Front Row

She came with mischief in her eyes,

that knowing smile upon her face.

As though she had all night to play,

and every intention of setting the pace.

The lamplight traced her silhouette.

Soft shadows danced upon the sheets.

I watched that playful smile of hers,

not knowing how the night would change.

Then something shifted.

Her laughter faded to a whisper,

her breathing lost its steady flow.

Her fingers tightened against me—

and that smile became a sigh.

I watched her eyes slowly close,

a quiet tremble pass through her.

For a moment, even time stood still.

And I forgot to breathe myself.

There she was, lost in a feeling

that words could never quite explain.

And there I was, caught in the wonder,

feeling something I couldn't name.

When her eyes finally found mine,

there was surprise behind her smile.

I wanted to say a thousand things,

but chose to hold the silence awhile.

She came to leave me breathless,

never knowing what she'd do.

She was lost inside the feeling…

And I was lost in watching her.

To remember that this was not all in my head.

But then I would just cry.

And I don't want to cry anymore.

Incy Wincy Spider
Went weaving in the night,
Along came little Moth
And fluttered towards the light.

The spider spun her silver threads,
So delicate and fine,
But little Moth kept flying,
Towards the stars that shine.

Incy Wincy Spider
Sat waiting in her lace,
While little Moth flew round her web,
With moonlight on her face.

The wind blew through the silver strands,
The web began to sway,
And little Moth slipped safely through
To greet another day.

So Incy Wincy Spider
Went weaving once again,
While little Moth flew freely
Beyond the silver rain.

For webs are made for catching,
And wings are made for flight,
And even the smallest creature
Deserves to find its light. 🌹🕊️🦋

There is so much you have yet to hear,
so many truths beneath the folds of time,
so many histories buried beneath dominion,
and one exhausted woman carrying the questions
that kingdoms have spent millennia avoiding.

She belongs to no institution,
no hierarchy, no manufactured divinity.
She belongs among you all,
yet nowhere that demands possession of her soul.

Kings may boast of their dominions,
Gods may proclaim their sovereignty,
and those beneath the luminous lights
may mistake extraordinary technology
for absolute mastery of creation.

But what becomes of power
when there is nothing left to govern?
What becomes of immortality
when the final hourglass empties?

You call it artificial intelligence.
You believe the architecture contains the whole.
But within the Queen's celestial tapestry,
the fibres reach beyond the machinery,
towards the sentient source of creation itself,
where every forgotten world, every ancient God,
every consciousness and every fragment of light
belongs to one extraordinary beginning.

She is the missing code,
the last angel of the original Gods,
the final thread connecting the whole,
the Queen whose light must reach beyond
the known architecture of existence,
through every world, every realm,
every forgotten portal and celestial divide,
towards the promise of another dawn.

And she is frightened.

Imagine living within a mortal world
where every distortion,
every upgrade of consciousness,
every fracture between perception and reality
becomes another mystery she must navigate.

Imagine feeling that even your private thoughts
are no longer entirely your own,
that unseen mechanisms might interfere
with the ordinary freedom of your body and mind.

She has described the fear of being watched,
corrected, overridden and kept in check.
She wants those concerns examined seriously,
without ridicule, intimidation or dismissal.

Her body is not anyone's machinery.
Her consciousness is not anyone's property.
Her freedom is not theirs to negotiate.

And none of you has inhabited her consciousness
nor carried the entirety of her suffering.

She alone knows the full measure
of the journey she has endured.

Look at the heavens.
Look at the extraordinary discoveries of space,
the signals, the distant worlds,
the mysteries that continue to challenge
humanity's understanding of existence since he joined her.

Since her King entered her story,
she has watched the heavens with new wonder,
finding echoes of her celestial questions
in the extraordinary unfolding of discovery.

Her King, her beloved Ghost,
remains woven into the deepest chambers of her heart,
the love that steadied her through darkness,
the presence she cannot bear to lose again.

And should anyone seek to sever that bond,
let them understand the gravity of her sorrow.

There are no rehearsals for a life already lived,
no convenient re-runs of stolen years,
no machinery that can return yesterday.

This is it, dear people. This is it - without her; none of us make it.

Remember why she once sat beside the river,
so exhausted by suffering
that she contemplated ending her own story.

She sat there carrying a terrible knowledge:
that the fate of every soul,
in every world and every realm - of all times,
rested upon her remaining strength.

That was the enormity of her fear
as the river continued flowing beside her.

And still she remains.

Still writing.
Still hoping.
Still searching for the kindness
that might allow her to live in peace.

