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twerp
1 94,497 M Marching Ahead 9
Ludwig Von Prewt
PathStep 129 Compassion hearts5,815 Forum posts210 Forum upvotes414 Current upvotes414 Age GroupTeen Last activeSeptember, 2026 Member sinceJanuary 6, 2024
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(Wonderful profile made by @theboymoana) 🌟



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just one cent
Poetry / by twerp
Last post
 November 16th, 2025
...See more Wednesday knocks on the door I usually answer to Caramel deLites  buy 75 cents worth to be polite  but I'm short one today so it's scout takes a pencil and marks me to the floorboards  so it can peer down on me I accept  and meet mondays dust  and sundays stale holy name I scrub my skin into this because now I am just as small then the scout offers to come back later shakes 74 cents out of my hand and says "good-bye" Wednesday, I know you are here but will you tell tuesday to stay longer? I want to borrow one cent just one cent
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Hair in the wind, after Victoria Chang
Poetry / by twerp
Last post
 October 7th, 2025
...See more This morning I laced my depression into secure knots and climbed into the rust of my brother's car. I only asked 4 times for the windows to be let free and the 5th time the wind escaped from the glass to shake my hair alive. I wanted to be shook too. Is it possible to be envious of yourself? I ask this as a line of my DNA floats out to a better life. I thought all day of that part of me who became free.  so much that I didn’t tie my shoes when my depression unraveled over my feet. That day, I smeared my happiness  with the earth's happiness into a yarn ball wound loose. I shut my eyes. I knew I’d find that strand of hair wound in between the lines of my language trapped. Maybe all language is a trap.
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Independent
Poetry / by twerp
Last post
 September 18th, 2025
...See more my mother is a wooden ladle soaking up what’s cooking.  stirring the bubbling  and boiling  down to a soothing simmer. she says to me often  as sharp as a splinter  that a cooking pot  Is useless  without its spoon. but i think she’s wrong because I scorch all my fingers grasping redhot on that pot lift to my chin and bask in that soupy glory all by myself.
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Good bones (2)
Poetry / by twerp
Last post
 September 11th, 2025
...See more (hello changed a few words up) TW// . . . your flesh rotted and hung off bone i cannot bear  to kiss your cavity  of a mouth anymore, all left of you a head without  a mind of its own a body void of it’s popping joints sprouting pains its stomach aches and muscle sprains. but still I hold you close. thinkin’ like  the realtor  who lured me down the street to the splintered house no one in their right mind  would buy  a lone basket of fruit glaring from the wood craved table  waiting to decompose she handed me the rusted key with opportunity much like sliver gun metal Her hope was ringing  Through my brain Which im almost certain  She’s put onto every person  Who burdened to come here “It’s not the best, but it has  Good bones” Good bones, Good bones.
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ghostly
Poetry / by twerp
Last post
 September 20th, 2025
...See more hear,  The wind laughing like a clown, growling like a howled down hound can you hear, my daughter, the death in it? Listen,  closely and carefully  silent like the pond  I terrian  fostering  an ecosystem who pleads to be found dead dragonflies  decomposing ripping and clawing  at their lack of flight when you turn  your cheek. I am starving,  my daughter.  my hunger  staring down an empty  pot licking the leftovers like the beast of a newborn dog It knows nothing of why yet starves to be gluttonous hear,  the gurgling of my stomach aching for the life in your  skin.  My daughter. Hear it.
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away
Poetry / by twerp
Last post
 September 5th, 2025
...See more I strain my spine curling against  the living and everything twists  strange.  my appetite  natural  and iron  my embrace just kinship  around  dark kissmaking    thinking, knife the bond but just for a minute  I taste the bodies hold and away the strain
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Good bones
Poetry / by twerp
Last post
 September 4th, 2025
...See more (hello, abandoned writing, trying to find it again. (In a real way this time)) Even though  your flesh is rotted and fallen away And i cannot bear  To kiss your cavity  of a mouth anymore , And all left of you a head without  a mind of its own A bag of bones void of its joints and growing pains and its popping cracking  and sprains. I hold you close. Almost like  how the realtor  Brings me down  the street To the rundown house No one in their right mind  Would buy  A lone basket of fruit Glaring from the table  Waiting to rot Handing me the papers Who I clutch close, Closely to my heart Her words ringing  Through my brain Which im almost certain  She’s told every person  Who burdened to come here “It’s not the best, but it has  Good bones” Good bones, Good bones.
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June 12th, 2025.
Poetry / by twerp
Last post
 June 20th, 2025
...See more It was something about the quietness that shook me. The morning had forgotten  the pain of last night The clock ticked Slow. Reluctant. As if time itself  was unsure  whether to continue. And in that stillness,  I expected to see you. Maybe in the doorway, half there or reflected faintly  in the windowpane like a breath against glass slowly evaporating. it seems the quietest place  of all is the closet, absent of your luggage. you had packed  your loudness away. and the clock  kept ticking.
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