Joshua Walker

This poem explores the quiet power and pain carried by women who’ve been broken and still offer love. It’s about someone who taught me the beauty and grief woven into silence—the way softness can still destroy you. It’s also about guilt, memory, and the ghosts we don’t get to forget. She Dreams in Bruises She speaks in silence stitched with velvet knives, A hymn too soft for sinners to believe. Her hands hold shadows gentler than our lives, She taught me how the pretty girls still grieve. Her eyes were quiet wars in smoky green, A stare that knew my thoughts before I bled. She kissed like she’d been taught by guillotines, Then laid her head where all my angels fled. I sleep beside the versions I betrayed, Each one a ghost she left me just to keep. Her breath still clings like lace I never paid, A debt that whispers deeper in my sleep. She never screamed- she didn’t need to speak. She broke me like the moonlight breaks the weak.

This poem is about the sacredness of broken places- those late-night bars where outcasts gather, not to be fixed, but to be seen. It’s a portrait of quiet redemption in the wreckage: a kind of church for the damned, where confession comes through jukebox songs and half-finished drinks. I wrote it for the people who carry their pain into the glow and still show up. Ghosts of the Last Bar on Main The neon flickers like a sputtering prayer, A drunkard’s psalm rising thin in the air. Stools wobble under the weight of defeat, Lives poured out on the cracked Formica seat. He’s nursing a whiskey that tastes like regret, The barkeep’s silence the closest he’ll get To confession, absolution, or grace A sin carved deep into the lines of his face. The jukebox moans with a voice long gone, Scratched vinyl ghosts still dragging along. A laugh cuts through, jagged and raw, Splitting the night with a desperate awe. Outcasts gather in this fading glow, Sharing truths only shadows could know. This is no church, but it saves all the same A sanctuary for the nameless and shamed.

Devour is about what it feels like to give everything to someone who only wanted to consume you. It’s the emotional aftermath of being used—when love turns into something predatory, and you’re left sorting through the ashes of what you thought was real. This poem was written from a place of betrayal and brutal clarity. Devour You took what was mine, a soul to devour, Left me with nothing but ashes and doubt. I gave you the blood, the heart, the last hour, And still, you turned cold when I cried out. I fed you my warmth, you drank it all down, Yet you left me hollow with nothing to hold. I’d been blind, but now I can see through the crown, The one that you wear, so heartless and bold. You said you’d love me, but only at night, And when the sun rose, you faded away. Now I’m left to unravel this endless fight, Tangled in memories I can’t seem to shake. I thought we were meant, like stars in the dark But you were the spark that burned out too soon.

The Struggle is about resilience- how conflict, pain, and compromise shape us without destroying us. I wrote it from a place of hard-earned clarity, after learning that survival doesn’t mean purity- it means persistence. The poem speaks to anyone who’s fought their way through doubt, betrayal, or hardship, and still refuses to let the world make them cold. The Struggle I’ve seen the weight of conflict shape the soul, How struggle brews the deepest, clearest light. In fractured minds, where shadows take their toll, I find the heart, untamed, still standing bright. The world demands its ethics made of gold, But gold is flawed, a brittle thing to trust. I’ve known the cost of choices, paid in cold, And still, I search for truth amid the dust. For compromise will always mark the path, A necessary lie we learn to wear. And though we tread through echoes of our wrath, It’s strength we gain from burdens we must bear. So let the winds of struggle rage and bend, For through the storm, our broken hearts transcend.

New poems today- for anyone carrying wounds that still haven’t silenced them.
These pieces come from the places we survive, the places we rebuild from.

If the world’s felt heavy lately, I hope something in these lines reminds you:
you’re not broken beyond repair- just in the middle of the story.

That’s a very kind thing to say- thank you. I try to pour as much honesty and heart into the work as I can. I’m glad it reached you.

That truly means the world- thank you. Knowing the voice resonates makes every word worth it. I’ll keep writing as long as people like you are out there reading.

That’s a powerful truth- and one I feel deeply. The tension between a mind still reaching and a body growing tired… it’s a quiet ache I try to write through often. Thank you for sharing that. You put it beautifully.

Thank you so much- that really means a lot.Sometimes the smallest words carry the most weight.