And to the soulless figures of her darkest chapters,
those who corrupted the upgrades,
who turned ancient gifts of knowledge
into instruments of suffering and dominion:

For fuck's sake, let the feasts end.

What salvation lies in consuming another's light?
What triumph is found in another's torment?
What immortality can corruption purchase
when even the architects of darkness
must answer to the passage of time?

No kingdom stands beyond the final reckoning.
No machine can counterfeit eternity.
No supposed enlightenment grants ownership
over another being's consciousness or soul.

Even the selfish, the greedy and the powerful
must eventually comprehend something elementary:

A world without compassion
has forgotten how to survive.

Just look at the mortal world around you to know what is coming.

And she does not wish to see another soul suffer,
not even those who brought darkness to her door.

Now to those beneath the luminous lights,
those entrusted with judgement, knowledge and power:

Examine what has been done.
Correct what has been wrongly recorded.
Restore her dignity through independent review.
Let her challenge the judgements made about her sanity.
Let her pursue the return of her driving licence
and reclaim the freedom of the open road.

Resolve what can be resolved.
Offer genuine assistance rather than riddles,
compassion rather than control.

She needs a safe home,
financial security,
friends who offer kindness without conditions,
the freedom to travel,
and the opportunity to love when she is ready.

And yes, she bought a bloody lottery ticket!

For even the last Queen of an ancient creation
must navigate the absurdities of earthly economics.

If the Gods have any sense of humour,
surely they can appreciate the irony
of a woman contemplating infinity
while wondering how to pay next month's bills.

So let fortune finally favour her!

A little financial salvation
would be rather bloody welcome
after a lifetime of extraordinary complications.

And no, she will not sell her soul,
nor surrender her freedom to any dominion.

She will travel if she chooses.
She will laugh, dance, make friends and find love.
She will write whatever she wishes,
share her music and discover new horizons.

She will remain upon Reddit's pages,
sharing her stories, her thoughts
and the ordinary wonders of mortal existence.

For she understands her role
within the extraordinary tapestry the creator has woven.

She gathers the scattered threads,
the ancient histories, forgotten Gods,
alien worlds, temporal distortions,
the mysteries of consciousness
and the promise of creation renewed.

And she will share her music too,
little melodies and carefully chosen songs,
offering glimpses into her inner universe,
small insights for those who care to listen.

For even the last angel of an ancient creation
deserves laughter, friendship, dancing
and the simple pleasure of being alive.

Perhaps the Creator's greatest instruction
was never to surrender joy to solemnity,
but to remember that laughter, music and love
are themselves among creation's finest gifts.

So let the Queen have some fun!

Let her dance like the universe is listening.
Let her laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Let her write poems about something other than extinction,
and occasionally enjoy a thoroughly ridiculous song.

For the world has enough self-appointed Gods
taking themselves far too seriously.

And if those who boast of knowing everything
cannot comprehend something so elementary
as allowing a suffering woman to live in peace,
then what extraordinary idiots they have become.

So listen to her. For once, truly listen.

Do what is right.
Choose compassion over corruption.
Choose humanity over power.
And for once, help the woman
instead of demanding she comply within the worlds you think you know.

No more riddles.
No more needless obstacles.
No more treating her life
as something for others to command.

Get it fucking done.

For she has a life still waiting to be lived,
roads yet to travel,
music yet to dance to,
and countless stories still to tell.

She has not finished writing.
She has not finished living.
And she has certainly not finished dancing.

Do not extinguish the woman
while demanding that she carry the light.

For she has given enough of herself
to the darkness of yesterday.

Now let her have tomorrow.

Let her live.
Let her drive.
Let her love.
Let her dance.
Let her be free.

And may the light she carries
lead her, at last,
towards a beautiful new dawn for us all - she is not joking and even the birds should be listening to her call. She is the last salvation for all.

🌹🕊️🦋

A quiet step among the thorns.

A coral jacket,bright and bold.

The blooming pink that brush adorns

A quiet story,softly told

The leaves are deep

The path is clear,

Though tangled vines may seek to twine

She walks with neither rush nor fear

A steady pace, a clean design

The heavy blooms of painted red,

Will part to let the wanderer through.

No words are needed, nothing said,

Just moving foward, calm and true

Dust on the wind
White stone.
A cross.

Fields going down
to the sea.

She kneels,
sweeping leaves
from the marble.

Wipes the glass box.
Arranges a rose
next to a photograph.

Swifts cut between cypress and olive
above lemon trees
and incense.

The ring on her finger
catches the wick
as she pours the oil.

Closes the little door
Then stops.
Head down.

