Prue Paimon
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
160 followers 98 following 300 posts
Poet of no distinction.

It is truly a beautiful thing to be met and understood.

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
#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
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
#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
pruepaimon.bsky.social
There are no rules
that say your New Year’s resolutions
can’t be for evil.
Growth is growth.
Intent is just branding.

The calendar won’t object.
Time is famously neutral.
It will hand you days
whether you build a shelter
or sharpen your aim.

#poetry #newyears
December 29, 2025 at 4:33 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#2WordPrompt #poetry #writingcommunity

It’s sad how one can turn something
that was beautiful
into something not worth fixing
or so we tell ourselves
when repair would ask too much
of our pride.
It’s sad how one can turn something that was beautiful into something not worth fixing or so we tell ourselves when repair would ask too much of our pride. We always wait until it’s too late, until the glaciers have already calved into memory, until apologies rise like smoke and never cool into rain. This is a sad planet. Not because it was flawed, but because it was loved carelessly. Oceans learned to hold their breath. Forests swallowed their last words and called it progress. The soil remembers every footprint that promised to stay. Then we stand amid the wreckage asking when it all fell apart, as if collapse were sudden, as if neglect weren’t cumulative. We name the damage “inevitable,” say some things can’t be saved, as though the planet didn’t try to keep spinning for us, as though the heart didn’t keep beating long after it was wounded. This is what ruins look like: not explosions, nor hatred, but the slow decision to stop fixing what once held life.
December 29, 2025 at 2:21 PM
Reposted by Prue Paimon
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Words are canceled due to unforeseen circumstances (we apologize for the inconvenience).

Sometimes I make terrible beauty
that refuses the light
yet gorges itself on darkness.
A cruel little beast of letters and punctuation
that rules my pages.
#poetry
Words are canceled due to unforeseen circumstances (we apologize for the inconvenience). Sometimes I make terrible beauty that refuses the light yet gorges itself on darkness. A cruel little beast of letters and punctuation that rules my pages. It recoils at volume, playing a game of retreat, hiding inside vowels while taunting at the lack of exposure. It perspires. It bruises my margins leaving me welted with ink stains I quickly explain away as a silly accident. It asks to remain unnamed though it holds a title. If released, it might be repurposed Tamed. Trimmed. Tied to someone else’s meaning. So I keep it behind locked doors, for my eyes only. It slips into the upholstery, into the architecture of ordinary things. I leave them curled up and crinkled, as they do the uncredited labor of a monster at the gate summoned to the task of keeping my walls upright preventing my collapse.
December 29, 2025 at 12:54 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Words are canceled due to unforeseen circumstances (we apologize for the inconvenience).

Sometimes I make terrible beauty
that refuses the light
yet gorges itself on darkness.
A cruel little beast of letters and punctuation
that rules my pages.
#poetry
Words are canceled due to unforeseen circumstances (we apologize for the inconvenience). Sometimes I make terrible beauty that refuses the light yet gorges itself on darkness. A cruel little beast of letters and punctuation that rules my pages. It recoils at volume, playing a game of retreat, hiding inside vowels while taunting at the lack of exposure. It perspires. It bruises my margins leaving me welted with ink stains I quickly explain away as a silly accident. It asks to remain unnamed though it holds a title. If released, it might be repurposed Tamed. Trimmed. Tied to someone else’s meaning. So I keep it behind locked doors, for my eyes only. It slips into the upholstery, into the architecture of ordinary things. I leave them curled up and crinkled, as they do the uncredited labor of a monster at the gate summoned to the task of keeping my walls upright preventing my collapse.
December 29, 2025 at 12:54 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
How I’m walking out of 2025:
giphy.com/gifs/middle-...
December 28, 2025 at 2:56 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#Blueskyrelay #assimilate #poetry
She tried to #assimilate,
which required a ladder,
three spoonfuls of patience,
and a diagram no one could explain.
To bend to fit
she practiced folding
elbows learning new alphabets,
spine negotiating politely with corners.
She tried to assimilate, which required a ladder, three spoonfuls of patience, and a diagram no one could explain. To bend to fit she practiced folding elbows learning new alphabets, spine negotiating politely with corners. The container was charming at first. It wore a label. It promised enchantment, like a well-mannered threat. Over time, the walls developed opinions. They leaned in. They asked questions that felt like a cheap wool sweater. She grew smaller, trimmed her thoughts to travel size, stored laughter in the false bottom with the emergency instructions. Eventually the container, having perfected its embrace, forgot what it was to hold and mistook pressure for connection. When she could no longer breathe, the container sighed offended and wondered why things never seem to fit the way they are told.
December 28, 2025 at 2:32 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Things I make (in progress):
A 1:24 scale Victorian style dollhouse.
Front of white dollhouse 1/24 scale 9 room Victorian dollhouse. Has a black porch and stained glass windows. Side view of handmade dollhouse. Stained glass windows Victorian style. Back view of handmade dollhouse. Victorian style.6 rooms empty but have wallpaper and wood flooring 1:24 scale. Back view of handmade dollhouse. Victorian style. Hallway and kitchen rooms empty wallpaper and wainscoting on second floor 1:24 scale
December 28, 2025 at 12:16 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Strange.

