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
We laughed before the toast,
its chrome cage
warming into something
almost comforting,
a renewal of the stale.
We watched the coils glow red,
listened to the slow rise
of heat and resignation,
a familiar ritual of small failures
and quiet endurance.
#BlueskyRelay #welaughedbeforethetoast
#poetry
its chrome cage
warming into something
almost comforting,
a renewal of the stale.
We watched the coils glow red,
listened to the slow rise
of heat and resignation,
a familiar ritual of small failures
and quiet endurance.
#BlueskyRelay #welaughedbeforethetoast
#poetry
November 29, 2025 at 3:58 PM
We laughed before the toast,
its chrome cage
warming into something
almost comforting,
a renewal of the stale.
We watched the coils glow red,
listened to the slow rise
of heat and resignation,
a familiar ritual of small failures
and quiet endurance.
#BlueskyRelay #welaughedbeforethetoast
#poetry
its chrome cage
warming into something
almost comforting,
a renewal of the stale.
We watched the coils glow red,
listened to the slow rise
of heat and resignation,
a familiar ritual of small failures
and quiet endurance.
#BlueskyRelay #welaughedbeforethetoast
#poetry
Today the goal is to be as brave as a match in the rain.
November 29, 2025 at 12:58 PM
Today the goal is to be as brave as a match in the rain.
Sometimes I let poems breathe
for a little while just long enough to make them real before they vanish.
for a little while just long enough to make them real before they vanish.
November 29, 2025 at 4:47 AM
Sometimes I let poems breathe
for a little while just long enough to make them real before they vanish.
for a little while just long enough to make them real before they vanish.
The Simple Truth
When it hurts, stop.
When it makes you crumble, stop.
Seems simple
but some of us were raised
to keep walking on broken glass,
to mistake our bleeding for progress,
to believe endurance was the only way
to be worthy of rest,
hell to be worthy of breath.
#poetry
When it hurts, stop.
When it makes you crumble, stop.
Seems simple
but some of us were raised
to keep walking on broken glass,
to mistake our bleeding for progress,
to believe endurance was the only way
to be worthy of rest,
hell to be worthy of breath.
#poetry
November 29, 2025 at 3:24 AM
The Simple Truth
When it hurts, stop.
When it makes you crumble, stop.
Seems simple
but some of us were raised
to keep walking on broken glass,
to mistake our bleeding for progress,
to believe endurance was the only way
to be worthy of rest,
hell to be worthy of breath.
#poetry
When it hurts, stop.
When it makes you crumble, stop.
Seems simple
but some of us were raised
to keep walking on broken glass,
to mistake our bleeding for progress,
to believe endurance was the only way
to be worthy of rest,
hell to be worthy of breath.
#poetry
Birthdays
Coming closer than comfortable
is another year gone by.
I take stock
as if there were ledger lines,
some way of finding out if I balanced.
Coming closer than comfortable
is another year gone by.
I take stock
as if there were ledger lines,
some way of finding out if I balanced.
November 28, 2025 at 6:12 PM
Birthdays
Coming closer than comfortable
is another year gone by.
I take stock
as if there were ledger lines,
some way of finding out if I balanced.
Coming closer than comfortable
is another year gone by.
I take stock
as if there were ledger lines,
some way of finding out if I balanced.
The candle blinked twice,
as if unsure whether to stay
or surrender.
A soft stutter of flame
the kind that reveals truth
deciding on its own
whether it had a right to exist.
#BlueskyRelay #prompt #poetry
as if unsure whether to stay
or surrender.
A soft stutter of flame
the kind that reveals truth
deciding on its own
whether it had a right to exist.
#BlueskyRelay #prompt #poetry
November 28, 2025 at 2:35 PM
The candle blinked twice,
as if unsure whether to stay
or surrender.
A soft stutter of flame
the kind that reveals truth
deciding on its own
whether it had a right to exist.
#BlueskyRelay #prompt #poetry
as if unsure whether to stay
or surrender.
A soft stutter of flame
the kind that reveals truth
deciding on its own
whether it had a right to exist.
#BlueskyRelay #prompt #poetry
Contrition defines her
in the way she folds the morning light
into the weight of memory,
how she gathers every broken hour
like sea glass on Devon’s shore,
softened by the tides that shaped it.
#foxprose #poetry #contritiondefinesher
in the way she folds the morning light
into the weight of memory,
how she gathers every broken hour
like sea glass on Devon’s shore,
softened by the tides that shaped it.
#foxprose #poetry #contritiondefinesher
November 27, 2025 at 2:51 PM
Contrition defines her
in the way she folds the morning light
into the weight of memory,
how she gathers every broken hour
like sea glass on Devon’s shore,
softened by the tides that shaped it.
#foxprose #poetry #contritiondefinesher
in the way she folds the morning light
into the weight of memory,
how she gathers every broken hour
like sea glass on Devon’s shore,
softened by the tides that shaped it.
#foxprose #poetry #contritiondefinesher
#Theskysavedroomforonemore moment
a final inhale, a pause
like the world was trying
to remember itself.
#poetry
a final inhale, a pause
like the world was trying
to remember itself.
#poetry
November 26, 2025 at 6:25 PM
#Theskysavedroomforonemore moment
a final inhale, a pause
like the world was trying
to remember itself.
#poetry
a final inhale, a pause
like the world was trying
to remember itself.
#poetry
Master of memory, slave of souls,
I walk the corridors of broken years,
keys jangling in my chest
like teeth pulled from old gods.
I am archivist of the unsaid,
curator of unfinished hauntings,
the reluctant priest
of everything I swore I’d forget.
#masterofmemory #foxprose #poetry
I walk the corridors of broken years,
keys jangling in my chest
like teeth pulled from old gods.
