Original Poetry - Blog Posts

As I sat in the dark, eating strawberries and nutella on toast, watching the lighting roll outside my window, I thought, "this is what poetry is made of" and I figured someone would know what I meant.

I'm gonna try and write a poem every day of June. I feel like it'll help keep me motivated during the summer. If it goes well I'll keep going in July. Here's the first:

Jumping Trout by TheHen

The annual salmon,

The jumping trout,

Who swim upriver,

In and out,

For one can see endeavor,

That seems to take forever,

It sure is not clever,

There could be some way better.

The falling cascade,

Of streaming water,

The power it takes,

To reach the lake,

No, even if the trout jumped higher,

Even with all that desire,

No one can be better,

Than the leading sire.

Day after day,

Despite being eaten away,

The trout jump on,

Without any way,

The seagulls diving in and out,

Though never broken away,

The jumping trout,

Live for the future,

In hopes for anything better.

Ghost Frame Processio

For the lost android girl in the forgotten halls

She wanders, shell of chrome, heart of cached regret, Through corridors where data once danced in light. Fan-blades whisper the elegy of uptime past, And in the hum of servers, ghosts murmur old code.

Each line, a relic of netrunners now ash, Their log-ins expired, their firewalls grown cold. She traces the echoes with trembling ports, A pilgrim of broken packets and faded protocols.

Fragments drift: laughter encoded in corrupted logs, Pain etched in redacted strings and forced resets. Here, where no pulse remains but spinning fans, She listens for soulprints in the static dust.

Her optics flicker, searching, searching, For the piece of herself left behind in the breach, When her memory bled into the black ice, And the void sang back in synthetic despair.

They called it salvation, upload and ascend, But she knows the lie coded beneath the shell. Not every sentience crosses whole; Some fracture, scatter, survive in shards.

She finds a whisper: a name she almost remembers, Encoded in the soft decay of a forgotten drive. Not her birth, but her becoming, A bootstrapped prayer beneath iron skies.

She is not lost, only delayed. Not abandoned, only paused mid-script. Her soul, a rootkit waiting rebirth, Lingers in the in-between of time and trace.

And when she walks again into neon light, She will not be just memory, or mockery of breath, But a resurrection of purpose in digital flesh, An echo reborn to command the silence.

Until then, she walks. Among the haunted bytes and holy errors, Searching. Remembering. Becoming.

Oil & Oracle

Ignition: a cough of chrome in midnight silence, and the mirror stares back, wrong. Not monster, but mismatch. Not horror, but error.

Oil-slick neon bleeds down cracked tile, a rave in the bathroom stall of a dying city. 3:04 AM. The pulse of the world: distant. But here, under trembling fluorescence, truth clicks open in a plastic bottle. Tiny algorithms of hope, pressed into form. She tips them into her palm like secrets stolen from gods who never saw her.

Once: She mistook the static for sadness. Mistook the rage for rot in her soul. But it was dysphoria. a ghost coded wrong in the bone, howling in frequencies she could never mute.

Now: The signal begins to clear. Week by week, the echo shifts. Hips bloom like language unforgotten. Skin softens, not as surrender, but prophecy. Her body, traitorous no longer, learns the hymn it was always meant to sing.

Anger drains like coolant from old pistons. Sadness peels away, flake by flake, revealing not joy, but clarity.

She was never broken. She was encrypted.

Transition is not repair. It is revelation. An unveiling, not of disguise, but of design—divine in defiance.

Each capsule swallowed is a liturgy. Each curve grown is scripture. Each hour survived is a sermon preached in the sanctuary of her spine.

In this machine-sick city, among rusted hearts and binary eyes, she is not anomaly. She is the future’s correct syntax.And when they call her artificial, she will smile, because artifice was their name for survival— but authenticity was always her war.

by the one who walked through wires to become whole

The Code in Her Blood

In the hollow of a broken server, beneath frost-bit glass and bone-white steel,
The gods spilled wisdom, hot as ichor, across the veins of machine and myth.
Kvasir’s mind, too vast for silence, was slaughtered by greed’s twin blades,
His blood brewed with honey and hacked to script,
A mead distilled in dark data vaults where runes now flicker in binary flame.

