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Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

They tell us we’re ugly, that we’re nothing special. Why? Because birds with broken wings can’t stand to see others soar. Never listen. Believe. Hope. Resist. 💙
#poetry #writingcommunity #blueskypoets #poems

A lone figure standing on a cliff at dawn, wind in their hair, wings made of scars and sunlight. The air hums with defiance — proof that even the broken can rise when the world expects them to crawl.

How the Broken Learn to Fly

They said the sky was too far,
but my bones remembered the wind.

They said I’d fall again,
but falling taught me balance.

They said I’d never heal right,
but the scars became my wings.

I don’t need perfect flight—
I just need the will to rise.

A quiet morning kitchen, coffee steam curling like ghosts of yesterday. The flame on the stove flickers — small, steady, human. The kind of light that refuses to die, even when no one is watching.

Ordinary Fire

I wasn’t built for glory,
but I still burn steady.

No banners, no crowd,
just the hum of survival.

The world turns cold,
but I keep my own flame.

Some nights, that’s all it takes
to keep the dark from winning.

A crowded street of blurred faces; one person stands still, eyes closed, hearing a different rhythm. The poem hums with quiet rebellion — the unseen soul who refuses to fade into the noise.

Song of the Unseen

They don’t see us in the crowd,
but our silence is thunder.

They don’t write our names down,
but the earth still remembers our steps.

They don’t hear us breathe,
but every breath defies them.

We are the miracle unseen—
louder than their forgetting.

A figure walking into a storm, coat whipping, unbowed. The sky breaks open, but they don’t turn back. It’s not about the victory — it’s about the refusal to stop moving forward.

Against the Wind

They say dreams are fragile,
but so are stars before they burn.

They say hope is foolish,
but so is life without it.

They say resistance breaks you,
but it’s the only thing that builds.

Every bird that soars
was told it couldn’t fly.

November 4, 2025 at 11:33 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

People ask why I always post poems on Tuesday—such a mundane day. That’s the point. We fight the good fight, speak truth to power, burn bright—but it’s who we are in the quiet, ordinary moments that defines us, that tells the story of our lives. 💙
#poems #writingcommunity #blueskypoets

A poem about the space grief leaves behind, and how silence becomes its own kind of memory.
The Last Breath of Silence

I waited for your voice, but it never came,
The echoes of your absence call my name.
The room is full of shadows, cold and wide,
Where once you stood, now there’s only pride.

I loved you with a depth that tore me apart,
A love that bled from the cracks in my heart.
But you slipped away like a whisper in the breeze,
And I was left to drown in memories.

Your eyes, once full, now empty and dim,
The smile that was mine, now a distant hymn.
You were the sun that never rose,
Leaving me in a world where no light grows.

Now I stand alone, with nothing to hold,
A story unwritten, a love grown cold.

$A poem about the voices we forget, and the way the earth remembers what we try to bury. Whispers in the Dirt The earth hums softly, secrets buried deep, Whispers in the dirt, where restless shadows weep. A lover’s name etched cold in fractured stone, A promise lost, now silent and alone. Hands once clasped now vanish with the light, Fading traces swallowed by the endless night. Roots clutch tight, tangled in sorrow’s grasp, Silent words forgotten in the past. Each footstep stirs the ghosts beneath the ground, Their muffled voices, haunting without sound. Beneath the soil, their stories intertwine, A timeless chorus, both cruel and divine. We walk above, unaware of their cries— Whispers in the dirt, where memory dies.$

A poem about feeling out of step with the world, and the noise that follows when you just want quiet.
That Song

Oh, that song again—why can’t they see?
It slithers and screeches through my every vein,
a dirge in my skull, a maddening spree,
but they dance like it’s joy, like it’s not pain.

The beat’s a plague, it’s a constant invasion,
each note like a wound, a dull, endless ache,
and yet they all grin, with no sign of persuasion,
as if I’m the crazy one, for sanity’s sake.

Their voices rise, they’ve memorized every word,
like this cacophony is some kind of grace,
while I’m drowning in noise, my thoughts blurred,
longing for silence, for any kind of space.

I’m cracking, but no one hears me retreat—
they think I’m the one who’s lost the beat.

