the moment your touch left my skin  like a shadow giving up, like letting go — leaving.  I knew it was the shape of love taking its last breath.    But mother, I am stitched from your very same breath,  woven from the days you beg me to forget.  A new home for us to finally grow, but it still feels like leaving.  The final fistful into the wound.  I look in the mirror and I'm wearing your skin—  the same brownness in the same golden glow of evening.    Now, it’s this day’s evening,  that hears the echo of your tired breath.  I touch my face, trace your name in my skin,  and wonder if I can ever forget  the shape of you forever, the same burning wound  that never heals a blistering, festering mark. Like love never leaving.    Evening comes again, but this time I forget  To close the blinds, ma, will you come in once more. Let the light shine on your skin? Ma, for all that you’ve done I still carry you in every single breath.
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Something a bit older
Poetry / by ne0logy
Last post
 May 1st, 2025
...See more Untitled 5 I.  I stand in the quiet house,  the one with rooms unlit, where time leaks  through the ceiling, one drop  at a time. You ask me if I remember,  and I want to say yes—  II.   There’s no ceremony to it—  how silence becomes a language,  how a life becomes a chore.  I sit at the window and watch the world.  Somewhere, a child  laughs as if joy were simple, as if it knew  no bounds. I want to ask it how it feels  but my mouth is full of bile.  III.  I thought I could rise from the roots,  but the earth stayed still, the sky never called me back.  It’s cinematic how the   years wilt like forgotten letters in drawers.   (they were once meant to be opened)   IV.  We all had wings once, I think,  but somewhere between falling asleep for school and waking up for work  they unraveled in the dark.  Like prayers you only whisper when you think no one is listening.    And now I walk through this field,   grounded,   knowing even the grass forgets my feet.  I once believed in bloom   but the world has a way of letting you fade  before you ever get the chance to grow.  V.  I tried to gather the hours—  a handful of rain slipping  through my cupped palms.    But time runs,  it runs and takes everything with it,  leaving me here—  a room with too many windows,  none facing the sun.  VI.  I dream of living the way  dust settles—softly, without mark.  The silence fills me until  I am all silence.    Even the clock turns,  and the walls breathe, but I don’t—  I wait,  like a door that never opens,  for a hand that never knocks. 
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