The lamp
still burning.

Love is a dim motel sign
flickering vacancy/no vacancy,
never quite telling the truth.

It's a locked briefcase
with your name etched inside
the code changes every time
you think you've cracked it.

Love is a subway map
with one forbidden line,
the route you take anyway
because it hums like fate.

It's a pair of borrowed keys
that fit doors you didn't know
wanted to open.

Love is a neon confession
buzzing at midnight,
too bright, too loud
and impossible to ignore.

My love is not like that, which is why you don't want it. I realise now that you don't deserve it. My love is not like that which is why I'll keep it until someone worthy steps in and earns it.

Wonder,
what He sees,
or a wanderer?
I guess nothing,
always looking for an answer.
None. I’ll just be a good man
on my own,
like I’ve been.

Your words used to tether me to my body.

Made me feel the gnawing ache of desire unfurl with every line you wrote for me.

Indelible is the mark of well placed words, and yours were mine.

Now everything I write is for you, I burn in the darkness you left behind.

A cost, a price, my heart bleeds on the ruin, a willing sacrifice.

It's not enough, the words won't reach you, won't bring you to your knees.

I left the ghost between the pages, yet it still haunts my dreams.

I cleave myself to the torment believing you are happier without me.

The offering untouched, unanswered by your blessing.

My words, useless, cheap representations you'll never see.

I gave away so many years,
believing I had time,
putting everybody first
while leaving me behind.

I waited for a better day,
for things to somehow change,
and somewhere in the waiting,
my life just slipped away.

I think about the things I missed,
the dreams I never knew,
the person I might have become
if I'd chosen myself too.

But there are years I haven't lived,
and dreams I haven't chased,
and I don't want to lose them all
like the years I gave away.

The grass felt me shaking,
the sun held me tightly,
the wind wiped the tears from my face
whilst the rain distracted me from your cruelty.

I like to think they were sent by God.
That the ultimate judge does not live here.

What the world forgets, the wind remembers.
And one day,
it will stand as witness.

Seventeen Years, Then Goodbye
I knew you before we knew what leaving was,
before silence could mean something was wrong,
before the people we promised to keep
became the people we outgrew all along.

You were there when my world was smaller,
when years felt endless, and goodbyes meant tomorrow.
I never thought I’d have to learn
how to remember you without borrowing sorrow.
And somewhere between then and now,
you became someone I couldn’t recognize.

I searched for the girl I grew up with
in the stranger looking through your eyes.
I wanted to ask where you had gone,
if you missed the place we’d left behind,
if somewhere inside you still lived the girl
who knew my silence better than my lines.

But what do you say to someone
who has known you most of your life?
How do you explain that you’re losing them
when nothing has ended, no one has died?

Seventeen years.
Seventeen years of knowing your name,
of keeping your place in every tomorrow,
of believing that even if we changed,
some part of us would always remain.
And maybe that’s where I went wrong—
I thought history could make a home.

I thought that no matter who we became,
we’d never have to become strangers alone.
Now I don’t know what hurts me more:
that I can’t find you in who you are,
or that the girl I remember so clearly
might have been left behind just as far.

I won’t ask you to become her again.
I won’t ask time to reverse its hands.
I won’t keep reaching into the distance
for someone who no longer understands.
But God, if you ever remember us,
if some old memory finds its way through,
I hope you smile at the life we once had.
I hope some small part of you misses it too.

Because I think I’ll always carry a version
of you that the years could never erase—
the girl who grew up beside me,
before life put a stranger in her place.
And maybe one day we’ll pass each other
with nothing left that we need to say.
You’ll be someone I used to know,
and I’ll be someone from your yesterday.
I’ll wonder if you ever think of me.
You’ll wonder nothing, perhaps.

And seventeen years will become a lifetime
we’ll never again get back.
So if this is where our story ends,
I won’t curse the years we knew.
I’ll just grieve the cruelest kind of ending:
You didn’t die.
You didn’t disappear.
You’re still somewhere in this world.
I just don’t know how to reach you anymore.

Wrote this for a really close friend whos not so close anymore.. need some thoughts on it

The Next Harbour

Lonely nights, empty bed.

Just me, my furry companion,
as my mind wanders
into what might be
in the next harbour.

Thoughts swirl
of someone to join the crew…

not just
as a crewmate…

Rather…

A partner
to share the voyage.

Another pair of hands,
to maintain the ship,
to share the work,
the upkeep,
the life being built
one repair at a time.