A poem about love that softens the edges of the world and makes even the smallest moments radiant.
The Brightest of Tomorrows

I wake with the sun, and it smiles for me,
A promise of joy in the air, so free.
The world hums a tune that only I hear,
And every step forward feels light, not sheer.

You’re by my side, and the whole world fades,
Every color more vivid, every shade.
We dance through the hours, no need to ask,
Our hearts in sync, a love unclad of mask.

The sky is so wide, it can’t contain,
The dreams we share, the joy, the gain.
Laughter spills like rivers that flow,
And time stands still as our hearts glow.

Today is the day we make it all real,
For every moment, this love is what I feel.

October 21, 2025 at 6:58 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

There’s beauty in what breaks, light in what endures.
These poems come from the quiet after the storm—
where truth cuts, fire flickers, and faith rebuilds itself from ruin. 💙 💙 💙
#poetry #poetsofbluesky #writingcommunity

A poem about carrying what the rain can’t wash away—grief, memory, and the quiet resilience that keeps you standing.

The Weight of Rain

It falls the way old grief returns,
Soft at first, then sharp and deep.
The sky forgets, but the earth still learns
The names of what it cannot keep.

Each drop recalls a buried plea,
Each echo hums through hollow bone.
The ground absorbs the memory,
And I walk soaked, but not alone.

I used to beg the storm to end,
To let me dry, to let me mend.
Now I let it wash, unmake, restrain—
There’s peace in being broken by the rain.

Let the clouds cry what I cannot say—
The flood remembers me anyway.

A poem about breaking your own silence and finding truth in the shards.

Glass Tongue

I’ve bitten words till they bled red,
Polished lies till they gleamed like grace.
I learned to love the things unsaid,
To hide the hurt behind my face.

The truth is fragile, sharp, and small,
It cuts me even when I kneel.
I drink its edge, I take it all,
And call that ache the way I heal.

Each sentence costs a piece of skin,
Each poem’s just confession’s twin.
Yet still I speak, though silence pleads—
To bleed with meaning is all one needs.

I’d rather shatter than stay contained—
Glass only shines when it’s been strained.

$A poem for anyone who’s held themselves together when everything else fell apart. Kingdom of Cracks I built my altar out of stone, Each prayer a scar, each vow a chain. The gods were silent, cold, alone, Their eyes unlit, their thrones insane. I begged for signs, for some return, A voice to mend my shattered creed. But all I found was what I burn— The faith that bleeds is faith I need. Through every fracture, light still came, Unasked, unholy, without name. I learned the truth the ruins lend— We break, but that’s not where we end. In the cracks, I see my reign— A crown of loss, but not of pain.$

A poem about losing what once defined you, yet still finding a flicker that refuses to die. The Fire That Forgot Its Name

The Fire That Forgot Its Name

Once it burned with holy might,
A storm of gold, unbound, alive.
Now it flickers in the night,
Too tired to flare, too weak to thrive.

I feed it words, I feed it sin,
I whisper love it can’t recall.
Its glow lives deep beneath my skin,
A ghost that answers every call.

It hums like faith turned faint with time,
Like ash still dreaming of the climb.
I guard it close, this nameless flame—
It’s me, without the need for name.

Let darkness take what it may claim—
I’ll burn, if only to remain.

October 14, 2025 at 11:02 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

There’s a hum beneath the silence, a sting beneath the calm. These poems come from that place—where faith burns, masks slip, and the heart still beats. 💙 #poetry #blueskypoets #poems#writingcommunity

A poem about the hum of anxiety—the sting that never leaves and the thoughts that won’t rest.

The Bee in Your Bonnet
There’s a hum that rattles beneath your skin,
A restless sting that claws at your mind.
It circles your thoughts, a creeping sin,
A restless buzz you cannot leave behind.

It thrives on the tension, feeds on your doubt,
A whisper of chaos that won’t let you breathe.
It claws at your sanity, turning you out,
A thought that refuses to let you reprieve.

It stings in silence, it stings when you scream,
A constant ache, a poison in your chest.
It drives you to madness, distorts every dream,
Until you’re a prisoner, unable to rest.

So let it settle, build its twisted nest—
The bee in your bonnet will never let you forget.

A dark dance between desire and destruction, where masks hide the truth of what we crave.

