Prue Paimon
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
190 followers 110 following 340 posts
Poet of no distinction.

Does not play well with others.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · Oct 3
A poets job
is to scratch at the truth
until it bleeds freely.
A neurosis
of picking at a thing,
trying to untangle its beauty
without leaving a scar.
#poetry
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
February 14, 2026 at 4:39 AM
Reposted by Prue Paimon
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#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,…
#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.
December 31, 2025 at 12:26 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
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.
February 12, 2026 at 3:39 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
February 11, 2026 at 5:21 PM
Reposted by Prue Paimon
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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.
January 22, 2026 at 6:03 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#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
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.
February 1, 2026 at 9:39 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
February 1, 2026 at 9:04 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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.
January 22, 2026 at 6:03 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
January 14, 2026 at 10:16 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#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…
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.
January 6, 2026 at 5:53 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Sketchbook doodle for today.
Picture of a magpie with a crown. Ink drawing on paper.
January 5, 2026 at 9:51 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#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….
#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.
January 4, 2026 at 12:10 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#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…
#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.
January 4, 2026 at 12:41 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
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.
January 3, 2026 at 5:34 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
January 2, 2026 at 11:23 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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…
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.
January 2, 2026 at 1:24 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Treasure hunt.

You search my words like a thief
looking for treasure
turning verbs into lockpicks,
hoping for a glint of leverage,
a foothold of understanding you can claim
as conquest.
But my language is a decoy.
#poetry
You search my words like a thief looking for treasure turning verbs into lockpicks, hoping for a glint of leverage, a foothold of understanding you can claim as conquest. But my language is a decoy. The real valuables are not buried here, never marked with X. They were carried out long ago in plain sight. What you hold now are fingerprints on glass, reflections mistaken for reason, and the quiet realization that knowing the map is not the same as holding the compass.
January 1, 2026 at 10:23 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Thank you artists poets and writers of Bluesky this is for you— Prue.
May 2026 be kinder and May you keep creating.

They will call it soft.
They will call it indulgent.
They will say now is not the time
as if time has ever been gentle enough
to wait.
#poetry #writers #artists #poets
They will call it soft. They will call it indulgent. They will say now is not the time as if time has ever been gentle enough to wait. Writers— you are not decorating the wreckage. You are naming it so it cannot pretend to be natural. Poets— your metaphors are not escapes; they are contraband. You smuggle truth past numbness in the lining of a line break. Artists— you are not making things “beautiful.” You are making things visible when power prefers a blur. In crisis, language fractures. When systems fail, art becomes the nervous system a way to feel when feeling is dangerous, a way to remember when forgetting is convenient. Make the poem that trembles. Paint the image that refuses closure. Write the sentence that leaves fingerprints on the reader’s throat. Because in the long emergency, art is not commentary it is infrastructure. Keep making. Not because it will save us but because without it, we won’t even know what we are trying to save.
January 1, 2026 at 3:26 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
It is truly amazing how many people even with the ability to read miss the point entirely.
December 31, 2025 at 3:55 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#dream #vss365 #poetry

’Tis nothing but a dream
we all get our hour upon the stage.
Shakespeare knew this:
the lights are borrowed,
the script unfinished,
the exits never announced.
What matters is not the brevity
but our audacity
#dream #vss365 #poetry ’Tis nothing but a dream we all get our hour upon the stage. Shakespeare knew this: the lights are borrowed, the script unfinished, the exits never announced. What matters is not the brevity but our audacity whether we speak our lines or dare to improvise, whether we spend the hour pressing ourselves into costume or breaking character. Time does not ask for perfection. It demands use. But if we are lucky we gain presence sharp enough to cut through illusion and speak truth.
December 31, 2025 at 1:08 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
It has been decided that the only reason to stay up for new years is to make absolutely, positively sure that 2025 is well and truly gone.
I don’t make the rules- tell the others.
December 31, 2025 at 12:35 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#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,…
#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.
December 31, 2025 at 12:26 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#Travel #vss365 #poetry

Sleep is relief
not escape,
but a boarding pass to somewhere else
Somewhere not here.
Reality doesn’t vanish,
it just loosens its grip,
unbuttons its collar,
lets the bones rest from holding meaning upright.
#Travel #vss365 #poetry Sleep is relief not escape, but a boarding pass to somewhere else Somewhere not here. Reality doesn’t vanish, it just loosens its grip, unbuttons its collar, lets the bones rest from holding meaning upright. In sleep, the world agrees to stop asking questions. Time forgets its sharp edges. The self is allowed to soften and travel without explanation. It’s not turning off completely but being placed carefully on a shelf, labeled fragile, and trusted to still be there when morning reaches for it again.
December 30, 2025 at 1:48 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
When I kiss
my lips become poetry
not the kind that begs to be read,
but the kind felt,
and memorized by accident.
#poetry
When I kiss my lips become poetry not the kind that begs to be read, but the kind felt, and memorized by accident. Language forgets itself there. Grammar loosens its grip. Meaning stops performing and simply arrives. My mouth rewrites silence, turns breath into beauty, and for just a moment I believe in art.
December 30, 2025 at 1:13 AM