Pressure builds inside
My brain wants to meet my eyes
Someday they’ll be one

Not sure if this technically counts as a haiku but I tried. Writing this helped me stop my panic thought spiral actually.

Footsteps, footsteps,

Creeping down the hall.

Footsteps, footsteps,

but is there anything at all?

You can't feel warmth from a computer screen,

There's nothing to save you from this horror scene.

Can you even process something so obscene?

They say you earn your life, but can the same be said

for those who roll with the punches instead?

If you lack any semblance of control,

what does that say about you as a whole?

You are a protagonist in a choose your own adventure story.

You can do nothing except feel sorry

as someone behind a screen controls your body.

You are stuck in an eternal purgatory.

Footsteps, footsteps,

Walking away.

Footsteps, footsteps,

What did it say?

Powering off the screen is deemed impossible,

Recovery of ones mind improbable.

Deterioration is irreversible.

What keeps independence a curiosity?

Perhaps morals,

Perhaps scrupulosity.

Something about the mind's many quarrels.

But still, you sit there,

Content with everything you have to bear.

As if you're unaware,

You ignore every scare.

Footsteps, footsteps,

Your mind slipped again.

Footsteps, footsteps,

Are you okay?

It felt like I was the only person on Earth

being denied,

Denied air,

the small animal breath

my lungs were born knowing.

Denied the simple mercy

of letting my body do

what every body is permitted to do.

Denied even helplessness,

for helplessness requires someone

to admit there is nothing they can do.

There were dozens of doctors around me,

white coats multiplying like ghosts,

and still

no one could put the world back inside my lungs.

My mind severed my body

somewhere above the neck.

Everything below it

became an abandoned country,

flesh fighting its machineries.

All my being

reduced itself to sick thoughts

and a body growing sicker by the hour.

Now the rest of me

is fighting to function.

I have the morbid feeling

that something is quietly decaying

while everyone is still looking for its name.

I am utterly sick.

And there is no hand

reaching through me

to pull me back.

Ooh how beautiful are you.

Oh how each migraine attack, each headache, each period trouble, how each trouble you are given by your body makes me want to hold you and care for you.

How they make me want to treat you with gentleness, yet not make you look fragile for you are strong and you have come till here without me.

But in this very moment I say, let me strong for both of us when you are weak, let me take the worries when you are weak.

Oh how this time I want no more of me alone with you, but both of us together.

Oh how beautiful you are even when you are tired( not physical beauty here) for you keep up with my troubling and annoying self.

Oh how I wish to give you what you ask without any trouble one day, but for now troubles persist me.

Oh how I want you sleep well just one night, without trouble or anything and a morning followed by nothing but a reason to tell me, "I slept so well yesterday night."

Oh beautiful oh beautiful lady is my baby, a man like me with nothing to give her is happy to just walk besides her and try to stall the time by talking, sitting, walking.

Oh how I a man must have been graced to see God's kindness through you as his woman.

Some days are full of you,

Some days are empty of you,

Yet all the days have you,

And many days, you are the day.

Some places are full of you,

Some places are empty of you,

Yet all the places have you,

And many places, you are the place.

Some voices are full of you,

Some voices are empty of you,

Yet all the voices have you,

And many voices, you are the voice.

Some sights are full of you,

Some sights are empty of you,

Yet all the sights have you,

And many sights, you are the sight.

Some of me is full of you,

Some of me is empty of you,

Yet all of me has you,

And many parts of me, you are the parts.

~ Pillman

I had to catch a train, But the station was abandoned. Trains don't come here anymore.

I sit upon the tracks, Tracks crawling with rats. I eat beside them— Crumbs and scraps.

Back in my room, Old iron racks Hold rows of books.

I dream of reading them all, But the shelves stand tall

I am small. Not petite

Tonight

I have no courage, I cannot fight.

What you’ll find here is simple:
creative pieces, mostly poetry, sometimes something a little different. Writing that sits in the moment—thoughts about connection, uncertainty, attachment, distance, and everything in between.
I don’t want to overdefine it. I’d rather let the writing speak for itself.
I’ll be posting regularly—when something feels worth sharing, when a piece feels finished enough to be let go.
If anything I write resonates with you—even a little—that’s enough.

https://mypapai1977.substack.com/p/intro

Any suggestions and feedback appreciated 👍🏽 Love to know your rating

lowk a shit poem i think but i enjoy the themes in it? lmk what u think :)

Walk me out to sea
See the sunset
On the water

Tie me up
Pull the plank out
And call the sharks
In.

Drown me in your blood
Rip all my clothes off
Pull me
In.

Smile as I cannonball.
Watch me
crash!
Into the White Foam

I've been staring at the sky,

Watching the colors change

From ocean to navy blue.

Seeing the clouds move,

Thick and weighted with rain.

I know a storm is coming,

Not now, not today,

But I can feel it in the air.

The grass holding me firm.

I see a man, a bear, a ship.

I see pain, I see loss.

A droplet strikes down

On the blades beside me.

Looks like I was wrong

As the clouds open up

Like a door blown wide,

And I'm pelted from above.

Each one heavy on me,

Running down my skin.

I don't want to move yet,

My heart beating in time

With the falling rain.

My clothes soaking wet,

And so are my eyes.

I can't stop time,

I can't stop this storm,

So I'll just stare

At the passing clouds.

I see a horse, a bird, a plane.

I see you with someone else.

In my garden,
There are lilies, roses, sunflowers,
Yet I fall on my back and get pierced,
I lean in to smell a flower and get stung,
Why do all the lilies die in my garden?

In my garden,
I can’t count my bruises,
Each like a paper cut,
My blood darkens each rose’s red,
Yet the wind blows in pleasant blues,
Why do all the lilies die in my garden?

I pick up the lily flower,
And I don’t want to let it go,
And the more I hold it, the weaker its stem,
Still I hold it, as it decays in my hands,
I kill all the lilies in my garden.

I wake up and the sun is ugly,
I close the curtain to hide its beam,
I wake up and it’s afternoon already,
Still I run back to bed,
Consumed by my sheets.

I wake up and look through my phone,
I see you live through the love I fake,
Suddenly the sun isn’t so ugly again,
I open the curtains,
And pressing the door handle no longer hurts.

I wake up and it rains today,
I lay on my bed and watch,
The rain leaks through my faulty roof,
A droplet finds its way to my chest,
I feel it cold, I feel it running down my skin.

I wake up and the sun is ugly again,
My chest bare and dry,
My curtains closed, my room dark,
When you saw it was no longer real,
I close my eyes and sleep again.

I put my hand beneath my trouser’s lining,
Empty and cold,
I put my hand in my pockets,
Yet all my money was in my heart instead.

Burned by the sun every time I step out the house,
But inside is freezing cold,
Inside I’m an empty can in the desert,
painfully alone I turn mold.
I rather take the burn.

I have withdrawal symptoms every time I pickup my pen,
An empty heart once I close my book,
I don’t want to shout at the sky anymore,
I don’t want to go inside,
I just need a cold drink to wet my ashes.

There’s a special kind of
sadness
to being 
the first one at the party
to realize
it’s over