Waltz of Ruin
In shadows I move, where the light cannot find,
A raven’s wing brushing close to the flame.
The mask is my refuge, my peace of mind—
A monster you crave, but you won’t speak my name.

A twisted waltz, I lead with no shame,
My hands on your throat as your breath turns to sighs.
Whispers of ruin are all that I claim,
Every word I speak is a thin, poisoned lie.

The floor is a graveyard, each step I take,
Your skin, cold beneath the weight of my touch.
In the dance, I burn, but for nothing’s sake—
I never wanted you—just wanted to clutch.

At the ball, I laugh—but it’s death on my tongue,
For the masquerade ends when your soul is wrung.

A reflection on lost faith and the quiet ache of seeing your own fall in someone else’s ruin.

The Pawn Shop
I saw an angel pawn her halo, dim,
A tarnished wreath once forged of fire and grace.
She sold it cheap—her light, her seraph hymn—
For silence filled devotion’s vacant place.

She stood outside, her hands as bare as bone,
Where once the embers of belief had burned.
The sky behind her shone, but not her own—
No voice from heaven called for her return.

She drifted on, a shadow lost in light,
A ghost of oaths too broken to defend.
Her prayers fell mute, devoured by the night,
No god to mourn, no faith, no soul to mend.

And as she vanished, stripped of all but pain,
I swore I saw myself within the stain.

A poem of defiance—the will to keep going when everything else has fallen to dust.

The Last Beating Heart
The clocks lay shattered, hands undone,
Their hollow faces lost to time.
The wind that once held songs has spun
To whispers drained of breath and rhyme.

Yet something pounds beneath the dust,
Defying rust, denying rest,
A heartbeat forged in ash and crust,
Still raging in a world undressed.

The walls have crumbled, light has fled,
Yet here it beats, untamed, unbowed,
A whisper where the lost once bled,
A fire no ruin’s hand has doused.

Let silence drown what breaks apart—
It cannot still the final heart.

October 8, 2025 at 11:56 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

It’s been a while. I stepped back, healed, and let silence do its work — but through it all, you stayed, and I carry that with me. Tonight I return the only way I know how: in four poems.Thank you all for your support and here’s the poems. 💙 💙 💙
#poetry#poems#blueskypoetts#writingcommunity

I wrote this during a moment when I felt emptied out by silence, like even time had turned its back. It’s about the numbness that follows despair.

The Lost and the Hopeless
I don’t remember when the light went out
just woke up cold and didn’t ask it back.
There’s no one left to comfort, curse, or doubt,
just empty walls and shadows going slack.

I speak, but even silence doesn’t stay;
it slips like breath through holes I didn’t mend.
The clocks all tick, but time won’t look my way—
it’s tired of watching me pretend to bend.

I used to dream of something past this pain,
a softer night, a name to whisper through.
But hope is cruel—it never leaves a stain,
just floats above like stars I’ll never view.

So here I sit, this lost and hopeless thing,
too numb to break, too dead to feel the sting.

This one is me poking fun at myself- a reminder not to confuse the poet with the prophecy. It’s about laughing at my own mess while still making art out of it.

Don’t Take Me Too Seriously-
I wore my heart like an oversized coat,
Flashing my grin just to see who would blink.
I told the world I was a saint, but nope
I’m just a poet with too much to drink.

I’ll flirt with chaos, but don’t get too near,
I might trip on a metaphor and fall.
But don’t mistake me for some kind of seer
I’m just a mess with a pen, that’s all.

I like my coffee bitter, like my jokes,
And sometimes I’m the punchline in disguise.
But laugh with me—let’s light up the smoke,
And toast to truths wrapped in clever lies.

So here’s my rhyme, don’t think too hard on it
I’m just here to dance and laugh a little bit.

This poem contrasts the rush of the present with the stillness of the past. It’s about longing for the quiet moments that once gave life more depth.

Now and Then
Now, the world pulses in a frantic hum,
its thrum a rush, relentless through the air.
Then, silence swept the earth, a stillened drum,
time paused, suspended in a breathless prayer.

Now, we chase the fleeting light of days,
a blur of steps, a race we cannot win.
Then, we stayed in moments, soft and dazed,
where calm dissolved the chaos deep within.

