thenightquill

[thenightquill]

Tears of the fallen

A/n: I really love art.. especially the fallen angel painting as well as a ton of others but this is one is my ultimate favorite so I thought 'Hey lets write a poem about it'. I also mentioned this painting in my poem 'Liquified' which basically gave me the idea. And this is the result:))

~~~

They think tears are weakness.

But mine are forged

from fire that couldn’t find a voice.

They are rage, liquified—

boiling beneath my lashes,

too proud to scream,

too exhausted not to fall.

I was once all light,

all promise.

A name sung in the halls of heaven.

Now, I kneel—

not in prayer,

but in the wreckage of what I refused to bow to.

This is not surrender.

This is aftermath.

The artists draw me curled,

one wing broken,

a hand shielding my face

as if shame lives in my skin.

But they do not see

the fury behind my silence,

the thunder beneath my stillness.

These tears are not grief.

They are the storm

I held in too long.

I do not cry because I regret.

I cry because I remember.

Because even angels burn

when no one listens.

And falling—

falling was never the sin.

It was the cost

of being the only one

who dared to feel too much.

[thenightquill]

Two suns

A/n:A slightlyyy longer poem than anticipated but thats okay...it really helped writing about...

"I write because I don't know what I think till I read what I say." ~Flannery O'Connor

~~~

She walks beneath two suns—

and neither were part of the plan.

She was always the girl

who chose achievement over affection,

who studied late, smiled bright,

made her parents proud

and set her own heart aside

like it could wait

forever.

Her father guarded her world

like it was glass.

No distractions,

especially not boys.

Especially not this.

And now—

now there are two.

The first—

he’s been there for years

without either of them knowing it.

A boy from the past,

now part of the present.

Close, too close—

tied to her best friend

and tangled in a toxic love

he won’t leave.

He knows it hurts,

says he can take it.

But why does he look at her

like maybe he wants something softer?

Something kinder?

And then—

there’s the other.

A boy who lives in rare moments,

far-off places.

She didn’t remember him at first—

but now she can’t stop.

There’s something open in him,

unguarded.

He looks at her like

he already knows

what she hasn’t dared admit.

She wishes

she could turn it all off.

Go back to long nights,

empty inboxes,

nothing but goals and calendars

and silence.

Back to safety.

But some part of her aches

for what she’s never had.

A relationship.

A real one.

The kind that feels like warmth,

like being seen.

And the ache itself

is unfamiliar.

Loud.

She’s not sure who she wants.

Or if she should want at all.

All she knows is—

both suns are burning.

And she can’t help

but stand in the middle,

unsure

if she should move

or let herself melt.

[thenightquill]

This skin

A/n: My Contribution to the word prompt 'skin' from @butwhyareyoureyessosad and hosted once again by the dear @picklemafia.

~~~

This skin

has been a stranger to him.

A garment he wore with hesitation,

pulling sleeves over shame,

avoiding mirrors like questions

He wasn’t ready to answer.

It has stretched and shifted,

marked by quiet battles—

a thin line on his knee from childhood,

a faded burn on his wrist from learning too late,

the slow bloom of liver spots,

like the earth leaving fingerprints

on skin that's lived.

Each mark, a story.

None of them asked for.

All of them his.

He used to wish

He could peel it off—

shed this shell like a snake,

leave behind the version of him

that flinched at his own reflection.

But with time,

this skin became less war,

more witness.

It remembered what he survived

long after he forgot.

It kept him safe

even when he swore it suffocated him.

Wore armor when he couldn’t lift his own hands.

Held him together

through nights when his mind fell apart.

He still doesn't love it every day.

But he thanks it more now.

He listen to the way it breathes,

the way it flinches,

the way it holds heat and memory

like it’s trying to teach him something.

He's not fully grown into it yet.

But he's growing.

And maybe that’s enough.

[thenightquill]

Liquified

A/n: just a small poem i wrote while trying to sleep but not only being able to.

~~~

They never saw it as rage.

Not when it slid down my face

like silence turned to water.

But it was.

It is.

Anger doesn’t always shout—

sometimes it drips,

salted and slow,

a storm disguised as sorrow.

I burned quietly.

No outburst,

no wreckage.

Only the sting behind my eyes

and the weight in my chest

pressing like a scream with nowhere to go.

This is how fury survives

when it has no room to live—

it softens.

It leaks.

It becomes the tear

you wipe away before anyone sees,

pretending it’s sadness.

But it isn’t.

It’s what’s left

when you've held in too much

for too long.

Somewhere,

there’s a fallen angel

curled in shadow,

not out of shame—

but exhaustion.

One hand to his face,

not hiding,

just holding in

everything no one let him speak.

And I think

maybe we are the same.

Not broken.

Just burning too quietly

for this world to understand.

