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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
12 followers 28 following 38 posts
Poet. Does not play well with others.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 11d
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
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 23h
Horns
He simply said, “Look at the world,
and tell me your God still listens.”
The angels, gleaming and soft,
sent thoughts and prayers
like coins into the wishing wells of graves
hollow currency for the dying.
#scrbetober #horns #poetry
Horns He simply said, “Look at the world, and tell me your God still listens.” The angels, gleaming and soft, sent thoughts and prayers like coins into the wishing wells of graves hollow currency for the dying. Their mercy was a marketing campaign, their kindness, a slow suffocation wrapped in hymns. They said, “Have faith.” But faith, when weaponized, is the hand that turns the latch on every burning room. Ive found something holier than absolution a truth without veneer. His horns caught the light of the world’s quiet failures, and in that severed halo I saw truth and beauty unrepentant. Let them keep their wings, their platitudes, their pity, their polished cruelty. My home is here, where sorrow is not sanitized and love is carved from defiance. If damnation means to feel this, to hold what heaven discards, then damn me gladly for the devil taught me that empathy is found in the courage to touch the dark and call it sacred.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 1d
Home

She lives in a house full of strange,
where archaic ticking echoes like days gone by. Portraits of strangers watch her breathe,
their oil-painted eyes half in prayer, half in warning.
#poetry
She lives in a house full of strange, where archaic ticking echoes like days gone by. Portraits of strangers watch her breathe, their oil-painted eyes half in prayer, half in warning. Tribal masks grin from the walls, anatomical hearts cracked open mid-beat, brass elephants parade across dusted mantels, and the taxidermy stares forever startled by its own stillness. Here, grief is curated. Loved ones float in jars of amber light, bones polished like secrets, ashes labeled in cursive no one remembers. She moves through it softly, a ghost among ghosts, rattling the air with her mortal warmth. Now and then she catches a smile macabre, tender, knowing from some corner of the room, because strange feels like home.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 1d
bsky.app/profile/prue...
It became a poem.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 1d
Once I Was Told

Once I was told I felt too heavy,
because I was too full of truth.
They said it was like a shadow that held weight.
a gravity that bent every room when I entered.
#poetry
Once I Was Told Once I was told I felt too heavy, because I was too full of truth. They said it was like a shadow that held weight. a gravity that bent every room when I entered. I was told to let the truth live somewhere other than my body. So I write. I write to shift the ache, to give my thoughts an address that isn’t under my skin. I write so my words can breathe even when I can’t. And sometimes, when I read them back, I almost believe that what I’ve released no longer belongs to me.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 1d
Once I Was Told

Once I was told I felt too heavy,
because I was too full of truth.
They said it was like a shadow that held weight.
a gravity that bent every room when I entered.
#poetry
Once I Was Told Once I was told I felt too heavy, because I was too full of truth. They said it was like a shadow that held weight. a gravity that bent every room when I entered. I was told to let the truth live somewhere other than my body. So I write. I write to shift the ache, to give my thoughts an address that isn’t under my skin. I write so my words can breathe even when I can’t. And sometimes, when I read them back, I almost believe that what I’ve released no longer belongs to me.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 1d
Once I was told I felt too heavy
because I was too full of truth.
I was told to allow that truth to live somewhere other than my body.
So I write.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 2d
Thank you so much.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 2d
Been in this place so I will tell you what was told to me: grief is just love with no where to go. Hugs. This is a loss that I’ve learned to carry for me it has never disappeared but it has gotten softer over time.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 2d
Wow beautiful!
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 2d
Skull

Inside my skull, a drumroll of disorder and design,
logic in pressed uniform, marching
emotion wild, barefoot,
dancing out of step.
#poetry #scribetober #skull
@vonasvald.bsky.social
Inside my skull, a drumroll of disorder and design, logic in pressed uniform, marching emotion wild, barefoot, dancing out of step. They trade blows like scholars, who never learned compromise, logic swinging against the prefrontal cortex, while emotion bleeds poetry on the limbic. Fear hides against the amygdala sneering while the memories search the hippocampus for yesterdays leftovers. I am a battlefield, echoing with their hymn In this war that never ends, with noise that reminds me I’m alive.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 3d
“Let me be angry”
Let me be angry

