r/ThirdEyePoetry

At the bar I was kissed
by a woman with no name
No eyes, no voice
just a rhyme without a song

In the club I was kissed
by a woman known by fame
We drank from a bottle
of pain and champagne

In my garden I was kissed
by a woman without shame
The sunflowers were tempting
so the honeybee came

In my dreams I was kissed
by a woman in the rain
I woke beneath wet sheets
then fell asleep again

Forgive me, sweet stranger

but you all look the same

I play the good girl well,
Careful not to peek over,
Not to give you any clues.

But one look from you
Is all it takes.

Danger, danger.
There goes that smile,
Unraveling me to the core.

Danger, danger.
My heart’s in trouble,
Dropping another beat,
Set to your rhythm.

Danger, danger.
I’m pinned,
Arms above my head,
Trying to hold onto
Every shared whisper.

Danger, danger.
Wrap me in your arms
And call me yours.

Danger, danger.
I play the good girl well,
Too well.

But you already know my tune,
Know where my defenses fall,
Playing me like a lyre,
Strumming every secret
Locked behind my lips.

Danger, danger.
There goes that look
Stopping me in my tracks
Stealing every thought,
Breathless kisses,
I’ll sign my heart over.

Danger, danger.
I may play innocent
But we both know
I’d fall endlessly for you.

So what are you waiting for?

She was loud,
she was crass—
Goooodlawd,
you shoulda seen dat ass.

She walked by,
shot me the eye—
my heart went
boom-boom-boom.

A wiggle in her hips,
those ruby-red lips—
fuck me,
she was spicy.

She gave a grin,
I was sucked right in—
don’t worry,
I can play it cool.

She flicked her hair,
I fuckin’ stared—
Goooodlawd,
I looked a fool.

She took one step,
I caught my breath—
I knew damn well
what she wanted next.

She was trouble
wrapped in curves—
a filthy little connection
between two pervs.

And

we

only had

one thing

on

our

minds.

Damn…
So, I made it?
Last I remember,
I was
over my head,
Spinning my flavored
Chaos
Like it was bound to rope
the end of the line,
This time
And my very last thought:
“Will I make it?
Fuck it,
Bottoms up—
time will tell.”

Dear God,
I’m savant-level stupid
at surviving my idiocies,
Honestly.
I think you should
dumb it down a couple notches
If my footprint is to hold
any
measure—again.
Just level
with me here
For one moment—
I shouldn’t be this
—Good at Anything.
—Good for Nothing
Hell, I made
a life out
of whatever didn’t kill me
and called the pattern safe.

I sleep beside slammed doors,
memorize unspoken language
In rooms.
I hear danger lurking:
Shaded below my cranial defenses
through the walls—
And shake
hand-to-hand,
as if we were already
sufficiently introduced.
Then wake up grateful
nothing happened yet.
I mistook that gratitude
for peace.

I learned the floorboards,
the draft,
the window’s rattle—
and called that
home.
And what a fucking pain in the ass
it is
to work on that place.

Existential Irony—
prisoners will scratch days
into walls,
weeks into holidays,
Years into the cold, hard floor—
then trace the grooves
after the door opens.
I still haven’t hit the ground
And I still can’t make bail.
I ought to try
To deserve this place
More than I despise
the warden.

And another thing, God—
Am I supposed
to feel more than…
this?
And don’t start
with that same rhetorical dogma—
I’ve had enough
to know the difference
Between answers
And the runaround.

We both know
the one who carries
The wait
of my steps,
The weight
of my stops.

Sorry,
it’s just that
I mean—
How much deeper must I feel
Everything?
Can we please,
Just try—
The ordinary kind?
The kind people seem
to recognize
without checking themselves
for a pulse afterward.

Sometimes
something terrible happens
and I understand
that it is terrible.
Perfectly.
I know which face to make.
Which words belong there.
Where my hands should go.
And that scares
the absolute shit out of me.
Because knowing
what a heart would do
is not necessarily
proof
I used mine.

My whole life
has been spent
Here.
And I think
I’ve confused understanding
people,
prisoners,
patients,
with feeling them.

I learned
Empathy—
And exactly
like the floorboards—
I have been made
To Creak underneath another’s burdens.
Such is the cost—
The effect of such a causal
Choice—to be of service.
Enough repetition
and even a prisoner
knows exactly
where everyone steps.

So tell me—
if I know someone is hurting
before they tell me,
but their pain
doesn’t always hurt me—
what does that make me?