I am archivist of the unsaid,
curator of unfinished hauntings,
the reluctant priest
of everything I swore I’d forget.
#masterofmemory #foxprose #poetry
November 26, 2025 at 12:58 PM
Master of memory, slave of souls,
I walk the corridors of broken years,
keys jangling in my chest
like teeth pulled from old gods.
I am archivist of the unsaid,
curator of unfinished hauntings,
the reluctant priest
of everything I swore I’d forget.
#masterofmemory #foxprose #poetry
I walk the corridors of broken years,
keys jangling in my chest
like teeth pulled from old gods.
I am archivist of the unsaid,
curator of unfinished hauntings,
the reluctant priest
of everything I swore I’d forget.
#masterofmemory #foxprose #poetry
You can post suicide prevention numbers all you want. But if you really want to prevent suicide and depression why not stop being such assholes to each other online and irl.
November 26, 2025 at 1:01 AM
You can post suicide prevention numbers all you want. But if you really want to prevent suicide and depression why not stop being such assholes to each other online and irl.
Weak.
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
November 25, 2025 at 2:49 PM
Weak.
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Creation is a quiet rebellion,
a tender refusal
to let the hard things harden me.
So I breathe,
unclench,
and let the poem arrive anyway
a fragile idea,
in the tumultuous world of existing,
not because it’s easy,
but because I couldn’t stop it
even if I tried.
#poetry
a tender refusal
to let the hard things harden me.
So I breathe,
unclench,
and let the poem arrive anyway
a fragile idea,
in the tumultuous world of existing,
not because it’s easy,
but because I couldn’t stop it
even if I tried.
#poetry
November 25, 2025 at 12:21 PM
Creation is a quiet rebellion,
a tender refusal
to let the hard things harden me.
So I breathe,
unclench,
and let the poem arrive anyway
a fragile idea,
in the tumultuous world of existing,
not because it’s easy,
but because I couldn’t stop it
even if I tried.
#poetry
a tender refusal
to let the hard things harden me.
So I breathe,
unclench,
and let the poem arrive anyway
a fragile idea,
in the tumultuous world of existing,
not because it’s easy,
but because I couldn’t stop it
even if I tried.
#poetry
Cruelty, Unmuted
They arrive like cold sparks
tiny, vicious bursts
from shadows that never sign their names.
Strangers with sharpened thumbs,
dropping venom in passing,
as if hate were casual,
as if your existence were an offense
they’d been waiting to arrest.
#poetry
They arrive like cold sparks
tiny, vicious bursts
from shadows that never sign their names.
Strangers with sharpened thumbs,
dropping venom in passing,
as if hate were casual,
as if your existence were an offense
they’d been waiting to arrest.
#poetry
November 24, 2025 at 1:39 PM
Cruelty, Unmuted
They arrive like cold sparks
tiny, vicious bursts
from shadows that never sign their names.
Strangers with sharpened thumbs,
dropping venom in passing,
as if hate were casual,
as if your existence were an offense
they’d been waiting to arrest.
#poetry
They arrive like cold sparks
tiny, vicious bursts
from shadows that never sign their names.
Strangers with sharpened thumbs,
dropping venom in passing,
as if hate were casual,
as if your existence were an offense
they’d been waiting to arrest.
#poetry
Reposted by Prue Paimon
My words are not beautiful.
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 3:15 PM
My words are not beautiful.
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
Reposted by Prue Paimon
Progress is measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
November 22, 2025 at 10:21 PM
Progress is measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
Reposted by Prue Paimon
Progress is measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
November 22, 2025 at 10:21 PM
Progress is measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
My words are not beautiful.
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 3:15 PM
My words are not beautiful.
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
The Bat in the Attic
In the rafters something flutters,
a soft-skinned shadow with needle teeth
that sleeps upside down
and wakes at the wrong hours.
It isn’t dangerous, they say
just startled, just lost
but it beats its wings against the beams
as if the whole structure is a cage.
#poetry
In the rafters something flutters,
a soft-skinned shadow with needle teeth
that sleeps upside down
and wakes at the wrong hours.
It isn’t dangerous, they say
just startled, just lost
but it beats its wings against the beams
as if the whole structure is a cage.
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 12:54 PM
The Bat in the Attic
In the rafters something flutters,
a soft-skinned shadow with needle teeth
that sleeps upside down
and wakes at the wrong hours.
It isn’t dangerous, they say
just startled, just lost
but it beats its wings against the beams
as if the whole structure is a cage.
#poetry
In the rafters something flutters,
a soft-skinned shadow with needle teeth
that sleeps upside down
and wakes at the wrong hours.
It isn’t dangerous, they say
just startled, just lost
but it beats its wings against the beams
as if the whole structure is a cage.
#poetry
A bit of something that I was told is good.
The Girl In The Forest.
Faint carvings on a central altar hinted at rituals older than the forest that now guarded it. Their shapes were fluid, not quite human, not quite anything mortal hands could have shaped.…
#creativewriting #novella
The Girl In The Forest.
Faint carvings on a central altar hinted at rituals older than the forest that now guarded it. Their shapes were fluid, not quite human, not quite anything mortal hands could have shaped.…
#creativewriting #novella
November 20, 2025 at 11:59 PM
A bit of something that I was told is good.
The Girl In The Forest.
Faint carvings on a central altar hinted at rituals older than the forest that now guarded it. Their shapes were fluid, not quite human, not quite anything mortal hands could have shaped.…
#creativewriting #novella
The Girl In The Forest.
Faint carvings on a central altar hinted at rituals older than the forest that now guarded it. Their shapes were fluid, not quite human, not quite anything mortal hands could have shaped.…
#creativewriting #novella