Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
Poet. Does not play well with others.
Pinned
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
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
How many times will I flinch
on my walk home
when a man stares too long
or comes too close
my body keeping count
of dangers I never chose,
a tally etched in instinct
I wish I didn’t need.
#poetry
on my walk home
when a man stares too long
or comes too close
my body keeping count
of dangers I never chose,
a tally etched in instinct
I wish I didn’t need.
#poetry
November 15, 2025 at 5:56 AM
How many times will I flinch
on my walk home
when a man stares too long
or comes too close
my body keeping count
of dangers I never chose,
a tally etched in instinct
I wish I didn’t need.
#poetry
on my walk home
when a man stares too long
or comes too close
my body keeping count
of dangers I never chose,
a tally etched in instinct
I wish I didn’t need.
#poetry
Just like that, you forgot
years of history
stolen by sickness, disease, injury.
If anyone wants to know hell,
look into the eyes of the one who’s gone
but still breathing,
and the faces around them
clutching memories
that no longer have a place to land.
#poetry
years of history
stolen by sickness, disease, injury.
If anyone wants to know hell,
look into the eyes of the one who’s gone
but still breathing,
and the faces around them
clutching memories
that no longer have a place to land.
#poetry
November 15, 2025 at 3:04 AM
Just like that, you forgot
years of history
stolen by sickness, disease, injury.
If anyone wants to know hell,
look into the eyes of the one who’s gone
but still breathing,
and the faces around them
clutching memories
that no longer have a place to land.
#poetry
years of history
stolen by sickness, disease, injury.
If anyone wants to know hell,
look into the eyes of the one who’s gone
but still breathing,
and the faces around them
clutching memories
that no longer have a place to land.
#poetry
All my ghosts have bones
they have sharpened into spikes
memory learning how to weaponize itself,
how to haunt with an edge.
They linger in doorways,
chiseling old hurts into new shapes,
turning silence into shrapnel
with every breath I take.
#MPPrompt #poetryprompt #poetry
they have sharpened into spikes
memory learning how to weaponize itself,
how to haunt with an edge.
They linger in doorways,
chiseling old hurts into new shapes,
turning silence into shrapnel
with every breath I take.
#MPPrompt #poetryprompt #poetry
Today’s #poetryprompt:
Here is the line that has been plaguing me now for weeks. I offer it up to you. See what you can do with it.
“All my ghosts have bones”
#MPPrompt
I repost replies! Follow for daily prompts
Here is the line that has been plaguing me now for weeks. I offer it up to you. See what you can do with it.
“All my ghosts have bones”
#MPPrompt
I repost replies! Follow for daily prompts
November 14, 2025 at 5:05 PM
All my ghosts have bones
they have sharpened into spikes
memory learning how to weaponize itself,
how to haunt with an edge.
They linger in doorways,
chiseling old hurts into new shapes,
turning silence into shrapnel
with every breath I take.
#MPPrompt #poetryprompt #poetry
they have sharpened into spikes
memory learning how to weaponize itself,
how to haunt with an edge.
They linger in doorways,
chiseling old hurts into new shapes,
turning silence into shrapnel
with every breath I take.
#MPPrompt #poetryprompt #poetry
For all my almosts
and not-quite’s,
a constant tape drags,
taking inventory
of every way
I fail to fit.
But maybe my math is wrong
maybe I was never meant
to be tallied or totaled,
never meant to be measured,
only met.
#poetry
and not-quite’s,
a constant tape drags,
taking inventory
of every way
I fail to fit.
But maybe my math is wrong
maybe I was never meant
to be tallied or totaled,
never meant to be measured,
only met.
#poetry
November 13, 2025 at 11:30 PM
For all my almosts
and not-quite’s,
a constant tape drags,
taking inventory
of every way
I fail to fit.
But maybe my math is wrong
maybe I was never meant
to be tallied or totaled,
never meant to be measured,
only met.
#poetry
and not-quite’s,
a constant tape drags,
taking inventory
of every way
I fail to fit.
But maybe my math is wrong
maybe I was never meant
to be tallied or totaled,
never meant to be measured,
only met.
#poetry
Softer Ink
Sometimes I do things just to hurt myself
as if the pain I choose is somehow
more palatable than the pain inflicted.