The one with the knife—
with a stabbing pen—
recording their cry,
gashing with
their bloody soul?
Or am I just
the one who noticed first—
The one who watches,
Taking notes—
Analyzes their condition,
And prepares for surgery,
without any
Surgical Procedure
to follow?

Fuck,
what if
I was always
Both?
Aware? Absent?
Cold? Hot?
Kind? Arrogant?
Wise? Foolish?

Listen—
I’ve been called
all that shit, before.
And the stupid fucks
don’t even know
their write
from they’re left—
and I’m fucking
stuck
with their latest recitation—
The past times
of a failed derogation.

Helpful…
HA!
How in the actual fuck
is that Helpful?
Same sheep,
Every election.

And there’s the problem.
I know
—what I’ve fucking done,
And what to do
Forward.
—I know how I’ve thought
And discerned who to permit
each Shaping.
—what I’ve survived,
what killed me—
And the justice
of each.
—what I give.
And for whom it is given.
Forgiveness.
—what I refuse,
what I neglect—
And I own
each of their scars.
And with gratitude—
I know what I regret,
Incomprehensibly.
But I learned
how to respect those
Substantially.

But somewhere
in all that evidence,
I keep looking
for the witness.

Me,
Still?

Not the version
who reads the room.
Not the one
who makes the joke
five seconds after
something should have
broken him.
Just—
me.

And, sure—
that’s a stupid question.
The silences teach me
there isn’t
some untouched man
underneath all this.
My true identity
isn’t hiding
underneath the fire.
Some of me
walked in.
Some of me
walked out
because of it.

That bothers me.
Because some of my
best qualities
have terrible
origin stories.
And some of my worst
kept me alive.
So which ones
am I supposed
to apologize for?
Which ones
do I heal?
Which ones
do I keep?

And if I tear out
everything
that pain installed—
Dear God,
what if I renovate
this whole fucking place
and finally discover
the warden
wasn’t keeping me in.
He was keeping me
from getting out—
So those left
could stay warm.

Because, God,
I know I’m fire.
I know my destruction.
I know my love.
I’m the heat wave
no one needed.
But everyone
wished to feel.

So, are you hearing me,
God?
Are you here in me,
Spirit?
Are you even looking at me,
Jesus?

Time will tell.
Amen.

My sweet little
devil
Your dance of
desire
You stole heaven’s
thunder
And set my world on
fire
You melt the
truth
like morning
dew
I fall
and still I run to
you

The candle flickers, barely alive,
Winds howl, as chaos thrives.
Its flame dims, yet shines with might,
A shimmering beacon in the night.

As it nears its final breath,
A force defies the dance of death.
Shelter found within its core,
The fire charts a brand new course.

Dancing, flickering, it sways,
Winds cease, and brightness stays.
Oh, the yellow and blue hues,
Time paused, with no dues to lose.

No debts to pay, just life to seize,
Entirely lit, with effortless ease.
Gusts marvel at its endless glow,
Shining forevermore, aglow.

Like the season shapes me,

I too, shed old skin.

.

Empty my mind,

From the poor state it’s in.

.

Cling to the moments,

That nourish my heart.

.

I’m saving up memories,

Soon winter will start.

a couple days later
and i was headed back to work.

i had time to think.

reflect.

process.

i thought about her.

of course i fuckin’ did.

i don’t know
if our story has been written,

or if this is the volta…

the place where everything
changes direction.

maybe we find our way
back to each other.

maybe we don’t.

maybe she was only meant
to open my boxes.

to remind me
there was something inside them.

something worth knowing.

maybe i was meant
to love her

just long enough
to learn how to love.

fuck.

that sounds sad.

but it isn’t.

it’s beautiful.

it’s whole.

it’s pure.

because whatever happens next—

it happened.

her.

me.

us.

nobody gets
to take that away.

because before her,

i thought not hurting
meant i was strong.

not needing
meant i was independent.

not feeling
meant i was fine.

then this fuckin’ chick
walked into my life

and quietly proved
i didn’t know shit.

she didn’t fix me.

i wasn’t broken.

she just showed me
a version of myself

i hadn’t met yet.

and now—

she’s gone.

but he isn’t.

that matters.

i don’t know
what happens next.

with her.

with me.

with any of it.

for once,

i don’t think
i need to.

maybe our story
gets another chapter.

maybe that was
the last page.

either way—

i won’t tape
the boxes shut again.

and i’m not leaving this
with regret.

i’m leaving
with a smile on my face,

warmth in my heart

and all those ridiculous,
beautiful little memories

that made us—

us.

i overheard someone once say—

“if you can overthink
the bad shit,

why not overthink
the good stuff?”

huh.

ya know—

that actually
makes sense to me.

so maybe that’s
what i’ll do.

i’ll overthink the laughs.

the late nights.

the good mornings.

the stupid jokes.

the moments
nobody else would understand.

i’ll remember
what it felt like

to be known.

to know her.

to love her.

and to have been loved
by her.

because maybe
life-changing love

isn’t always the love
that stays.

sometimes—

it’s the love
that changes you enough

that when it leaves,

you don’t.

fuck.

what do i know?

i’m still taking notes.

life changing—

that kinda love.

oh…heli’s here.

gotta go!