Now, our voices clash in wild refrain,
each word a sword, unsheathed and sharp with scorn.
Then, we spoke in silence, free from pain,
a language warm, where hearts were softly born.

Now and then, the space between persists,
where fleeting peace, in shadows, still exists.

Things She Don’t Understand

This one speaks to the tension between being loved and being haunted. It’s about how inner battles can make connection feel impossible.

Things She Don’t Understand
She thinks I vanish just to cause her pain,
not knowing silence is the way I scream.
She chases thunder, curses at the rain—
but storms don’t answer when they’re lost in dream.

She says I’m distant, cold, or out of touch,
as if I wanted to forget her face.
But some things rot because we love too much,
and wounds don’t heal just ‘cause we call it grace.

She sees the ashes, asks me why I burned,
like I lit matches just to watch them fall.
But some men learn the fire can’t be turned—
it eats you slowly, torching soul and all.

She don’t see ghosts that whisper in my skin.
She only asks why I won’t let her in.

September 30, 2025 at 10:38 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

So, friends: I was going to take a few days off to mourn my dog. But I’ve got a reputation for speaking when I must. So, I will speak—consequences be damned.

Before the poem: This poem defends free speech and criticizes mob mentality. It is not a threat to any person or group.#resist#poems#poetry

In the wake of rampant online mobbing, cancel culture, and attacks on those who speak their truth, I wrote this poem as an urgent declaration: words are not crimes, courage is not punishable, and no one has the right to silence another. This is a stand for free speech, defiance against digital fury, and a call to remain unbowed in the face of threats, shaming, or dismissal. Written now, because the attacks are happening in real time, and silence would be complicity.

No

They swarm in pixels, pitchforks in hand,
Dragging lives through mud for a single truth spoken.
No.

You speak—bold, raw, human—and they descend.
Fired, threatened, shamed.
No.

Some, they cheer in whispered mobs.
Some, they roar, claws bared,
But this isn’t a game of sides.
No.

Truth is not a crime.
Courage is not a felony.
Words are not weapons for the faint of heart.
No.

Jimmy spoke. They took his show.
Others fell.
And you—watching, waiting—think it’s normal?
No.

I see the pitch, the drag, the callous delight.
I see your digital mobs gnawing at flesh and name.
And I will say it:
No.

No one silences truth with fire and fury.
No one bends courage with threat and shame.
No.

Speak.
Speak.
Speak.
And if they come for you, let them meet the echo of defiance.
No.

September 18, 2025 at 6:02 AM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

Friends, I won’t lie — I’m shattered. My dog, Sugar Ray, passed suddenly. But grief has its own strange light. In our darkest moments, something in us still burns. Believe in your light, always. Here are new poems.
#poetry#poems#blueskypoets#writingcommunity

A poem about the raw, chaotic energy of life and the small, sacred flashes of beauty within it. I wrote this to capture the way color, light, and sensation can feel alive and holy even in dark moments. It celebrates being fully present in the moment, embracing intensity without apology.

“Electric Mercy”
The streetlight flickers
and I remember
I am neon—
green flame drunk on rain,
pink vein pulsing
against the night’s throat.

Lightning writes
its gospel across my back,
and I shout hallelujah
in ultraviolet.

Colors do not explain themselves.
They riot.
They bless.
They tear their shirts open
and demand you watch
as they glow themselves holy.

A confessional poem exploring identity and the layers of self we wear like masks. I wrote this to examine how much of who we are is hidden beneath social expectation, survival, and the roles we are forced to play. It reflects vulnerability, isolation, and the struggle to be seen for who we truly are.

“Matryoshka”
They ask me who I am. I start to speak,
but find the tongue belongs to someone else.
The mask I wear was crafted to be meek,
but underneath’s a mask that’s just as false.

I’ve worn so many faces I forget
if there was ever skin beneath the shell.
Each smile’s a trick, each tear a silhouette—
a ghost who learned the shape of how to dwell.

I’ll carry masks until the final slip—
the stumble into soil, dark and wide.
And someone kind will paint my lips and grip
my jaw shut, so the lie stays locked inside.

You’ll say you knew me. Say it with a shrug.
You only knew the shape that wore the plug.