[thenightquill]

III - God of the cage

 A/n: Sooooo this is the third and last part of this kinda poem thingy i did inspired from "Hi Ren" by Ren (credits to him and his song)

~~~

I’ve had enough.

This ends tonight.

You’re not my god.

You hold no right.

I call the shots.

I choose who stays.

And you—

you fade

beneath my blaze.

Oh, do it. Strike the blow, come claim the throne you’ll never know. But tell me— if you cut me out, what’s left behind but fear and doubt? You think you rule? You wear the crown? Then why, sweet queen, do you bow back down? I decide. I carve your cage. I hold the leash and leash your rage.

News flash: I was born before breath. I am the whisper in death. I am temptation, creation's flaw— the cracked commandment, the broken law.

I’m the dagger in a poet's pen, the shame of now, the ghost of then. The scream behind your lullaby. The reason kings and gods still die.

Lucifer’s grin, the dawn’s eclipse— my name is stitched to trembling lips. I won’t kneel to mortal will— I rot, I burn, and yet I still am in your voice, your every line— I poison hope, then call it mine.

I am the itch beneath your skin, the quiet crack you cave within. I’m every truth you tried to bend— I am you. You are me. I am the end.

I think I’m slipping again.

Can’t tell where I end.

Can’t tell where he begins.

I said I was better—

God, I wanted to be.

But every step I take

feels borrowed from someone

stronger than me.

I still wake up

like a war just ended

in my lungs.

I smile like it’s currency.

I speak like it’s punishment.

I exist like it’s penance.

Don’t wait for me.

I don’t know who’s coming back.

I think I need

to fall apart quietly

this time.

Take a little time.

Be a little gone.

I wasn’t built to last.

Some people are stars.

Some people are storms.

I was made

to be broken.

And I’ve been doing

such a good job.

[thenightquill]

The color between

A/n: I asked my friend to tell me a prompt to write about and this is the result...btw the prompt was "Write a poem about a color without saying the colors name" I don't know if you can actually guess it because the color he gave me was kinda diffucult but at the same time not?

~~~

It is the hush between sunset and night,

a breath held in lavender skies.

Not quite fire, not yet shadow—

a bruise where the day softly dies.

It lives in the velvet of twilight,

where silence drapes over the land.

The hue of whispered secrets,

of ink that slips from hand.

It is grape-skin laughter in summer,

the scent of rain on slow bloom.

A monarch’s wing in motion,

a candle flickering in a quiet room.

It is royalty without the crown,

grief with a satin face.

A hymn that haunts the chapel halls,

a dancer moving through space.

It stains the dreams of poets,

the edges of sleeping eyes.

Neither warm nor cold—it lingers,

a question in disguise.

You’ve seen it in the storm’s retreat,

in the deep of midnight wine.

It is not named, it simply waits—

between the red and blue of time.

[thenightquill]

Half light

A/n: This my third poem to the word prompt "spark" suggested by @peepeepoopoo3d...this fun inspiration support is hosted by @picklemafia...this third poem actually was not planned but inspiration hit me in the face during my math lesson...that's why there is now another poem to the word prompt:))

~~~

She hadn’t felt anything in months.

Not joy. Not rage.

Not even the dull ache of waiting.

Then it came—

a spark.

Uninvited,

unexplained.

A single second of heat in her hollow chest.

It wasn't much.

Just a glance that lingered too long,

a sentence that cracked something open,

a memory that didn’t ask permission.

She mistook it for healing.

She mistook it for freedom.

But sparks are tricky things—

some start wildfires,

others burn themselves out

before you even get your hands warm.

And this one?

It danced,

it dared,

it died.

Left her staring at the smoke,

heart thudding with the echo

of something almost.

Now she walks in half light—

too awake to be numb,

too broken to ignite.

But somewhere deep inside,

she guards the ghost of that spark,

as if one day,

it might come back

wearing fire.

[thenightquill]

Kindling

A/n: This my second poem to the word prompt "spark" suggested by @peepeepoopoo3d...this fun inspiration support is hosted by @picklemafia

~~~

They told me to stay quiet,

to sit still in the storm and pretend

I didn’t hear the thunder cracking

inside my ribs.

But silence tastes like smoke,

and I have swallowed enough ash.

One breath.

One choice.

One spark.

That’s all it takes.

A thought they couldn’t kill.

A word I didn’t swallow.

A hand that didn’t shake.

It started small—

barely more than friction in the dark—

but it caught.

Oh, it caught.

Now I walk with fire in my throat,

matchstick spine,

eyes like flint striking steel.

Let them come.

Let them try.

I was made to burn down

everything that tried to keep me cold.