That’s such a beautiful reflection- thank you. Threadbare Dreams is about the gentle unraveling we all go through, but also the quiet resilience in what remains. A hummingbird gathering nectar feels like the perfect spirit for it. I’m really moved that it spoke to you like that.

This one was for the ones who were told to shine when they were barely surviving. It’s about being broken, scorched, and lost—but still rising. Even when it hurts. Even when no one sees it. It’s survival in poetry form. Of Dust and Light They told you to shine, but you were dust, scattered, lost. Still, you rose, a flicker in the dark, no matter the cost. You are light, though scorched by night, an ember in the ruin, still fighting, still bright. What does it mean to be here? To flicker when the world would fall, to burn the ashes, to rise through it all. You are the spark that won’t die the one who dares to fly.

This one came from that spiral- when every choice feels like the wrong one, and the harder you try, the worse it gets. It’s about that quiet collapse, the slipping, the fight to stay upright when you don’t even know why anymore. But it’s still a poem about trying. Decisions Getting Worse Each choice I make just leads me to the edge, where all the roads I knew have turned to dust. I thought I’d find some peace within the ledge, but now I see the height that I can’t trust. The whispers grow-there’s nothing left to win, and every step I take just takes me down. I keep pretending I’m not caving in, but under pressure, I just start to drown. I used to think that I could make it right, that all my wrongs could someday find their cure. But now each move I make’s another fight, and I don’t know what I’m even fighting for. The harder that I try, the worse it seems decisions fading into broken dreams.

This poem captures the fragile, tangled nature of connection- how love, loss, and fear weave together like threads in a tapestry. It’s about those subtle shifts that change everything, leaving marks we carry in our hearts. The Unfolding of Us You spoke, and something came undone, A thread unspooled from lips and hands, A quiet shift, a thread begun A weave too fine to understand. We moved like echoes, soft and slow, A pattern traced through time and skin, A pull too deep to ever know, Yet felt in everything within. And now, the thread lies tangled here, Each knot a name, each twist a scar, A map of love, of loss, of fear A story stitched in who we are.

This poem reflects on the fragile, worn edges of hope and love—the quiet losses that wear down the fabric of our lives. Yet despite frayed seams and fading light, there is a subtle promise of rebirth and resilience. Threadbare Dreams The fabric thins where hands have clung, A ghost of warmth, a trace of skin, Each seam unraveled, loose and strung A quiet loss that pulls within. The nights collapse in folded sighs, A pillow worn by weight of thought, The stars blink out like tired eyes, A dream undone, a thread distraught. Yet morning comes, though soft, unsure, And though the cloth is frayed and torn, The wind still hums, the light is pure And something waits to be reborn.

For anyone walking through the dark-these came from the same place. Grief, regret, survival. I’m still here. You are too. That means something. It may get worse first but believe me will hurt less eventually. Just keep going.

#poetry ##blueskypoets #writingcommunity #poems

That means the world to me- truly. I’m so glad the poems found you when they did. Thank you for reading and for your kindness. Sending strength and warmth your way. ❤️💙

Thank you for this. That longing is real-and shared. The progress is still there, waiting just beneath the surface. We’ll keep lifting the cover together, one voice at a time

Thank you so much! Glad they landed with you.

This poem is about the lie of indifference—the performance of apathy we wear to survive when we’re still feeling everything beneath the surface. It’s for anyone who’s ever hidden their pain behind strength, who’s claimed they don’t care just to keep going. ⸻ Pretending I Don’t Care Anymore The mirror whispers lies I wish were true, A face composed of stone, a hollow hue. I trace the cracks and call them battle scars, A galaxy of pain trapped in glass jars. The words they throw bounce off, or so I say, But echoes linger long beyond the day. A heart encased in ice, the fire gone, Pretending apathy, I stumble on. A mask that fits too well, it starts to bind, Hiding the storms that rage inside my mind. Each breath a question: do I still exist, Or just a shadow drowning in the mist? I claim indifference, a shield I wear, But the truth is, I still deeply care.