I scroll endlessly through conversations for facts.
#poetry
Sometimes I do things just to hurt myself
as if the pain I choose is somehow
more palatable than the pain inflicted.
I scroll endlessly through conversations for facts.
#poetry
November 12, 2025 at 8:51 PM
Softer Ink
Sometimes I do things just to hurt myself
as if the pain I choose is somehow
more palatable than the pain inflicted.
I scroll endlessly through conversations for facts.
#poetry
Sometimes I do things just to hurt myself
as if the pain I choose is somehow
more palatable than the pain inflicted.
I scroll endlessly through conversations for facts.
#poetry
Erasure Comes Dressed as Explanation
He calls it clarity,
but it’s conquest.
Each word a hand
smoothing me out
until I vanish
politely.
#poetry
He calls it clarity,
but it’s conquest.
Each word a hand
smoothing me out
until I vanish
politely.
#poetry
November 12, 2025 at 12:06 PM
Erasure Comes Dressed as Explanation
He calls it clarity,
but it’s conquest.
Each word a hand
smoothing me out
until I vanish
politely.
#poetry
He calls it clarity,
but it’s conquest.
Each word a hand
smoothing me out
until I vanish
politely.
#poetry
Fine Line
There’s a fine line between eccentric and crazy,
I ride that line like a circus animal on a unicycle,
balancing teacups of logic on my head,
wearing a grin stitched from yesterday’s confessions.
#poetry
There’s a fine line between eccentric and crazy,
I ride that line like a circus animal on a unicycle,
balancing teacups of logic on my head,
wearing a grin stitched from yesterday’s confessions.
#poetry
November 9, 2025 at 10:49 PM
Fine Line
There’s a fine line between eccentric and crazy,
I ride that line like a circus animal on a unicycle,
balancing teacups of logic on my head,
wearing a grin stitched from yesterday’s confessions.
#poetry
There’s a fine line between eccentric and crazy,
I ride that line like a circus animal on a unicycle,
balancing teacups of logic on my head,
wearing a grin stitched from yesterday’s confessions.
#poetry
Pockets.
Pockets are small mouths
holding purpose,
terrified of being turned inside out
their secrets exposed,
and ultimately,
their emptiness confessed.
#poetry
Pockets are small mouths
holding purpose,
terrified of being turned inside out
their secrets exposed,
and ultimately,
their emptiness confessed.
#poetry
November 8, 2025 at 11:49 PM
Pockets.
Pockets are small mouths
holding purpose,
terrified of being turned inside out
their secrets exposed,
and ultimately,
their emptiness confessed.
#poetry
Pockets are small mouths
holding purpose,
terrified of being turned inside out
their secrets exposed,
and ultimately,
their emptiness confessed.
#poetry
The Machine
Insert coin flashes warning
the slot is stuck in refusal
through years of force,
demands, and expectations
jamming the gears.
#poetry
Insert coin flashes warning
the slot is stuck in refusal
through years of force,
demands, and expectations
jamming the gears.
#poetry
November 6, 2025 at 10:01 PM
The Machine
Insert coin flashes warning
the slot is stuck in refusal
through years of force,
demands, and expectations
jamming the gears.
#poetry
Insert coin flashes warning
the slot is stuck in refusal
through years of force,
demands, and expectations
jamming the gears.
#poetry
And to think I almost—
well, it doesn’t matter now.
The moment rushed past me
like a train and I late to the platform,
Silence took what words could not hold,
and left me killing what remained.
#poetry
well, it doesn’t matter now.
The moment rushed past me
like a train and I late to the platform,
Silence took what words could not hold,
and left me killing what remained.
#poetry
November 5, 2025 at 5:07 PM
And to think I almost—
well, it doesn’t matter now.
The moment rushed past me
like a train and I late to the platform,
Silence took what words could not hold,
and left me killing what remained.
#poetry
well, it doesn’t matter now.
The moment rushed past me
like a train and I late to the platform,
Silence took what words could not hold,
and left me killing what remained.
#poetry
Something unsaid
Leaves something undone,
A silence #acidic beneath the skin,
Where words should have cauterized,
But erasure took hold instead.
#horrorprompt #poetry
Leaves something undone,
A silence #acidic beneath the skin,
Where words should have cauterized,
But erasure took hold instead.