[thenightquill]

The one who felt nothing

A/n: This my first poem to the word prompt "spark" suggested by @peepeepoopoo3d...this fun inspiration support is hosted by @picklemafia

~~~

I went years without a fire,

just cold rooms and colder mornings—

touches that left no trace,

words like wind, gone before I noticed.

Then one day, it happened.

A look, a note, a song—

a spark.

Small.

Unsteady.

But real.

And for a moment, I felt warm

in a way that didn’t burn.

I almost reached for it.

I almost believed.

But the spark flickered—

and I blinked—

and it was gone.

Just smoke curling where it once danced,

like a ghost embarrassed to stay.

And I sat there, still as stone,

wondering if it had ever truly been.

Sometimes I think the cruelest thing

is not to be numb—

but to feel,

for a heartbeat,

and lose it again.

[thenightquill]

II - Split

 You don’t get to steer. Not anymore. I’ve shut the windows, locked the door. I see the tricks, I know the game— you’re just a voice. You have no name. 

No name? Oh, sweet child, try. I am you, you are I. We are one.

 I’m writing again— my words feel real. I found a rhythm you can’t steal.

 Real? Where’s the proof? Where’s the praise? Where are the eyes that stay amazed? You write in silence, no one reads— just bleeding lines no soul needs.

 That’s not the point. It’s not for them. It’s for the light behind the stem.

 I know, I know— I live inside. I’ve watched your joy turn into pride. Your work is garbage, cheap and blind, just ego dressed in tortured lines.

 I don’t need you. Not this hate. I’ll stand alone. I’ll be great. I am great. Even cracked. Even scared. But still intact.

How funny you sound when you scream your truth— the little god in the poetry booth. That shine in your words, you think it’s divine, but it’s just your ego leaking in rhyme. It’s cute, this show. A solo plea. So loud you scream— so desperate to be.

~~~

The second part of my poem inspired by the song "Hi Ren" by Ren. Again: credtis to him because i don't want to steal anybodys work!

[thenightquill]

Galaxy of me

I am not made of flesh alone— I am nebula, nova, orbit, unknown. A thousand suns burn in my bones, and silence sings where light has flown.

I carry constellations in my chest, stories stitched between ribs and rest. Comets of memory blaze through thought, trailing fire from the wars I fought.

I am gravity and grace, a black hole’s pull, a star’s embrace. Wounds swirl like Saturn’s rings— beautiful, distant, aching things.

Some nights, I collapse inward, folding like dying stars do— but even then, I birth new light, from ashes only galaxies knew.

I’m stitched from cosmic paradox— a prism born in endless dark. Every joy, a flare; every pain, a spark. I hold the infinite in a beating heart.

So do not ask me to be small— I was never meant for simple skies. I am a dance of shadows and fire, a galaxy wearing human disguise.

~~~

My try at the word prompt "galaxy" suggested by @noxnightingales. Also thank you @picklemafia for the poetry prompt idea idea! It was very fun to have a kind of guide/ prompt to work on.

[thenightquill]

I - Progress

 I think I’m healing.

I breathe, I move,

the weight is there

but I improve.

Oh darling, please, don’t claim you're free— you’re just surviving quietly.

I got up early,

changed my shirt.

Even smiled,

and it didn’t hurt.

 You smiled, yes— but wasn't it tight? Wasn't it hollow deep in the night?

 I went outside.

The sky looked new.

I didn’t flinch

like I used to do.

 But still you flinch when you’re alone, you flood your head to drown the tone. White noise, bright screens, your holy shield— but silence waits beneath the field.

 I made a list.

I followed through.

I cleaned my room.

That counts for you?

 You swept the floor, you made your bed— but can you clean what’s in your head? The way you freeze when the mirror stares? The way you swallow unspoken prayers?

You’re wrong this time.

I feel the shift.

I know my path.

I’ve made the lift.

You only rise because I bend. I am your start. I am your end. You hate me, yet I’m always near— and without me, you disappear.

~~~

The main concept is inspired from "Hi Ren" by Ren (credits to him cause i dont wanna steal someones work ykyk)

Furthermore there are two more parts because I kinda structured this piece into three individuals (?) I hope everyone knows what i mean cause english is definitely not my first language:)

[thenightquill]

I hated the light.

I hated the light. For it exposed every scar. It showed me the maps of wounds I’d buried afar. The ones I wore like medals, but only in the dark— where silence wrapped me gently, and no one dared to ask.

I hated the light. It made the world too real. It asked me to feel what I refused to feel. It painted fake smiles on every cracked face and told me to heal in a place I can't trace.

The night was my mirror. It never pretended. It held all the rage that daylight suspended. It let me be broken, unspoken, undone, and didn't demand that I ever become someone.

I hated the light. Because when it found me, I was already halfway to not wanting to be.

But I stood there anyway, burning in its glare— not brave, not healed, just aware.