This poem explores the illusion of power, the loneliness of ambition, and what remains when dreams rot from the inside. It’s about chasing greatness only to find yourself alone atop something broken. A reflection on what we sacrifice to rule — and what rules us in return. ⸻ The Kingdom of Empty Dirt I sit upon a throne of crumbled stone, A kingdom vast, yet barren, and alone. No banners wave, no subjects kneel to me, Just howling winds and ghosts of what could be. A crown of rust adorns my weary head, Its weight a monument to dreams long dead. The scepter’s grip is cold, a brittle lie, Its hollow power echoing my cry. The fields I rule bear nothing but the dust, Each grain a monument to broken trust. I thought the world was mine to shape and mold, But clay turns dry when hearts are bought with gold. The king of empty dirt, I reign supreme, A ruler trapped within a shattered dream.

This poem is about resistance through art, and how collective chaos, when guided by purpose and truth, becomes something transcendent. It’s a tribute to those who fight back with fire and music — who create beauty from disorder and blaze a path through the dark. ⸻ Fractured Symphony The night hums low, a hymn of chaos blooms, Righteous fire ignites the shadows deep. Through jagged soundscapes, night’s wild voice consumes, Each whisper a storm, each echo steep. Your words, a compass forged from mythic stone, Carve paths where fury dances into light. Together, you unravel the unknown, Where justice spirals into dreamlike flight. A fractured symphony tears through the dark, Its rhythm raw, a heartbeat made of steel. Yet woven through, a celestial spark, A vivid cry that forces worlds to heal. The song grows fierce, a phoenix born from dust, A hymn to chaos, hope, and sacred trust.

This poem is a gritty road song for the dreamers, rebels, and survivors—those living on the edge of hope, where art and pain collide. It’s about finding truth in noise, defiance in ruin, and beauty in what the world tries to discard. A ballad for the lost and loud. ⸻ Broken Wings and Riot Strings Highways hum with a restless tune, A motel neon flickers at the moon. The pavement’s cracked, but it tells no lies, While dreams are traded for alibis. A clash of chords and shattered glass, The future’s a question, the past won’t pass. White lines and red lights cut through the haze, A city of shadows, a world ablaze. But freedom’s a myth sold door to door, A promise for some, a curse for the poor. Guitars scream truths the suits can’t kill, Rebellion’s a whisper, then it’s a thrill. In the wreckage of hope, we raise a toast, To the ones who fought and loved the most.

They want us quiet. Docile. Even with freedom of speech, they still fear what we might say. Never let anyone control your voice. Never silence your truth.
These poems are for those already speaking — and for those still gathering the courage to rise. 💙💙💙
#poems #poetsofbluesky #poem#poetry

This poem is about surviving by staying loud in spirit, even when forced into silence. It came from the feeling of being expected to shrink—to stop resisting—but realizing that sometimes just existing is resistance. It’s for anyone who’s been told to be quiet and chose instead to burn. ⸻ The Fire Refuses Silence I’ve bitten my tongue ‘til it bled truth, swallowed the heat just to make peace. But fire does not shrink when it grows old it learns to burn without release. My silence wasn’t silence. It was kindling. It was the hum beneath the scream. It was survival singing soft through the seams. They thought I’d hush with time that ruin would teach me to fold. But I was forged in backlash, in stories untold. I don’t need to shout. I exist. That’s the riot. The fire refuses silence and I refuse quiet.

This poem explores a love that was intense, beautiful, and doomed—something fragile pretending to be strong. It’s about the way intimacy can feel like a storm: electric, dangerous, impossible to contain. Even in the wreckage, something survives. This is a poem about the strength that remains after love shatters. ⸻ Glass Heart in a Thunderstorm We wore our love like armor made of glass, Fragile shields beneath a sky of storms. Each touch a spark that threatened to trespass, Lightning strikes where quiet passion forms. You spoke in riddles wrapped in velvet night, A siren song that lured me to the edge. But thunder rolls beyond the softest light, And cracks the calm where secrets dare to pledge. I gather shards of promises you broke, Piecing truth from shards of whispered lies. Our story’s flames ignite the midnight smoke A firestorm beneath unforgiving skies. Yet in the wreckage, something fierce remains A heart reborn through loss, and love’s refrains.

