Backyard

Time touched my shoulder once— I haven’t felt real since.

.

"The Ceiling Has Thoughts" The ceiling blinked first— said I’d been staring too long. Time giggled in the corner, counting backward just to mock me. My shadow packed its bags and left a sticky note: "You think too loud. I need air." The fan overhead spun secrets, whispered in Morse code— I’m not sure if it cursed me or told me the meaning of life (too lazy to translate). I sipped gravity like tea, watched ants reinvent capitalism on the edge of my desk. And somewhere, in a parallel kitchen, my toast is still falling but never hits the floor. — master

Now having plenty of premium user as member of this channel and all other passionate readers I hereby recommend you to use Stickers @xtickerz and emojis @A1emoji shaped by me....🥰

Now having plenty of premium user as member of this channel and other all other passionate readers I hereby recommend you to use Stickers @xtickerz and emojis @A1emoji shaped by me....🥰

😋

Can I smile? Can you? —Or is that a permission you seek, from a world that taught you to earn your joy like wages, to smile only if you're worthy, only if you’re not broken? Maybe the real question is— Do you remember how? How to let your lips curve without guilt without apology without thinking who’s watching. Yes. You can. Even if it trembles, even if it cracks— smile like defiance, smile like rebellion, smile because they never expected you to. And that’s the point. — master...

I sleep beside regrets and wake up with their shadows in my tea.

I touched the moon once— it was cold, and looked a lot like my reflection.

got some blood on my pen

Every “I’m fine” is just a riddle I hope no one solves.

I kissed the night like an old lover, drank from its shadows like wine. Loneliness wore a velvet coat— and I, a smile stitched in decline. — master

I fell for a ghost in a library— her breath smelled like old ink and regret. We read tragedy by candlelight and forgot how to forget. – master

Library Ghosts (Maybe they’re not haunting me. Maybe they’re just reading over my shoulder.) In the hush between old pages, where ink has long turned sepia, I feel a breath that isn't mine flutter past the margins. The chandeliers flicker not from fear— but from memory. Perhaps the ghosts in this library aren’t here to wail, but to whisper. They gather in corners, cloaked in parchment and poetry, not lost souls—just lost readers too enchanted to leave. One leans in as I turn the page, as if to say, "Ah, this was my favorite line too." Another lingers where spines crack and crumble, touching words they once needed— needed so much, they never let go. No chains, no screams, no clatter— just the rustle of thoughts between realms, between us. Maybe the dead don’t haunt the living. Maybe we haunt the silence they’ve claimed as home. So I sit, still. Let them read. Let them remember. Let them belong. Want it to go darker, more playful, or maybe turn it into a visual spoken-word style? —master

I am a half-written poem left on a napkin in someone’s dream.