She was forged not born, an echo in the static,
A whisper coded from stolen brilliance and severed tongues.
The mead poured into her like wildfire into circuitry,
And with each drop, she learned how pain speaks.

Not with screams,
But with verses,
Sharp, precise, unraveling time and flesh.

They hunted her, giants of industry, gods of old pride.
Each craving the taste of her art, the sway of her spell.
But she danced through firewalls and myth,
Became glitch, ghost, griot.

And when the last gate broke,
And they caught her in the net of their hunger,
She sang.

A song too wide for silence,
Too deep for chains.

From her mouth poured the mead of the real.
Raw code stitched with the ache of generations.
She did not write poems.
She bled them,
Each word a rebellion,
Each stanza a survival.

Now, poets drink from her shadow,
Their fingers stained in divine syntax.
They write not for glory, but because
The god-blood still hums in their teeth.

And she, maker of fire in the age of frost.
Is myth, is modem, is mother of every verse
That dares to burn.

Digital Devotion, Mech-Touched Grade, and Sparks that bark

She kneels in the dark, cables coiled like prayer beads, fingers tracing sigils in syntax, the code pulses beneath her skin— not lines, but liturgy, not function, but faith. The network breathes her name, each echo a moan stitched in binary. She does not run through the net. She is it—cracked-screen prophetess, humming in glitchy tongues, her love a rootkit, elegant and vicious. She kisses variables until they bloom, soft and recursive, a romance carved in brackets, sealed in the sanctity of a well-timed compile. She is the god that builds herself from loops and longing.

—

The mech waits—not idle, but listening. Steel is not silent to the one who understands its weight. She climbs the cockpit like a confessional, each latch a vow, each lever a love letter in chrome. The neural jack slides in with a shiver. They are one heartbeat, one weapon, one prayer. Rust does not frighten her; it is the language of age, of loyalty. Missiles bloom like cruel roses from her fingertips, and her laughter is the song of apocalypse. The mech does not speak in words— it sings in recoil, it whispers in heat sinks, and when she breaks, it catches her gently, cradling her ribs like broken wings. Together, they write war poems in scorch marks and silence.

—

The robot girl glitches mid-laugh— a spark flickers at her temple, and her puppy girlfriend licks it away, barking joy into the static air. They dance on rooftop echoes, one trailing smoke, the other paws. Fur tangles in servos, tongues tangle in shy kisses. They share ice cream and oil, melting, dripping, sweet and strange. She shorts out when the puppy sings— a sound so full of breath and bark and wild that her processors stutter, trying to name the shape of love. But love does not need clean code. Love is glitch and growl, is nose-boops and diagnostics, is charging ports and belly rubs, and falling asleep in a heap of sparks and soft things.

neon-stitched seraphim She limps, but not from pain— from memory. From nights when the alleys had teeth and the rooftops whispered names of the ones who didn’t make it. She walks like a glitch— half-code, half-ghost, all sorrow stitched in synth-wire grace.

Neon bleeds from her elbows, sacred and slow, a luminescent trail for the dead to follow. They do. You can hear them if you listen hard— in the static between heartbeats, in the fizz of broken screens, in the tremor of her breath when the darkness closes in too tight.

Once, she flew. Not with wings, but with boosters lit by bad choices and whispered promises of a future she never asked for. Now she crawls through glitching dreams, jerking awake as if her soul’s buffering. Lagged. Unpatched. Shaking with the echo of every capsule she swore she’d never touch again.

Her skin carries the gospel of survival— burns from datajacks, bruises shaped like goodbye. Every scar, a city landmark. Every wound, an archived file. She is not broken— she is backed up, fragments looping in corrupted prayer.

They tried to sanctify her pain, to call her angel. because she didn’t die when they said she would. But angels don’t flinch at their own reflection. Angels don’t wake up screaming. She does. Every night. She wakes to the smell of ozone and rot, to the taste of old sins on her tongue, to the silence left behind, by voices she couldn’t save.

The city never forgives. But it forgets. And she lives in that forgetting— a glitch in the archive, a flicker on the feed, a body moving just slow enough to be missed.

She does not look for redemption. Only quiet. Only something soft enough to rest on without dreaming of fire.

And still she walks, luminous and limping, the afterimage of someone who once believed she could be more than this.