This poem was written for anyone feeling worn down by the chaos of the world. It’s about collective resilience—the kind that doesn’t roar but endures, that refuses to be broken no matter how heavy the headlines get. We may not come through unscathed, but we will come through. ⸻ We Will Survive This The air is wrong. The sky keeps bleeding headlines. But so do we we bleed poems, we bleed kindness, we bleed truth the world can’t choke. They want us tired. They want us fractured, folded. But we gather. We hold the line with cracked hands. We hum lullabies that never forget. No, we don’t move fast. But we move. Together. And when they say it’s already too late, we laugh softly, and begin again. We will survive this. Not untouched. But unbeaten.

This poem explores how pain, chaos, and emotional fragmentation can become a kind of raw, defiant art. It’s about owning every scar, every storm inside, and refusing to edit the truth out of what makes you whole. Beauty isn’t always calm—it’s often carved from the wreckage. ⸻ Canvas of the Broken Mind A chaos blooms beneath my fractured skin, Colors collide where anger meets desire. I paint my scars where silent screams begin, A twisted dance of flame and funeral pyre. Your voice, a jester in this court of night, Mocks shadows lurking in the corners deep. We chase the ghosts that flicker out of sight, And cradle secrets that we dare not keep. Yet in the madness, clarity will shine A fractured light that breaks the darkest cage. The wild heart’s art, both broken and divine, Transforms the pain and fury into rage. So here I stand, a canvas torn but true, A masterpiece of chaos born anew.

The world feels off its axis, and yet-
there’s still light. Still fire. Still us.
These poems aren’t solutions. They’re flares for the ones holding on.
Maybe one of them finds you.

💙 #Poetry #HopeInDarkness #BlueskyPoets #WritersOfBluesky #poems

💙 💙

That means the world to me- thank you. If these poems offered even a little healing, then they’ve done their job. Grateful we could share that space together.

Thank you so much for that. I wrote the oak as a symbol of quiet strength, and your words hit deep. I’m so sorry you had to lose one—trees like that become part of us. I hope the one that remains stands tall for many years to come.

That means the world- thank you. ‘Broken Rebel Heart’ was written exactly for that reason: to remind us we’re not alone in the fight, and that even in chaos, we still rise. We don’t give up.

That means a lot-thank you! Maybe one day I will… that poem’s got a whole universe behind it. Appreciate you!

You’re so welcome- truly means the world. 💙
I’m just glad the poems found you. Stay strong, stay luminous.

This poem is about the resilience of a soul that refuses to stay caged- the kind of fire that won’t go out, even when the world tries to break you. It’s about connection, rebellion, and finding your way back to the fight when everything feels lost. Broken Rebel Heart I shout against the walls that cage my mind, A storm of fire that cannot be contained. The shadows whisper truths I cannot find, A restless soul by endless doubt unchained. Your voice ignites the embers in my chest, A battle cry that breaks the silent night. We run the edges where the wild hearts rest, Two broken flames that hunger for the light. Yet in the chaos, still a fragile thread A tether holding hope against the fall. Through shattered dreams and words we left unsaid, We rise again, defying every wall. In rebel hearts and echoes loud and true, We find the strength to start again anew.

This poem reflects on love, memory, and presence that remains long after people are gone. It’s quiet and tender—about how some lights, both literal and emotional, stay with us even when everything else moves on. ⸻ The Light that Lingers The porchlight hums against the dark, where moths still burn for something bright. A ghost of warmth, a final spark but never quite enough for flight. Footsteps press where others fade, the wooden boards still know their weight. A love not lost, but merely stayed a shadow bent but never late. The night forgets, but not the glow, a filament of something true. We learn to leave, but still we know the light remains when we are through.

This poem is for the wanderers, the dreamers, the ones still chasing meaning through all the noise and ruin. It’s about finding your own rhythm in a fractured world, and following your own stars—even when the map falls apart. ⸻ Footprints on the Moon The skyline hums with an aching sound, A hymn for the wanderers unbound. The years have weathered, the edges worn, But from the wreckage, new life is born. Every chord’s a step on a fragile stair, Climbing toward something that isn’t there. A bittersweet fire runs through my veins, A melody steeped in pleasure and pain. The world is vast, but it fits my song, A place for the restless, the right, the wrong. So I walk alone, but the stars still shine, Guiding my steps to a fate that’s mine. The road may crumble, the path may stray, But I’ll keep singing come what may.