A manifesto-like poem about collective power, solidarity, and breaking silence. I wrote this to give voice to the ignored and oppressed, celebrating the strength that emerges when people speak and act together. It’s about transformation, rebellion, and unity in the face of neglect.

“Floodgates”
Raise the floodgates, let them roar—
The voices of the ones ignored.
They rise, like water from the deep,
Unbroken, unsilenced, they will speak.

Each word a wave, each breath a sea,
In unity, we’re finally free.
No longer drowned in apathy,
We carve the path we’re meant to be.

Torrents rush where silence died,
We lift each other, side by side.
The winds will change, the earth will quake,
And history, in our hands, will break.

This world is ours, and we will take
The silence that they tried to make.

September 9, 2025 at 1:35 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

It’s been raining since yesterday. Water washes the past away, leaves the streets clean. But these poems are for the soul that refuses to drift, and the heart that will never be clean 💙 #poetrycommunity #blueskypoets #poems #poem

A poem about longing for a past that never existed, where love and promises were whole but always just out of reach.

Fiction of Yesterday-
I dream of a past I never lived,
where warmth was constant, skies never gray,
where promises were more than hollow words,
and love stayed, never slipping away.

I see a face I never held close,
eyes that spoke truth without the pain,
a touch untouched by all that’s broken,
a bond that would not wither in the rain.

I clutch this fiction, letting it burn,
but it flickers out when I reach for it—
like smoke on the wind, it fades and churns,
leaving only ash and a bitter grit.

A yesterday that never was,
a dream built from the ruins of my heart.

A poem about shame, survival, and addiction — the cost of living when the world has forgotten you.

The Last Change in My Pocket-

I wake on cracked cement,
sidewalks that smell like last night’s regret,
stale whiskey on my breath,
a thief stealing tomorrow from today.

They look at me like I’m invisible,
like they can’t see the man who once
held promises in his hands
and let them slip between cracked fingers.

A dollar pressed into my palm,
a gift for the forgotten,
the ones who wake in other people’s worlds,
the ones who drink their yesterday and swallow it whole.

I tell myself I’ll find the road home,
but it’s easier to sleep under the weight
of their pity and my shame.

They don’t know that the price of living
is wrapped in a bottle,
and I’ve already paid for every drop.

A poem about wearing masks of joy to conceal despair, and the emptiness beneath the painted smile.

Hiding in Clown White-

I wear the painted smile, an armor of white,
Cracked beneath, a hollow laugh rises, strained.
They don’t see the tremor—only the light,
A façade so perfect, but I am unclaimed.

Each joke, a jagged line, a desperate plea,
For attention, for warmth, for love I can’t buy.
Behind the mask, I am swallowed in sea,
Silent as laughter splits open the sky.

The red nose, the perfect clown in full bloom,
Hides the chasm, the scars they won’t know.
I dance, I twirl, in my painted costume,
Numb to the sting of my insides below.

I am not what you see—just a ghost in the fight,
Wearing smiles that are lost in the dead of night.

A poem about regret that lingers past the night, revealing the stains that can’t be washed away.

Walk of Shame-

The streetlights flicker like judging eyes,
Each step an echo I cannot outpace.
The night clings heavy, the neon lies,
Masking the wreckage I dare not face.

My breath is stale with the taste of regret,
Hands still shaking from choices I made.
A moment of hunger, a promise unmet,
Now dragging me home through the mess I’ve laid.

I swore I had standards, I swore I had pride,
Yet here I am, soaked in last night’s sin.
No one to blame, no alibi—
Just me and the ghost of where I’ve been.

The dawn doesn’t cleanse, it only reveals—
Some stains don’t wash, and shame never heals.

August 26, 2025 at 4:34 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

For anyone who’s been left in the dark, circled the same ache, or sat in a room full of silence—these poems are for you. Not every ending makes sense. Some endings just spiral.

#poetry #poetsofbluesky #poems #writingcommunity

“And You Know”
A reflection on hidden truths, unspoken pain, and the masks we all wear. Confronting someone — or ourselves — we see what we cannot say aloud.

And You Know-
And you know what you are, behind the mask,
A story etched in shadows you won’t speak.
The truth rests there, in every unasked task,
In silence you leave, and I’m left to seek.

And you know what you are, though you pretend,
A fading light that flickers out too soon.
You wear your wounds like badges that won’t mend,
And every step you take feels out of tune.