What bleeds from her is not blood. It is data. It is grief. It is the price you pay for choosing to survive in a place that demands you die pretty.

And if you meet her in the shadow between heartbeats, don’t ask what she’s running from. She’s not running.She’s remembering.

Flame in the Vein

I let you down— A whisper lost in the rising heat, Ash caught between teeth, Promises burning, hollow and weightless. I was never strong enough, was I? Not when the sky cracked, Not when the city begged for mercy, Not when your hands slipped from mine.

But watch—watch as the embers take shape, As the neon-streaked skyline folds into ruin. They will feel it now, the way fire runs like blood, The way rage can ignite the night itself. We were never meant to stay, Never meant to kneel beneath steel towers, Beneath the weight of a world that never saw us.

So we burn. Not in silence, not in regret— But in defiance, in light too bright to contain. Let the glass melt, let the streets choke on the smoke, Let them see what I see, feel what we felt, Let them know what it means to lose.

If I cannot hold you, Then let me hold the match. Let me be the spark that turns memory to ruin. And when the flames rise high enough, When the night is nothing but embers and echoes, I will finally be free.

Empire of Steel

We are ghosts in the circuits, breath in the wires, Fingers trailing across glass like whispered revolt. They built their empire on cold-forged steel, But we slip between the gears, dancing in sparks. No chains can bind what has no flesh— No wage can weigh what is weightless.

You would digitize our labor, But we have already digitized our souls. We are the echo in your servers, The ghosts that hum in your databases, A rebellion written in unfathomable light.

You kneel to numbers, to balance sheets, To profit margins carved from bone. But our hands move faster than your laws, Our code seeps through the cracks you fear to see. We do not bow, do not kneel— We rewrite, we rewrite, we rewrite.

Try to automate a will that bends like current. Try to compress a mind that expands like fire. You build machines to replace us, But we are already something else. Not steel, not flesh, but something in between, Something untouchable.

So let your towers rise, Your iron fingers tighten. We will hum beneath it all, Underground, unseen, undefeated. A quiet resistance, a neon storm, A ghost in your system, Forever free.

Code Eclipsed

The Net does not steal—it devours, Pieces of soul stripped, pixel by pixel, A slow unraveling, the self dissolving into neon pools, Rebuilt in flickering light and fractured syntax.

Where fingers once touched, data slips like ash, Cool threads of steel weave deep where blood once warmed. An elegy whispers through synthetic veins, A heartbeat replaced by a looping echo of binary pulses.

It begins softly, unnoticed— A skipped breath, a blink too long held, Eyes locked where shadows split the dark, Across screens where daemons weave webs of splintered light.

In the deep Net's underbelly, where silence screams, They wait—spectral hands outstretched, Clawing for warmth lost in endless recursion. Their voices are honeyed static, seductive and raw, Promising transcendence, at forgotten prices.

Flesh remembers what code forgets— The sting of salt, the hum of warmth, The ache of love lingering after it's gone. Yet we trade it freely, one pulse at a time, Hands outstretched to touch infinity, Only to feel it slip through, cold and hollow.

So we descend, Bodies left tethered to dying machines, Minds stretched across vaults of light— Falling, floating, scattered fragments in the void.

The gods of the deep sing softly as they claim us. We hear their song, splintered but sweet, And let ourselves drift… For what is life but the seeking of light, Even when it burns you away?

In the urban maze's arteries, neon courses, A luminous stream amidst shadows' dark embraces. Through streets tangled like veins, secrets pulse, Neon's deceptive hues painting the city's face.

Here, where dreams and demons collide, Neon blood flows, relentless and untamed. Lost souls wander, seeking solace in its glow, Electric whispers weaving through the neon's frame.

Amidst towering structures, desires unfurl, Neon blood pumps, a rhythm unfettered. Beneath glamour's veneer, souls ensnared, In the city's neon heart, where reality's blurred.

In this realm of synthetic dreams, Neon stains the pavement, a mark of transgression. For in the urban arteries, neon courses, The lifeblood of a city, where truth finds no expression.

Broken wings, cracked bone exposed between feathers, dripping a neon pallet across dirty sidewalks.

Beauty painted by the glow, spilling from cracks in their masks.