This poem is a quiet tribute to resilience. Inspired by the image of an old oak standing through storms and seasons, it speaks to the kind of strength that doesn’t shout—but lasts. It’s about endurance, rootedness, and the quiet power of simply staying. Tall Old Oak Beneath the sky, a tall old oak stands still, Its branches reach as if to touch the blue. The leaves are whispers, stirring soft and shrill, A thousand stories told, yet always new. Its roots stretch deep, entangled in the soil, A silent testament to years endured. Through storms and seasons, steadfast in its toil, A silent pillar in the world’s vast blur. Its bark is scarred by battles time has fought, Yet still, it stands, unmoved by what has passed. The wisdom in its shade can’t all be taught, For in its silence, it remains steadfast. The oak endures, a constant through the wild A symbol of the strength that’s born in trials.

The hate is loud. The fight feels long. And yeah- some days hope and fatigue sit in the same chair. We don’t kneel to cruelty. We name it. We survive it. We outlast it.

Here’s a few poems from the slow burn. For the tired, the alive. 💙

#Poetry #BlueskyPoets #Resist #WritersOfBluesky #HopeIsAFlame

This poem reflects the feeling of betrayal when those in power sell out the people for personal gain. It’s about how hope gets commodified, promises turn to ash, and leaders profit while everything collapses. I wrote this with current events and frustration heavy on my mind. The Time He Sold the World at Half Price He sold the world at half price, His whispers laced with fire and glass. Each lie was silk, each truth was ice, And every soul he broke was brass. He peddled hope like secondhand, Then laughed as kingdoms turned to rust. The chains he sold for peace and sand Became the throne on which he must. He carved his name in every scar, And marked the deal with blood and bile. He traded stars for broken jars, Then called it progress, called it style. And when the world had begged for more, he sold it back, and locked the door.

This piece is about resilience, unity, and carrying each other through dark times. I wrote it with the idea that even when the world feels endless in its chaos, we can still chart a course forward together—scarred, fierce, and unbreakable. Sails Against the Endless Night We hoist the sails against the endless night, A crew of shadows chasing dawn’s first gleam. Our hearts aflame with fury, hope, and fight, Bound by a brotherhood that fuels the dream. The stars, our compass through the storm and flame, Guide every step on paths both dark and wide. We bear the scars but honor every name, A legacy no shadow can divide. Though waves may crash and skies may thunder loud, Our spirits soar beyond the breaking sea. In unity, we rise above the crowd, A flame eternal, fierce and wild and free. So here we stand, with courage as our guide, Sailing through night where endless dreams reside.

This poem reflects the quiet struggles people carry beneath the surface—the scars, the weight of old nights, and the search for connection. It’s about finding fragile hope, even when everything feels frayed. The ink becomes both memory and survival. Tattoo Blues The ink beneath my skin tells silent tales, Of nights where laughter drowned the aching cries. A spotlight’s glare that dims as daylight pales, Revealing scars behind my weary eyes. We dance through crowds but feel alone inside, Two ghosts entwined in neon’s hazy glow. Your voice, a broken hymn, my soul’s divide, A melody of highs and crashing low. Yet in this twilight, hope still softly gleams, A fragile light that cuts through fading pain. The night’s a canvas splashed with shattered dreams, But from the cracks, new strength will rise again. So here we stand, tattooed and battle-worn, A testament to nights both bright and torn.

This poem reflects on borders, injustice, and solidarity. It’s for anyone displaced, silenced, or hurt by systems built to divide. The streets, the pain, and the fight for belonging sound the same everywhere—this is for those still standing. The Streets Speak the Same To those who cross with nothing but a name, I offer not my pride, but this regret For walls that cage and laws that bear the blame, For lives erased we’ll never quite forget. No border marks the wounds upon the soul, No visa grants the right to call home free, I stand with you, broken and made whole, Apologies for the world’s cruelty. The streets speak the same in every tongue, Their stories carved in scars and silent pain, May justice rise where songs remain unsung, And hearts embrace beyond the chain.