#horrorprompt #poetry
November 5, 2025 at 1:06 PM
Something unsaid
Leaves something undone,
A silence #acidic beneath the skin,
Where words should have cauterized,
But erasure took hold instead.
#horrorprompt #poetry
Leaves something undone,
A silence #acidic beneath the skin,
Where words should have cauterized,
But erasure took hold instead.
#horrorprompt #poetry
The Trouble with Being Literal
I take people like paperbacks
face value and fragile spines.
You say, turn the page,
and I do, expecting plot,
but there’s only subtext
and coffee stains that don’t explain a thing.
#poetry #writerscomunity #literal
I take people like paperbacks
face value and fragile spines.
You say, turn the page,
and I do, expecting plot,
but there’s only subtext
and coffee stains that don’t explain a thing.
#poetry #writerscomunity #literal
November 4, 2025 at 11:53 AM
The Trouble with Being Literal
I take people like paperbacks
face value and fragile spines.
You say, turn the page,
and I do, expecting plot,
but there’s only subtext
and coffee stains that don’t explain a thing.
#poetry #writerscomunity #literal
I take people like paperbacks
face value and fragile spines.
You say, turn the page,
and I do, expecting plot,
but there’s only subtext
and coffee stains that don’t explain a thing.
#poetry #writerscomunity #literal
The ground exhaled
a low, growl from its belly,
something buried too long
somehow remembered itself.
As if all it’s thinking were for naught,
as if it could reach an answer
without disturbing the magma
of what lies beneath.
#BlueskyRelay #poetry #thegroundexhaled
a low, growl from its belly,
something buried too long
somehow remembered itself.
As if all it’s thinking were for naught,
as if it could reach an answer
without disturbing the magma
of what lies beneath.
#BlueskyRelay #poetry #thegroundexhaled
November 3, 2025 at 8:24 PM
The ground exhaled
a low, growl from its belly,
something buried too long
somehow remembered itself.
As if all it’s thinking were for naught,
as if it could reach an answer
without disturbing the magma
of what lies beneath.
#BlueskyRelay #poetry #thegroundexhaled
a low, growl from its belly,
something buried too long
somehow remembered itself.
As if all it’s thinking were for naught,
as if it could reach an answer
without disturbing the magma
of what lies beneath.
#BlueskyRelay #poetry #thegroundexhaled
Manic Monday
I don’t compartmentalize
I can’t separate
It all bleeds together
And I become fragile.
Monday is just as manic
as every other day.
Another kid, another catastrophe
my real job is to care.
#bedroomeyes
#poetry
I don’t compartmentalize
I can’t separate
It all bleeds together
And I become fragile.
Monday is just as manic
as every other day.
Another kid, another catastrophe
my real job is to care.
#bedroomeyes
#poetry
November 3, 2025 at 12:51 PM
Manic Monday
I don’t compartmentalize
I can’t separate
It all bleeds together
And I become fragile.
Monday is just as manic
as every other day.
Another kid, another catastrophe
my real job is to care.
#bedroomeyes
#poetry
I don’t compartmentalize
I can’t separate
It all bleeds together
And I become fragile.
Monday is just as manic
as every other day.
Another kid, another catastrophe
my real job is to care.
#bedroomeyes
#poetry
Negotiating with Dignity
It’s never about the lack of money
that’s what the wealthy don’t see.
It’s the constant negotiation with dignity,
the quiet, exhausting labor
of preserving self-respect
in a world that treats you as disposable.
#poetry
It’s never about the lack of money
that’s what the wealthy don’t see.
It’s the constant negotiation with dignity,
the quiet, exhausting labor
of preserving self-respect
in a world that treats you as disposable.
#poetry
November 2, 2025 at 2:03 AM
Negotiating with Dignity
It’s never about the lack of money
that’s what the wealthy don’t see.
It’s the constant negotiation with dignity,
the quiet, exhausting labor
of preserving self-respect
in a world that treats you as disposable.
#poetry
It’s never about the lack of money
that’s what the wealthy don’t see.
It’s the constant negotiation with dignity,
the quiet, exhausting labor
of preserving self-respect
in a world that treats you as disposable.
#poetry