~fin~

There is no way you’ll keep your mate.
I’m sorry to say it… it’s just your fate!
You start out together, tight and new,
With both of you knowing what to do.

You support and protect, give it your all,
No matter the order, short or tall.
Often with time, there comes dirt and grime,
But you're standing right there—brave, with no fear.

Under pressure you get stretched out,
Perhaps you shrink or become a bit stout.
But together you stick, in health and when sick…
But this poem isn’t about you getting along,

It’s about how one day… you will be wronged.
Someday soon you’ll be kind of faded,
Maybe even a little jaded.
Your band may get loose, but you’ll wear it still,

For together you’ll stand, it’s your will.
You think you're strong and you’ll fight mean,
You’ll rally together to the extreme
Together you face The Washing Machine

Hand in hand, you enter in,
Ready for a roughened swim.
It feels good though, the warmth and bubble,
Hiding the fact there could be trouble.

Swirling around from the start,
Staying together, then floating apart.
Twirling around in soapy suds,
Trying to get back to your bud.

Finally, when the cycle ends,
You see him there! You grab your friend.
You both fought strong and can’t feel higher,
But with shock and awe…. now comes The Dryer!

And this next cycle just isn’t fun,
You spin around and you come undone.
The heat is intense, it makes you shrink,
Everything’s dry, you can’t even think.

But there in the corner, you know what you see—
That little hole that leads to eternity.
Your mate's too close, you get annoyed,
Doesn’t he know he’s near THE VOID?!

"Get away!" you scream through the heavy din,
Then watch in horror as he gets sucked right in!
The vortex claimed him, in he went,
All that’s left is a cloud of lint.

In despair you spin and spin,
Seeing now that you cannot win.
He’s gone—your friend, your match, your mate.
I told you so….. it’s only fate.

You would think
having two of the most famous poets
in the world as my wingmen
would be a surefire way
to meet someone nice.

You would be dead wrong.

My best friends are Robert Frost
and Edgar Allan Poe.

Between them,
they’ve written some of the most beautiful words
in the English language.

Surely they can help me
talk to this one girl I like.

We’re at a coffee shop.

I see her there.

“Gentlemen. I really like her.
She’s coming this way.
Help me. What do I say?”

Frost gets a twinkle in his eye and straightens his coat.

Poe looks like he hasn’t slept since 1847.

“Give me an opening line.”

Frost whispers,

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...”

“Okay, Bob. We need to connect that
into a complete thought.

She’s twelve feet away.”

“Take the one less traveled.”

“I’m still not sure
how that applies, Bob.”

Poe grabs my arm frantically.

“Tell her you loved her with a love
that was more than love.”

“Edgar...

that’s actually pretty good.

Maybe just a little strong
for someone who doesn’t know
my name yet?”

He stares mournfully
into the distance.

“Guys. Lock in.

Something normal.

Compliment her.”

Frost thinks.

“The woods are lovely,
dark and deep.”

“Bob.

Are you even aware
of what we’re doing here
or do you just want to talk about the woods?”

Poe suddenly perks up.

“I have it!”

Finally.

“Once upon a midnight dreary...”

“IT’S NINE IN THE MORNING, EDGAR.

WE’RE AT A COFFEE SHOP.”

I abandon my literary council.

I walk over.

“Hi.”

She looks up.

Cute smile.

I make a joke.

She laughs.

See?

Normal human interaction.

We start talking.

She’s funny.

She thinks I’m funny.

There’s a little spark.

This is going well.

Then Frost appears beside me.

I frantically motion him away.

Nobody invited Frost.

He looks at her.

Looks at me.

Smiles sadly.

“Nothing gold can stay.”

GET AWAY FROM HER, BOB.

She laughs.

Okay.

Maybe we survived.

Maybe Bob isn’t so bad.

Then Poe slides
into the empty chair.

He turns to her.

“He’s nervous!
Very, very dreadfully nervous...”

“Edgar.

You’re making this weird.”

Behind us,
the barista shuts the refrigerator.