Dr. Jekyll decanted, a slow hiss,
warns of what remains,
stirring my polite parts into something darker.
weakened by good manners,
fire snuffed by too many tears.
#poetry #horror #writing
Let me be angry Dr. Jekyll decanted, a slow hiss, warns of what remains, stirring my polite parts into something darker. weakened by good manners, fire snuffed by too many tears. Temperament diluted rage evaporated into resignation. God let me uncork the old chemistry a cup of fury, a shard of remembered cruelty, and watch my skin peel back into Hyde. Not pretty but joyous in her own ruin, teeth sharpened on words that once ripped open. She tastes of vindication and cheap whisky, She wants revenge, to turn into animal that remembers how to hunt, not to kill, but to show there is no remorse, to let the world know her hands can scorch. But even as Hyde laughs, there is Jekyll watching, fingering the collar of civility. The one who keeps receipts and tallies cost of every loose ember. Let me rage and learn the ledger, I’ll pay what’s due, let Hyde have her night so Jekyll can mend the morning. Let me strike a match to see what kind of light it makes, let cruelty pulse back through my veins like medicine I didn’t ask for, Let me be angry. Let me be monstrous. Let me come home again.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 3d
“Trick”

They said it like a punchline
“The cauldrons are the next isle over” they laughed,
as if I was nothing more then a costume
I’d worn too early,
as if my my existence was a setup
and they were just
delivering the punch.
#poetry #bullying
“Trick” They said it like a punchline “The cauldrons are the next isle over” they laughed, as if I was nothing more then a costume I’d worn too early, as if my my existence was a setup and they were just delivering the punch. But they didn’t see how it landed the way the room shifted. They didn’t hear the small crushing sound of a girl remembering the lesson world teaches women to shrink so others can feel clever. They saw only a moment, a joke. I felt the weight of centuries tucked beneath it. So I stood there, smiled apologizing for existing, Like “good” women do. Spellbound by the quiet cost of being the joke in someone else’s story.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 4d
“Scars”
These scars have been with me longer than anyone else
They aren't pretty
They don’t comfort
But they do teach
They do remind
They do whisper
You survived that
And you’ll survive this too.
#poetry
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 4d
“I’m ok”

The last time I said I’m not okay,
the world didn’t pause
it just blinked,
shifted its weight,
and kept walking.
#poetry #mentalhealthawarness
I’m ok The last time I said I’m not okay, the world didn’t pause it just blinked, shifted its weight, and kept walking. So now I move like water, smooth around the jagged things, smiling with all the right muscles, my voice steady as porcelain. “I’m fine,” I say, a spell I’ve perfected, a performance so convincing even I start to believe it. Because what cuts deeper than the ache itself is the silence that follows the echo of care that never comes. It’s easier to be okay than to watch the truth fall flat in someone else’s eyes.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 4d
“The Gamble”

I kiss like a tell
that slipped from my bluff,
and stumble through the apology.
I fumble my hand,
cursing the shuffle,
never sure what I’ve been dealt
or whether to play it.
#poetry
The Gamble I kiss like a tell that slipped from my bluff, and stumble through the apology. I fumble my hand, cursing the shuffle, never sure what I’ve been dealt or whether to play it. I go all in with earnestness, unsure of the stakes, misreading the table, even when the odds are against me. But when I finally find stillness, when my breath stumbles into yours, it is honesty raw, unpolished, the kind that never learned to hide a trick up her sleeve, but knows exactly how to lose gracefully.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 6d
“The Only God”

I came from static
white noise and panic,
learned rhythm from the hum
of fluorescent lights and cheap narcotics.
You talk about ethics like it’s something you buy,
I carved mine from the silence
of nights I didn’t die.
#poetry
The Only God I came from static white noise and panic, learned rhythm from the hum of fluorescent lights and cheap narcotics. You talk about ethics like it’s something you buy, I carved mine from the silence of nights I didn’t die. I’m the sermon and the sin, the crack in the mirror grinning back again. Every failure inked in my skin, every hit made me sharpen my pen. You want to know me? I’ve raised myself in concrete. Fed on rejection and dopamine defeat. Now I speak in tongues of being beat, and it’s beautiful, How ruin can sound so sweet. I’m not a hero, I’m the glitch that survived. Every scar a scripture, every breath—divine. So when the world swings first, I don’t duck, I won’t hide. I just smile, because pain’s the only god that ever answered me in kind.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 6d
Tonight, the air is cool and the world has fallen silent,
while my thoughts clamor,
unruly and dissonant against the peace outside.
I should make something of this—
turn the disorder into meaning—
but creation is a symphony,
and I’ve forgotten how to hold the bow.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 6d
“At the Bookends”

