Poetic Stories

Friendship loves stealing fries.

Together, they steal all your worries.

One fills your heart, the other your soul.

Misty fog, surrounding me Burning colours, beneath my feet Wind in my ear, whispers, unseen

Wet grass, in my nose Red fur, across the path Chittering, in the tree

Silence, but not silent surrounding me, in misty fog

- 26.06.2026

I cannot read,

Or must have just gone blind,

If life was like a driving test,

will occur this day?

Bipolar definitely will choose

You already know

no one knows

Hell I don't even know

I mean it's like flipping a switch

Other times--

my give a damn is busted

I cannot find it

Bipolar has the upper hand so......

there's that

because in that moment,

I realized what I had done,

and the weight of it came crashing down.

​I realized how completely I had let you in—

how I had hidden no part of myself from you.

You were now so woven into my soul

that there could never be a goodbye.

​Even if you left, you would remain,

until my last, dying breath.

When you finally fall in the realisation,

Of the mistake you made,

When you decided to let me go,

For my arms will always be open for you...

©️fallencalliope

pillow memories

fill my tired eyes

fuzzy thought clouds

spill into an empty sky

streaming screaming

about today's arrival

hungry for yesterday

fighting for survival

grappling with tomorrow

impending changes

instigate internal sorrow

tears soak comfort foam

feelings cannot be erased

uncontrollable emotions

an impressionistic poem

words fall into lines

sequences into stanzas

life tends to rearrange

dreams become nightmares

your side of the bed

so cold and dead

pull the covers over my head

attempt to forget

every syllable you said

yet pillows talk

never to be misled

they remember everything

stories about us

each whispered wish

dancing in the sheets

the glory of forever love

togetherness we keep

nested in pillow dreams

☆☆☆☆☆

CW: intense depression

I'm twitching

on the edge of a world

that I forgot

when I remembered

how to give eulogies

instead of sighs

and I'm shedding the rainbows

that formed after storms

of wrinkled rain

and sour snow;

I replace them

with the gray matter that falls

from my eyes and tongue

after another morning

wishing the night

would devour

every umbilical cord

and the happy songs

"It's better to burn out than to fade away." -- Kurt Cobain

Such a sixteen-year-old,

barely shaving, pale-fleshed

larval way of thinking.

Words so diamond bright and

diamond sharp, cleaving the light

into gemstone rainbows. Casting

that same colored light on the

bleeding corpse of your youth

and naming it "art".

Time breathes in tides,

smoothing the sharp rocks,

fattening calfs and knitting

coats for the new sheep.

Your work ripens as apples

in the trees, blushing sweet

with age.

Allow yourself to grow.

To know your child. Cast away

your sparkling platitudes.

There is comfort in softness,

in wool, milk, apples, and

I became a rainbow by becoming soft,

by becoming hard.

Learning how to diffract like water

and transform darkness into iridescent light.

​I watched the storm bring me a seed of stone,

and took it not as death, but as a birth.

That day, I vowed to choose acceptance, healing, and forgiveness;

the wound would become a pearl

coated in a thousand layers of my own heart.

In the quiet, unseen depths of the ache,

I did not cast the sharp edges away.

Instead, I dressed them in devotion,

remembering patience and resilience, layer by layer.

​And so, I discovered how to turn wounds into something beautiful—

to wrap them in strength and grace, in wisdom and growth.

I built a sanctuary out of my scars,

not to perpetuate the pain,

but to show it its way through:

to teach the grief how to dissolve into grace,

and let the shadow give way to the dawn.

The world craves the iridescent glow of a beauty divine,

but there is no luster without the labor,

no shine without the shattering.

Yet few know how to pay the price

with the soft but unyielding faith that is love.

Few know that to truly shine,

you must first be willing to hold your own broken pieces,

and coat them with love.

and the evil in me

you are the tide crashing

over my head, the stitched

lips leaving words unsaid

a bright hue turned ashen

the quiet wood’s passion

soothing song of the dead

you are the wisp of smoke

to my soft hearted choke

and the ache in my thighs

the darkest black of night

every dream i awoke, my

only thought to provoke

you are a gossamer line

a needful way to unwind

an every path to the future

the every past left to suture

amidst a lacemaker mind

when i was in fifth grade, (and

again in tenth), i had to memorize

the Preamble of the Constitution.

(we the people, of the united states...)

do kids still do that? do they still sit

in dusty classrooms without enough

books, in homes with no heat, no ac,

no food and read the words written

in the last quarter of the 18th century,

by dead white men who held pens in

one hand, bloody whips in the other?

are they still taught those self-evident

truths from that hoary old parchment,

do they see it born of an abattoir, inked

with words -- breathing, living, document.

the fruit of the tree of liberty, watered

with the blood of the poor? or are they

still taught the pyrite gleam of life,

liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?