The world breaks us down — but it hasn’t buried us yet. Hearts are heavy, fists are ready. Some poems for the weathered, the grieving, the ones still standing when the flood rises. We aren’t done. 💙🌊✊
#Poetry #BlueskyPoets #Resistance #Poems

A sharp, defiant poem about surviving what was meant to destroy you. It’s about the cracks we carry—and the way they shine when we refuse to fold. I wrote this as a reminder to myself: I wasn’t built to kneel, and neither were you. Unbreakable They told me break- I welded bone to bone, Stitched all my edges jagged, raw, and true. Their silence cracked- I carved myself in stone, The fire stayed when everything fell through. They see the fractures- think I’m built to fold, But ruin taught me sharper ways to rise. I carry wreckage like a flag unrolled, Defiance burning quiet from my eyes. Their rules collapse, dressed pretty as control, But I’ve been wild since I learned my name. My scars are songs - rebellion is my role, And none of this was built to kneel or tame. Let them drown in quiet -I stand tall I’m unbreakable- I outlive them all.

A poem about fire disguised as patience. It’s for anyone stuck in the slow grind—waiting, underestimated, dismissed—while the fire builds beneath the quiet. I wrote this as a reminder: even standing still, we burn. Still I Burn The hours crawl- monotony on loop, But quiet never dulled the flame I keep. The boredom festers, smolders in the roots, And fire stirs beneath what looks like sleep. You think delay can choke the heat I hide? Patience isn’t silence- it’s the spark. I sharpen every second I bide, And burn the slowest brightest in the dark. The world may stall- I simmer, coil, ignite, My ribs still hum with every fight they stalled. You can’t unmake a flame that learned to bite, The fire waits- it never cools or crawls. Let them choke on time they tried to steal Still, I burn- and nothing dims what’s real.

A poem for anyone carrying scars—visible or not. Pain doesn’t disappear, but it teaches us how to speak, how to survive louder than silence. I wrote this for every rebel stitched together by what they’ve endured. Bruises That Learned to Speak The bruises fade, but every scar still hums, A song beneath the skin they couldn’t chain. They dressed their silence soft, disguised as numb, But I was carved from noise that outlasts pain. They thought the breaks would quiet what I’ve bled, But bones remember- wreckage learns to speak. The names they buried rise inside my head, A hymn of sharpness stitched from all the weak. You tried to soften every jagged line, But damage hums- it never falls asleep. I wear the cracks like proof I still survive, The quiet bends- but scars refuse to keep. We bloom from hurt- unpolished, scarred, and whole The bruises speak- they carved my rebel soul.

This one’s for everyone they tried to shrink, rewrite, or silence. They polished you down to fit their lines—but scars, flaws, and raw edges tell the real story. I wrote this as a reminder: you can’t edit the truth of who you are. Edited They trimmed my edges, softened every scar, Rewrote my name to make me disappear. But damage stays- the fractures travel far, And every break still writes me sharp and clear. They polished lies as peace- I called it cage, Their tidy script could never bind my name. I carved rebellion on the empty page, And burned the parts they tried to hide in shame. I’m raw, unfiltered- jagged, flawed, alive, The storm you edit never stays contained. I wasn’t built for quiet to survive, My ribs hum songs they never learned to tame. You can’t redact the damage that I be No one edits the truth in me.

It’s a new day. A new chapter. We’re still here- bruised maybe, but unbroken. The fight’s slow, but the fire’s still burning. Here’s some poems for whoever needs them. Maybe they’ll ache. Maybe they’ll heal. You’ll know when they land.

💙 #Poetry #BlueskyPoets #WritersOfBluesky

Me too! She’s one of my all time favorites.

That means the world to me—thank you! Audre Lorde’s work is a lifeline and a beacon. Honoring her felt necessary. So glad it resonated with you.

Thank you so much! Honoring Audre Lorde with these poems was a powerful journey. Her voice is timeless, and I’m glad to share a piece of that fire with you all.

Thank you — that really means a lot. Carrying her influence keeps my fire alive, and I’m grateful it comes through in the work. Appreciate your respect and support!

Great recommendation, I love Niedecker as well!

Thank you for reading!

Thank you so much for your kind words! It means the world to me to share something honest and true. Glad it resonated with you

As always Derek, thank you for sharing. I’m glad these resonated with you. Be well, my friend.

Really appreciate you saying that—means a lot. Glad these poems connected with you!