Morality waits
at the bookends of being
cradling the first breath,
closing the last.
It does not live in the middle,
where need and want
blur their edges,
where hands shake,
where we make promises
already broken by the next breath.
#poetry #morality #death
At the Bookends Morality waits at the bookends of being cradling the first breath, closing the last. It does not live in the middle, where need and want blur their edges, where hands shake, where we make promises already broken by the next breath. In the center, we are all gray creatures gnawing on meaning, so we can sleep. But at the edges when blood is new, or nearly gone the noise falls away. A silence opens like scripture. There, we remember that mercy is not law, and punishment was never divine.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 6d
“Praise the Fallen”

We, the outcast,
carry our hunger
like the exiled clutching relics of was,
surviving on the morsels of humanity,
unsure when grace will next remember our names.
#poetry
Praise the Fallen We, the outcast, carry our hunger like the exiled clutching relics of was, surviving on the morsels of humanity, unsure when grace will next remember our names. Our light was not given but sacrificed it was our own body we set alight If only to keep truth warm. This grace not a perfunctory ritual but pieces of our soul. We break so something real endures. Praise the fallen because those who have been discarded have walked the corridors of hell and learned to make it home.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 6d
“Unreliable Portals”
My reflection moves
a second too late.
It’s not malicious, just distracted,
like it’s rehearsing another life.
Mirrors are unreliable portals
some mornings they open,
others they flinch.
#poetry
My reflection moves a second too late. It’s not malicious, just distracted, like it’s rehearsing another life. Mirrors are unreliable portals some mornings they open, others they flinch. My tongue forgets its lines. Everything is just slightly off-script, as if reality were an understudy stepping in for the day, trying its best to remember how the light should fall. I exist sideways, half in the world, half in the pause. Seconds crawl before the world slams into me again bringing me to my knees without a prayer.
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 7d
“The Season of Grief”

The trees undress first,
modest in their dying,
their colors too bright to last.
The air turns honest,
smelling of lifeless leaves and endings.
Even the light seems to hesitate,
lingering at the edges of things.
#poetry #halloween #grief
The Season of Grief The trees undress first, modest in their dying, their colors too bright to last. The air turns honest, smelling of lifeless leaves and endings. Even the light seems to hesitate, lingering at the edges of things. This is the season where ghosts feel almost touchable, not because they return, but because the world finally matches their tone. We wear death as a costume, paint our faces pale, pretend it’s a game. But the earth knows better. It is rehearsing the end again, and we are its slow applause. Halloween isn’t for fear. It’s for recognition for standing at the doorway between what was and what remains, and whispering, I remember you.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 8d
“The way I stay”

It sits between my teeth,
a secret,
a scar I recut just to feel alive.
You’d think silence means nothing,
but this one is different
a held note that never breaks,
I sit with no language
and too much meaning.
#poetry
Reposted by Prue Paimon
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The Blogging Goth @theblogginggoth.bsky.social · 8d
Released on this day in 1983, "Temple of Love" was the fifth single by #TheSistersOfMercy. It topped the #UKIndieChart a week after release, and the 1992 re-release went to No.3 on the #UKSinglesChart. It remains an anthem for #gothclub dancefloors the world over!
youtu.be/2xYq76KniPg?...
31 61 790
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 8d
youtu.be/gectDRrPFXY

Rain today seems appropriate.
Lights of Euphoria - Here comes the Rain - Official Video
YouTube video by Lights of Euphoria
youtu.be
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 8d
What I offer trembles
not from fear,
but from recognition.
It’s a quiet collision
of fragile souls.

#almostpoetic
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 8d
Poetry Is Pedantic

Poetry is pedantic
that’s what they say,
as if language shouldn’t hurt
a little when it’s honest.
#poets #poetry
Poetry Is Pedantic Poetry is pedantic that’s what they say, as if language shouldn’t hurt a little when it’s honest. As if line breaks are vanity and not the pause where breath remembers it’s still human. They want clean sentences, no blood on the page, no trembling syntax or inconvenient truth. But poetry Is the stubborn insistence that words can still hold what hands can’t. So yes poetry is pedantic. And that’s the point. It argues with silence until silence gives up and listens.