THUMP.

Poe freezes.

I smile at her.

“He’s sensitive to noise sometimes.”

THUMP. THUMP.

Poe’s eyes widen.

“Do you hear it?”

“It’s the fridge, Edgar.”

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

“It grows louder!”

“EDGAR, CALM DOWN.”

Now she’s really laughing.

Holy shit.

Maybe these idiots
are helping.

I relax.

She relaxes.

We’re talking.

Frost is quietly
drawing roads on a napkin.

Poe is checking
under the floorboards.

Everything is somehow...

working.

Then the door opens.

Frost goes pale.

Poe whispers,

“Dear God.”

A man walks in
wearing tights,
pointy shoes,
and a ridiculous collar,

with the confidence
of someone who’s been dead
four hundred years
and still gets top billing.

My friends look like
they’ve just seen
their archrival.

“Who the hell is that?”

Frost grabs my arm. He looks in disgust.

“William....”

I stare cofused

"Shakespeare."

“No.

Absolutely not.

Bill, keep walking.”

Too late.

He sees her.

Walks straight over.

Looks into her eyes.

Takes her hand.

“Shall I compare thee
to a summer’s day?”

She turns bright red.

Shakespeare looks at me.

Smirks.

WHAT AN A-HOLE.

I turn to Frost.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU
THINK TO SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT?”

He shrugs.

“The woods are lovely.”

I just stare at him

Poe jumps in.

“I could tell her
about Annabel Lee.”

“NO MORE DEAD WOMEN, EDGAR.”

Meanwhile,

Shakespeare is absolutely cooking.

Sonnets off the top of his head.
Beautiful metaphors.
Something about stars.
She is enchanted.

“Bill,” I interrupt,

“you know she’s not actually
a summer’s day, right?”

He ignores me.

She laughs.
He bows.
She fucking claps.

Frost looks defeated.

Poe looks like
he wants to murder Shakespeare,

but Poe always looks at everyone like that.

Five minutes later, they’re still talking.

Shakespeare is telling her
some story involving
two sets of twins.

I stare at my wingmen.

“You two are world-famous poets.”

Frost sighs.

“Two roads diverged...”

“Don’t.”

Poe puts a hand
on my shoulder.

“Alas, Nevermore.”

“Thanks Edgar.”

Across the room,

Shakespeare makes her laugh
again.

Frost stares into his coffee.
Poe stares into the abyss.
I stare at Shakespeare.

And that’s when
I learned the first rule
of meeting girls
with famous poets:

Never compete with Shakespeare.

Apparently
all the world’s a stage...

and that guy has all the good lines.

The winds howl, swirling in anger

The light, once bright and vibrant

Now flickers under the gust's will

How long can the flame last?

Is it eternal or only temporary?

Is its fate to be extinguished

Or can it survive this storm?

Lay down the fear you have carried through the long, freezing night. The iron gates are barred against the storm, and the shadows that hunted your steps drop dead at this threshold.

Look into my eyes and see the end of your running. You have bled enough on cold stone to pay for a thousand lifetimes; you have answered to enough unmerciful gods who never deserved your prayers. There are no wars left for you to fight behind these walls, no pound of flesh left for you to yield up for a moment of peace.

Bring your weary heart against mine and let your chest remember how to breathe. I do not just offer you shelter,

I offer you the whole of myself. Every dark place in me was made to hold you; every breath I have left is a fortress built around your name. Whatever chased you to this edge dies in my shadow.

You are bound to me now, not as a captive, but as my sanctuary. In my arms, you are adored. In my shadow, you are loved. In my keeping, you are forever safe, J.

Our love is light.

Like a floating balloon.

We’re laughing at nothing or checking the moon.

It’s pure and it’s simple.

It is completely real.

We don't need a map for the way that we feel.

Cici 🧡

All the milestones

First steps and words

You were never there

Proof is in the pictures

Hidden in the dark

You were never there

Present in a room

Yet unspoken tunes

You were never there

A body breathing air

Consuming without a care

You were never there

Space was filled

Strange distance felt

You were never there

What’s a body without a soul

Just a pulse without a reason

You were never there

As the film roles

A ghost was hardly found

You were never there

Painted over canvas

A missing face

You were never there

Self involved with no connection

Truly your own reflection

You were never there

Looking back I see

You were never there

I wanted to write something lovely today,
about a beautiful phrase in an autumn-ish way.

I knew what it meant. I knew what I should.
Until I got to the word 'season'...
and completely misunderstood.

You meant falling petals and time passing away,
the changing of things as they slowly decay.