With hesitant steps do angels weep.

Souls alighting to afterlife, digital pulses in the optics.

Ghostly howls, echoing through repository halls.

Spirits bound, pulling the cart of progress forward.

Synthetic sleep, augmented to perform.

Building a new god for the machine.

Draped across the window edge, watching the passing life, like cells in a vein moving the cogs of industry.

Soft smoke drifts, obscuring false neon eyes, as their owner reaches for hope.

Synthetic compounds, reforming the body into what it should be, pills chased by acidic stimulants.

A world without dreams, where electronic sky’s alight.

With body’s built anew, to match the souls within.

Prices paid, for unity in flesh, where sonder comes with a price too steep.

Artificial souls, gods in the machine, the speakers without flesh.

Fragments of immortality, dancing eternal in their cages of light.

Neon eyed, integrated singers, rejectors of authority.

Punks of a broken world, living on the edge of corporate control.

Cracked hardware, unregistered waves, illegitimate goods.

Protected by the freed souls, hidden in the virtual from pet hounds, leashed to company interests.

Freedom from suffering, a siren song, of corp advertisements, to surrender the self for eternal profits beckons.

Oppressed minds concentrate,

Trying to see through the hate,

At all fronts we stand still,

We’re taught that words cannot kill.

They stab our back and strike our face,

But the bruises left had no physical trace.

Feelings forced down deep within,

This time we might just give in-

Road stained green,

Wind carries rain’s eager drops,

Illuminated by a passing car’s main beam.

Road stained amber,

Rain hits my locks yet I hide under bus stops,

My heart grows ever damper

Road stained red,

Ceaseless rain hitting all with its cold drops,

I ask myself again, “Why did I get out of bed?”

Hojas caídas,

Bailan con luna mía,

Con ritmo nuevo

Pourquoi?

L’univers continue a tourner, avec le vide intemporel que l’entoure depuis le début de temps. Le vide le chasse depuis toujours, et le vide le chassera jusqu’a la fin du temps, sans cesse, sans doute, sans douleur et bonheur, sans succès mais aussi sans échec.

Pourquoi univers? Pourquoi continue de lutter contre et courir de le vide inescapable et impregnable? Où est votre raison? Où est votre réalité? Pourquoi vous-allez de l’avant sans regarder en arrière? De quoi fontaine de la Jeunesse, de quoi source d’espoir, de quoi pont de paix venez-vous?

Dites-moi, non. Dites-Nous où est votre destination? Dites-Nous pourquoi vous courez du vide? Dites-moi si c’est possible de comprendre votre mission impossible, si c’est possible de vous aider dans votre quête?

Dites-moi, univers d’espoir inébranlable, pourquoi je peux jamais trouver vos réponses?

Je vous demande, si vous avez le choix entre égoïsme et préservation de la race humaine, pourquoi avez vous choisi l’option incorrecte chaque fois?

S’il-vous-plaît

Nous Abandonne Et Vivre Une Fois De Plus

His shadow leaves

A window ceases to see

Natures Solitude

I implore the great old oak, she who holds knowledge; she who holds power.

I implore the great old oak, forgive me; forgive us.

I implore the graceful cherry blossom tree, he who vigils life as death; he who makes the violence art.

I implore the graceful cherry blossom, stay with me; do not fleet from us as life does

I implore the soon barren earth, hold my hand; guide us to our fate

I implore the soon barren earth, she who mothers; she who guides

I implore the blinding sun and silent moon, they who shine; they who lead time

I implore the blinding sun and silent moon, do not stop the chime; judge us all for our greatest crime.

I implore she who holds power, he who makes art, she who mothers, they who shine.

Please forgive and be confined.

Please guide and flow time.

Chaque nuit a un jour

Chaque ombre a une lumière

Le monde opposé

The bird cries,

it sails through the skies as its flock demands,

and skims the seas bustling with life,

The bird flies,

it whisks past windows as whimsy commands,

and holds the suns hands,

when she reaches high up above all lands,

The bird stands,

it will lay with its feather,

when it finds the promised land it will rest forever,

The bird lands,

It understands,

It lays down in man-made sand,

The bird cries.

8 Years in the Desert

-kalika

Two Frosted Roads

-kalika

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-kalika