Prue Paimon

A soul can leak a long time:
Long enough to believe the coldness is just the weather.
Long enough to confuse endurance
for healing.
Long enough to call numbness peace.
Long enough to crave silence instead of safety.
Long enough to forget
what warmth felt like.
#poetry

#foxprose #poetry She is built of mystery and myth, mortared with unanswered questions, crowned in weather that never fully clears. Stories cling to her like old incense half remembered, half invented whispered wrong on purpose. She walks as if legend learned how to breathe, as if rumor grew a spine and kept moving. Nothing about her stays still long enough to be proven. Her laughter is a misdirection, a sleight of hand that leaves you holding meaning where certainty should be. Her silence does the heavier work. Those who try to define her come back carrying metaphors instead each true, none sufficient. She does not correct them. Myth survives by letting others speak.

#foxprose #poetry

She is built of mystery and myth,
mortared with unanswered questions,
crowned in weather that never fully clears.
Stories cling to her like old incense
half remembered, half invented
whispered wrong on purpose.
She walks as if legend learned how to breathe,…

Hugs.

I let the past bleed out a record that skips, stuck in places that were never meant to be the whole song. My life— a melody that lost meaning. Some wounds don’t want to be forgotten. They itch like unfinished sentences. A scratch that interrupts the flow. Healing, they said, was a door I would walk through once and never look back. But my body keeps receipts. My mind keeps echoes. And I am forever replaying the same tired tune. Scars are strange teachers. They say, “Something sharp was here.” But there’s a fear that lives in the groves: What if this is it? What if healing is just learning to carry on with those pops and scratches? Maybe I won’t be smooth again. Maybe the record stays raised. But music however it plays are records of survival that I played through and the music however imperfect Is still beautiful at least to me.

The broken record.

I let the past bleed out
a record that skips,
stuck in places that were never meant to be the whole song.
My life— a melody that lost meaning.
Some wounds don’t want to be forgotten.
They itch like unfinished sentences.
A scratch that interrupts the flow.
#poetry

Give me ruin
and I’ll show you architecture.
Give me ache
and I’ll teach it rhythm.
Give me the pieces of a life no one wants to name
and watch me build a language out of them.
That’s the magic.
2/2
#poetry

I’m a little fucked up
It’s my magic you see,
I created something from nothing
regalia from refuse.
I learned early
how to make beauty hold still
long enough to survive in it.
So I became a salvage artist.
1/2

Where do all the broken people go?

All the broken people go quiet.
They learn the language of fine.
They hold the world together
with the parts no one wants to see
and disappear
the moment they start to crack.

Odd Syncopated Revelation It didn’t arrive with logic or certainty. It came forth crooked. Truth with a limp, dragging one note behind hesitation. And there it lingered in the off-beat between sounds. Everything I knew shifted half a step. My world didn’t break it re-synced without me. My own name became a lyric I’d misheard for years. Revelation wasn’t tempo. But a snag in the rhythm. A tone landing where comfort wasn’t. I stumble, and look up. And suddenly the pattern I’ve been marching to is only the time signature. The real song was truth hiding in the spaces I kept stepping over to keep the beat of predictability.

#Odd #Syncopated #Revelation
It didn’t arrive with logic or certainty.
It came forth crooked.
Truth with a limp,
dragging one note
behind hesitation.
#inkmine

Grit is what stays when comfort is gone,
when dignity has been negotiated down to survival,
when the only remaining options are to continue or stop.
It’s not strength.
It’s endurance without witnesses.
Grit is not who I am
it’s what’s left
when everything else
has been taken.
2/2

Grit

It’s what’s left after the language of “resilience” is stripped away,
after optimism is evicted,
after hope stops answering its phone.
It isn’t chosen.
It isn’t aspirational.
1/2

Where do all the broken people go?

All the broken people go quiet.
They learn the language of fine.
They hold the world together
with the parts no one wants to see
and disappear
the moment they start to crack.

Thank you for the reposts.

Fucking Bitch
#poetry
I too am a fucking bitch—
that’s what you call a woman
when anger needs a body
to land in.
Unchecked anger
always needs to be justified
by a woman’s tone, timing,
or refusal to disappear quietly
but don’t worry
there’s a bullet for that.