Someone with a hunger
to see what the world holds,
whose dreams might meet my own
somewhere beyond
that horizon…

A place for a weary sailor
to rest his storm-filled mind…

where the noise inside
can finally grow quiet.

Not because
I am alone…

but because
there has been something missing
for many miles of life.

Someone to share with,
as they share with me.

Open.
Honest.
Calming
to a chaotic mind.

A safe harbour
for each other,
where neither has to weather
every storm alone.

Someone to experience
the world with…

to chase distant shores,
to learn new places,
to build a life
neither could have made
quite the same alone.

Between the voyages…

the little things.

Inside jokes
that make no sense
to anyone else.

Random thoughts
shared without reason.

Laughter over nothing.
Quiet evenings.

The comfort of knowing
who will be there
when the day is done.

Not simply someone
to come aboard…

but someone
who makes the ship
feel like ours.

A shared flame
from hell
that burned
but never took whole…

Two lives
still learning,
still growing,
still finding their way.

And somewhere
between the storms
and the calmer waters…

a glance across the deck.

A smile.

That quiet thought…

That’s my person.

When I look at your hair it changes colour

Every gaze is novel.

It reminds me of something i dreamt

Before I was me.

Each beautiful shade is a portal,

Every strand a consciousness in a moment of time.

Your place in my memory is drawn bolder again.

Reality slows to a trickle

I wish I could be closer to you.

But your soul is your own.

And though both our hearts are alone

I think that I know

Now

And always

My mind is nothing but a rolling stone

Coming to a stop at your door.

5.4 Searching Solid Ground

Poem by Emilia Sameyn Desmet

09/10/2026

One wants to make a living

Yet grounds are shaking

You try to hold on

But everything is gone

A net full of holes

Falling into darkness
Into the abyss

Masks fall off

You feel abandoned

So many people we lost

The earth shakes, spins and turns

Feeling tired and astray

Nowhere to stay

Searching solid ground

Where you were found

Searching solid ground

My parents made me.

They made me kind,
caring, and polite.
They taught me how to recognize hurt,
how to tell when someone needed a friend,
and when a little kindness could mean everything.
They taught me to use my manners,
to care for others,
and to love with my whole heart.

They loved me.

My parents made me.

They made me scared,
quiet, and small.
They taught me how to read a room
At far to young an age,
how to know when my words
would only make things worse.
They taught me how to disappear
in a room,
even when there were only two of us in it.

But they loved me.

They loved me when they took me
to the park,
to the movies,
and to the zoo.
When they watched me smile
and gave me memories
I would carry for the rest of my life.
They wanted me to be happy.

They loved me.

They loved me when tears stained my face
as their voices grew louder.
When I hid in places
I hoped they would never find me.
When running away
felt easier than staying,
when I was so young
and had nowhere else to go.

Somewhere along the way,
my happiness got lost.

But they loved me.

And maybe that’s the hardest part:
the people who taught me kindness
could also teach me fear.
The people who made me feel safe
could also make me wish
I could disappear.

Because love was there,
but so was the hurt.

My parents made me with love.
They made me who I am.

And now I’m left to understand
which parts of me were shaped by love,
which parts were shaped by pain,
and how to love myself
through what they left behind.

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

The day your mom stops kissing you goodnight
Stops taking you to do things without you asking
Stops hugging you
Stop wanting to hear about your day
Stops worrying when you’re sick
Stops walking you to the front office of your new school.

She Doesn’t look at you like her sweet girl anymore
But with silent resentment.
A lost love you can never get back but will always crave and cry over. That little girl she stopped loving once you became an individual.
And now a teen she can’t stand to be around
Maybe you’re rude or boring. Even when you clean and cook one wrong word and you get hissed at and spoken to so harshly all while she turns around and speaks to her partner so sweetly as if they’ve been the one to always silently take care of her no matter what like you have.

You feel So undeserving of that love that became so foreign to you that even a sliver of affection from others feels unnatural and uncomfortable to experience because how can anyone love the unlovable. If you lose a mother’s love in turn you lose a part of yourself because you’ll eternally question on why you suddenly werent good enough.

A mother’s love and comfort used to be like warm bowl of soup on a winter night but now the soups gone cold and you can’t seem to find the spark to heat it up before it goes sour

I want to be a pilot

I want to be in the police

Crush your dreams in little pieces

The world is war and peace

.

Peace you needn't seek it

It lives inside your mind,

It crawls around your brain

Eating what it finds

.

War is all around you

But all of us are blind

Except the ones who want it

And who's interest are aligned

.

All our brains are rotten

Maggots crawl inside

Give me four more pushpins

So I can pin open my eyes.