I pictured a spice rack. What can I say?

I thought about mixing spices and how they all zing,
and suddenly season meant a whole different thing.

I pictured a shaker of flowery flakes,
sitting on the table while I’m out on a date.

A shaker of lavender, thyme, and whatever it takes,
with rose petals ground into cinnamon flakes.

Just a twinge of paprika, because apparently we must,
a sprinkle of solace, and cinnamon dust.

A dash of delight, measured just right,
and a pinch of perhaps this night might go all right.

The girl I’m having dinner with smiles over at me.
I straighten my collar. It's as straight as can be.

“Would you pass the season, my dear?”

She slides it my way, her eyes bright and clear.

So far, so good.

I think I’m charming.
I think I’m slick.

I give it a shake...

and things go bad real quick.

A small petal takes flight and lands on my steak.
I was not expecting a petal.

A terrible mistake.

I look at the petal.
She looks at me.

Another goes sailing...

plop

straight into her tea.

I give it another shake.
Just one.

Actually, maybe it was three.

And half of the seasoning
lands on her knee.

She slowly looks down.
Then slowly at me.

Then even more slowly,

“Did you just...

season me?”

“Geez. Maybe.”

She smiles.

“You’re really good
at impressing me.”

She reaches for the jar.

I start backing away.

Something in her smile says
I probably shouldn’t stay.

She reads from the label:

“Rose petals...
lavender...
thyme...

PFFT! THIS IS POTPOURRI!”

She gets a good handful
and flings it my way.

Right in my eye.

I grab some and say,

“Okay.

You wanna play?”

She gasps.
I stare.

We both start to grin.

And that’s when
the war did begin.

Rose petals fly!
Lavender launches!

Thyme fills the sky!
Some cinnamon punches!

I season the table.
She seasons the chairs.

I season our drinks.
She seasons our hair.

I season the napkins.
She seasons the floor.

We season the waiter
until he begs us
to please stop seasoning him anymore.

Petals drift left.
Petals drift right.

We’ve turned a nice dinner
into flower-fight night.

She’s laughing hard.
I’m laughing too.

There’s thyme on my head
and lavender in her shoe.

There’s rose in her dress.
There’s spice in my drink.

There’s seasoning everywhere
but the kitchen sink.

Finally she reaches
and catches my wrist.

“Truce?”

But something’s amiss.

There’s a sparkle still dancing around in her eyes.

I know that look.

This woman tells spice lies.

I narrow my eyes.

“I suppose I insist.”

She laughs hard.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I needed the rhyme.”

She nods very sweetly...

and throws

one

final

thyme.

“HEY!”

“What?”

“You said truce!”

She shrugs.

“Again...

you got seasoned.”

I laugh.

She laughs.

And somewhere in there,
with thyme on my shirt
and petals in her hair,

I realize this nonsense
is something I’ll keep,

long after the lavender
gets swept in a heap.

Because memories part like petals
of a passing season...

but some stick around for no sensible reason.

In pockets.
In laughter.
In clothes.
In your hair.

Little pieces of moments
that somehow stay there.

And maybe the best ones
aren’t grand or profound.

Maybe they happen
with petals all around.

Maybe solace is simpler
than poems make it seem.

It doesn’t need thunder.
It doesn’t need dreams.

Sometimes it’s dinner.
Sometimes it’s thyme.

Sometimes it’s someone
who’ll ruin your rhyme.

I invited her to dinner.

She came. She threw spices at me. That was enough.

And somewhere between the petals and stuff,

she laughed,
I laughed,
and for just a little while,
in this whole big world
there is nothing better than to smile.

Cold fluorescent lights

Rough day drains my energy

Hold me close tonight.

Spicy

I think of you in a ring of fire that connects past lives.

Every thought in creation floats in the air.

The spark of possibilities that enter me as you do without permission but also extraordinary invitations.

I see runes of hieroglyphics on your body marked by my tongue.

Or magic marker.

If I had to guess, for me,
of all the places I could be,
it isn’t somewhere over there;
most likely, it is right here.
Perhaps it wasn’t always this way
different desires, different days
but in this world, I’ve carved my place,
and solved the problems I have faced.
I’ve made the best of what I’ve had.
It wasn’t good, it wasn’t bad.
I’ve never had to be alone,
For some mistakes, I’ve had to atone.
I’ve done my best to be kind and good,
To have some patience for the misunderstood.
The world doesn’t owe us anything;
it’s what we make of it… you know what I mean?
What we deserve we rarely get;
a good lesson never to forget.
So whatever comes, that’s just the way,
as we choose our path every day.