It’s a strange place
inside here
furnished entirely with doubt
and one crooked chair labeled “Probably My Fault”.
Feelings have been dismembered politely,
cut into neat little portions,
toothpicked and arranged
as appetizers
before the entrée of Regret à la Mode.
#vss365 #poetry
It’s a strange place inside here furnished entirely with doubt and one crooked chair labeled Probably My Fault. Feelings have been dismembered politely, cut into neat little portions, toothpicked and arranged as appetizers before the entrée of Regret à la Mode. I’ve been here before. I recognize the wallpaper (peeling, judgmental), the floorboards that sigh when I step on the wrong memory. The #air is thick not with smoke exactly, but with damp opinions and unanswered questions wearing tiny hats. Breathing hurts. Not dramatically just enough to be inconvenient, like shoes filled with wasps or a conscience that clears its throat every time I try to rest. Still, I survey the terrain, clipboard in hand, making notes in very small handwriting: Here lies hope, misplaced. Here a thought that should not have been fed. Exit unclear. Possibly decorative.
December 27, 2025 at 3:19 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The pit of depression
is not dramatic.
But holes worn deep by repetition.
A gravity that forgets to let go.
You fall without falling
sink while standing still.
Morning arrives already exhausted,
dragging its light like an apology
it doesn’t believe in.
#poetry #depression
The pit of depression is not dramatic. But holes worn deep by repetition. A gravity that forgets to let go. You fall without falling sink while standing still. Morning arrives already exhausted, dragging its light like an apology it doesn’t believe in. In the pit, everything costs more than you have: getting up, replying, remembering why you once cared. Even hope feels suspicious a flimsy ladder. The pit is not a moral failure. It’s geology, pressure and erosion. A landscape shaped by what kept pressing down. And at some point, you notice the walls have grooves. Handholds made of days survived without anyone applauding. You can’t climb out all at once. So you rest. You breathe. You stay. And staying quiet, stubborn, and present, is how the pit slowly learns it cannot keep you forever.
December 27, 2025 at 3:43 AM
Reposted by Prue Paimon
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#vss365 #struggle
#poetry
Struggle teaches in a cruel dialect.
It doesn’t offer answers,
only repetitions.
It asks the same question every morning:
What will you carry today?…
Struggle teaches in a cruel dialect. It doesn’t offer answers, only repetitions. It asks the same question every morning: What will you carry today? And punishes you for honesty. There is a strange intelligence in it. A way it strips us down to what cannot be abandoned. A way it proves that survival is not elegant, not inspiring, but stubborn. We do not overcome struggle. We learn its weight, its center of gravity, how to shift it from one hip to the other so we can keep moving. And some days, that is the only poetry we have not triumph, but motion.
December 26, 2025 at 12:22 PM
Reposted by Prue Paimon
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#2wordprompt #dusty #rebel #poetry

The Dusty Cape

The cape was dusty,
disintegrating politely in the corner
along with time that pretends it isn’t complicit.
Being good had turned into
a risk assessment,
a brightly colored warning label
crafted by people who never planned to bleed…
The cape was dusty, disintegrating politely in the corner along with time that pretends it isn’t complicit. Being good had turned into a risk assessment, a brightly colored warning label crafted by people who never planned to bleed. Virtue made you slow. Made you predictable. Made you easy to point at when something went wrong. They taught you goodness like a safety drill: stand still, raise your hand, trust the system to notice. The system never noticed. So the cape learned the shape of dust and you morphed into a rebel because no one ever comes to save the hero. Because heroes are only useful while they absorb impact. After that, they’re excess fabric flammable, conspicuous, best kept out of sight. Goodness didn’t save you. It marked you.
December 22, 2025 at 12:44 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#vss365 #struggle
#poetry
Struggle teaches in a cruel dialect.
It doesn’t offer answers,
only repetitions.
It asks the same question every morning:
What will you carry today?…
Struggle teaches in a cruel dialect. It doesn’t offer answers, only repetitions. It asks the same question every morning: What will you carry today? And punishes you for honesty. There is a strange intelligence in it. A way it strips us down to what cannot be abandoned. A way it proves that survival is not elegant, not inspiring, but stubborn. We do not overcome struggle. We learn its weight, its center of gravity, how to shift it from one hip to the other so we can keep moving. And some days, that is the only poetry we have not triumph, but motion.
December 26, 2025 at 12:22 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Presence.