#poets

To tell is the way bruises learn to harden— by pressure, by repetition, by listening when the room goes quiet after something unspeakable is named. An oracle is not a mouthpiece. An oracle is a body that feels silent language. reads futures in the small betrayals: the pause before a promise, the way hope’s voice trembles before it turns #dormant, how eyes slide away to avoid honesty, how lies bloom in the quiet, while truth stands waiting in the passageway. Do not mistake it for prophecy. She does not predict. She recognizes what is behind #latency. She names the shape of the storm because she has lived inside it, and counted its teeth, while learning which way it leans when it lies. An oracle does not change fate. An oracle interrupts denial.

#inkmine #poetry #writing #poem
THE ORACLE

To tell
is the way bruises learn to harden—
by pressure,
by repetition,
by listening when the room goes quiet
after something unspeakable is named.
An oracle is not a mouthpiece.
An oracle is a body that feels silent language…

Sketchbook doodle for today.
Picture of a magpie with a crown. Ink drawing on paper.

That quote hurts and flatters and absolves at once. It calls endurance- virtue and quietly excuses neglect. It tells the kind, the giving, the reliable that emptiness is proof of moral success.
2/4

Canada will never become a state. We are nice until we are not then the Geneva Convention will need to be amended yet again. 🇨🇦

Thank you very much, I am stunned that anything I write would cause so much reflection I’m so honoured.

Thank you all for the reposts💕

#bornbattleready #desperation #poem No one knows #desperation like an addict how it sharpens life into a single need, how every clock becomes a throat you try to pry open for air. Desperation teaches fluency in bargains. It makes saints out of lies, ritual out of routine, and turns existence into something small enough to swallow without choking. An addict learns the topography of hunger: where dignity erodes first, which promises crack under pressure, how far the body will walk after the mind has already said no. It isn’t weakness. It’s intensity without refuge. It’s wanting relief the way others want oxygen not beautifully, not nobly, but with the full, animal certainty that survival is optional.

#bornbattleready #desperation #poem

No one knows #desperation like an addict
how it sharpens life into a single need,
how every clock becomes a throat
you try to pry open for air.
Desperation teaches fluency in bargains….

#BSPP49 #BlueskyPoetry #poetry Snow is a #shroud clean, practiced. It knows how to cover without caring what it buries. I wish I was snow. It presses the world flat, tucks in death, pretends stillness is mercy. This #boreal silence is the kind that learns your name and then pretermits you. Footprints become confessions, brief unforgivable. Every step says I was here until the cold revises the record. A vow of silence, a white lie of beauty.

#BSPP49 #BlueskyPoetry #poetry

Snow is a #shroud
clean, practiced.
It knows how to cover
without caring what it buries.
I wish I was snow.
It presses the world flat,
tucks in death,
pretends stillness is mercy.
This #boreal silence…

I beg to differ.

I feel this so very much.

I really could use a hug right now or at least a couple of cups.

The Shatter It reverberates, echoing everything inside so I might see what a mess things have become. The broom and dustpan sweep away the shards, but nothing changes. Nothing ever changes. What was once a shelf holding things up for so long, unacknowledged, unnoticed has finally given way. It’s useless now like old things are but too expensive to replace. Shelves are are made to endure, To take on weight quietly until the wall itself forgets they were ever there. The wall showed the strain. Even broken, the splinters tell of what was asked, and how long it was carried.

Picture of dishes broken on the floor.

The Shatter

It reverberates, echoing everything inside
so I might see what a mess things have become.
The broom and dustpan sweep away the shards,
but nothing changes.
Nothing ever changes.

#poetry

Love this💕

Thank you for the reposts💕

A cracked mirror doesn’t fracture
it practices democracy,
none agreeing on what “you” should be.
And still, you stare,
not at yourself,
but at the absence of yourself,
and the mirrors politely concede
that you were never truly here at all.
#poetry

Winter exhales at my throat, a sound without language, and waits. It knows patience. It knows the body will comply if given enough quiet. Breath becomes something to negotiate a privilege, a temporary allowance as if remaining requires a convincing argument made only of vapor. Water forgets its former manners. What once yielded now instructs in edges, teaches cold by touch alone. Warmth is not gone just mythologized, spoken of like a childhood room no one can locate anymore. Hope does not function here. Winter does not respond to it. It places its icy hand not cruel, not hurried and holds until meaning thins. There is no lesson, no becoming. Only the long subtraction, the steady removal of comfort until even softness learns how to harden.

Winters Icy Hand
#OurPoetryX #poetry

Winter exhales at my throat,
a sound without language,
and waits.
It knows patience.
It knows the body will comply
if given enough quiet.
Breath becomes something to negotiate
a privilege,
a temporary allowance…