put god in the doorstep, he wouldn't eat what's in my fridge
2026-08-25
all that i don't give you
i don't give you because it asks you to reveal yourself
i like you better when you're not here.
all the things i share with you, i don't even question if they reach you
i need a shelter.
i, need, something, bigger than myself.
but you, if you saw,
could you comprehend something so raw?
i doubt you could.
your eyes i escape from its gaze,
its eternal beam would cut straight through the maze,
pull me out of the rug i hide under,
its motifs symbolize sadness and sonder.
could your eyes realize, eye sees something unbeaten in i?
and if you look at me i'll be forged,
turned into a weapon, wielded in your will,
and for what? all for a new tomorrow?
the sand dunes are the collective power of yesterday,
sun's rays gets here every day yes, but it has been so since yesterday
you want preparedness for a tomorrow, is it because past is the source of sorrow?
how hurt you gotta be to wanna transform?
god, you need a god too.
how do you want to read?
poems can unravel themselves as you read, line by line, at a considered pace — or just sit there, fully visible, like normal.
change this anytime — look for “reading: …” near the top of any poem.