It’s not the gift
not the ribbon or the proof of effort,
not the object that will gather dust
or find a drawer.
It’s that somewhere
in the ordinary of your day
I appeared.
#poetry
It’s not the gift not the ribbon or the proof of effort, not the object that will gather dust or find a drawer. It’s that somewhere in the ordinary of your day I appeared. That in the middle of errands and unfinished thoughts, you paused long enough for my name to rise without being summoned. It’s knowing I was not an obligation, but a quiet interruption: Oh! this is for them. That I lived briefly in the space between your hands, in the choosing. It’s not the gift. It’s the evidence that I exist that I flicker in other minds, unasked, and held in esteem for at least one moment.
December 25, 2025 at 11:16 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
So it’s Christmas…
#poetry
When I was small,
magic lived in the air
snow cascading like diamonds,
each flake a promise that the world
was kinder than it looked.
Laughter clung to every smile,
warm as breath on glass…
When I was small, magic lived in the air snow cascading like diamonds, each flake a promise that the world was kinder than it looked. Laughter clung to every smile, warm as breath on glass. Christmas was real then not a date or a ritual, but a feeling you could hold without knowing its name. The magic had hands. It was carried by voices, by people who knew how to make wonder seem effortless. They lifted it, shared it, set it gently into my palms. But time is a quiet eraser. Those who held the spell one by one learned how to leave. The laughter thinned. The snow fell heavier. Now I stand older, empty-handed except for this a fragile, flickering wonder I don’t know how to pass on, only how to keep alive by remembering how brightly it once fell from the sky.
December 25, 2025 at 11:47 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#Vss365 #shoot #poetry
You think truth is an accusation fired
a skirmish of distinction and class,
precision dressed up as righteousness.
But it’s not a weapon…
You think truth is an accusation fired a skirmish of distinction and class, precision dressed up as righteousness. But it’s not a weapon. It’s a tool. Awkward in the hand. Indifferent to who holds it. Meant to pry, not punish. If you must aim at something, aim at the lie that sold you comfort, the myth that tucked you in, the story that promised this wouldn’t hurt. Don’t #shoot the messenger. Because truth will still be standing and you will be aiming at the wrong target.
December 24, 2025 at 12:42 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#writingcommunity #poetry

I am the story I have reclaimed
not the one told about me
in careful voices
or filed under acceptable damage.
I gathered myself from fragments
a name mispronounced,
a silence mistaken for consent,
a body taught to disappear politely.
I am the story I have reclaimed not the one told about me in careful voices or filed under acceptable damage. I gathered myself from fragments a name mispronounced, a silence mistaken for consent, a body taught to disappear politely. What was taken did not vanish it waited. I am not healed; I am authored. Rewritten in real time, edited by survival, published without permission. I carry my history differently now not as proof, not as apology, but as a living text that will not be corrected again. I am the story I have reclaimed, and I am still being written.
December 24, 2025 at 1:50 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#vss365 #jump #poetry

Jump.

Sometimes I stand at a precipice,
teetering close—too close—yet not quite
enough to taste ruin
that familiar almost comforting morsel of existence.
The ground behind me
has already stopped arguing.
The air ahead is persuasive…
Sometimes I stand at a precipice, teetering close—too close—yet not quite enough to taste ruin that familiar almost comforting morsel of existence. The ground behind me has already stopped arguing. The air ahead is persuasive. I cannot be moved. Not by hands, not by reason, not by the careful voices calling my name from safer places while others bicker and urge me on. I could jump into the abyss, into ether, into the old familiar urge to unmake myself. The choices sit shoulder to shoulder, so close they share breath. Seconds apart. Identical in weight. Radically different in aftermath. So I stand balanced on the thin miracle of not yet.
December 23, 2025 at 12:28 PM
Reposted by Prue Paimon
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Not Far From Here
#poetry
There’s a place not far from here
but miles away from where you are
measured not in distance
but in what we don’t say.
You can reach it standing still,
letting your mind slip its leash
and wander into softer weather.
Time behaves differently there.
December 20, 2025 at 8:13 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The Solstice Curse

On the longest day
(or the shortest the sign flips when no one’s looking),
the gate appears
between the clock and the mirror.
#poetry #solstice
The Solstice Curse On the longest day (or the shortest the sign flips when no one’s looking), the gate appears between the clock and the mirror. It is painted like a crass wonderland checks and curls and promises staffed by a freakshow: a man who counts shadows, a woman with a drawer of extra Tuesdays, a bell that rings only when lied to. The curse is subtle. Nothing leaps out screaming. Time stretches itself like taffy pulled too far, sweet and alarming. You win incomprehensible prizes shaped like omens: a prophecy shaped like a teacup, a warning stitched into laughter, a rule that only applies today. By dusk (or dawn, depending), the gate vanishes. The sun behaves. Everyone agrees it was harmless. But you feel slightly rearranged. The solstice is a carnival folded into a day, a curse disguised as whimsy, leaving behind the residue of unsettling certainty that the world knows how to tilt, and will curse you again.
December 23, 2025 at 12:46 AM