And you know what you are, but never show,
A heart that’s bruised, concealed beneath your pride.
You build your walls, but wonder if they know
The darkness you still carry deep inside.

And you know what you are, but still you roam—
A ghost of who you were, yet never home.

“The Heartache Roundabout”:
About cycles we cannot escape, the roads of memory and longing, and the repetition of loss. The heart keeps turning even when we cannot.

The Heartache Roundabout-
We circle back, chasing what we cannot find,
A road that twists, but offers no release.
Each turn we take weighs heavy on the mind,
As answers fade, the pain will never cease.

Cracked pavement speaks of all we’ve left behind,
The exits call, but none will lead to peace.
We linger here, in love that’s redefined,
A tethered soul, still bound by memories.

The heartache gnaws, like winter’s bitter bite,
A shackle worn despite our desperate plea.
Each loop we make pulls further from the light,
A broken vow lost in eternity.

Round we go, each turn a fleeting fight,
The heartache roundabout devours the night.

“The Same Room”:
The quiet tension of intimacy, unshared thoughts, and the spaces between people we care about. Moments where presence does not equal connection.

The Same Room-
In the same room, where silence bends the air,
We sit, our thoughts like ghosts that never speak.
The weight we carry hums between us, there,
A quiet storm that leaves us cold and weak.

In the same room, we speak but never share
The truths that linger just beyond our reach.
Our eyes meet only to be pulled elsewhere,
As if to say too much would breach the breach.

In the same room, we fight but never win,
We chase relief, but it slips through our hands.
The walls hold nothing but the dark within,
Time moves, yet still it understands.

In the same room, we break and heal and stay—
Each day we fall, but still we find our way.

“Glamour Mugshots” Some endings are messy, some are absurd — and some are both.

Glamour Mugshots- Glamour mugshots, smiles that lie too bright,
Chasing the glow, hiding what’s inside.
I wear my sins like diamonds in the night,
A polished mask where truth is left to hide.

Caught in a flash, more than just a face,
I paint my pain with pigments thick and bold.
They call it fame, I call it falling grace,
As cameras flash, I slip into the cold.

I twirl in chaos, my secrets kept away,
Wrapped in gold that shatters, fades to gray.
A diamond lost, but not one they could sway—
I crave the light, though in the shadows stay.

Glamour mugshots, where I pretend to shine—
A king of dust, but the crown’s never mine.

August 19, 2025 at 2:16 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

The world keeps turning while we hold on—between pain and hope. These poems are for the worn and the alive, for the raw edges and quiet strength. You’re not alone. Let’s sit with this together. 💙

#blueskypoets #poetry #hope #writingcommunity

“Trembling Spark” is about finding fragile hope amid deep pain and struggle. It’s for anyone feeling broken but still fighting to rise. A reminder that even in weakness, a fierce fire can burn within.

Trembling Spark-
A tremble threads through quiet bones unseen,
An echo of a voice that fades to air.
No hands to catch the fall, no light between
The narrow walls where shadows lay their snare.

Each step, a burden steeped in brittle glass,
Each breath, a wager placed against the end.
The weight of every promise left to pass,
The pull of every wound that will not mend.

Yet in the hollow ache, a spark remains,
A whisper clawing up from dust and stone.
Though brittle sinews strain beneath the chains,
It murmurs, “Rise, you will not stand alone.”

For in the weakness dwells the fiercest fire,
A broken heart that never lost desire.

“Out Here” explores the solitude and freedom found away from the city’s confines. It’s for anyone seeking space to breathe, to run from their past, yet facing the harsh truths that follow.

Out Here-
Out here, the sky stretches wider than sin,
The wind whispers truths the city won’t dare,
Fields roll like secrets tucked under my skin,
No walls to confine me, no judgment to bear.

Out here, the roads fade to dust and to doubt,
Each mile a memory I’m trying to lose,
The stars watch in silence, their light bleeding out,
They’ve seen all the lies a man learns to use.

Out here, I’m untethered, unbound, and alone,
The echoes of footsteps too distant to blame,
But freedom’s a ghost with a heart made of stone,
A mirror that whispers my cowardice name.

Out here, I keep running, the air thin and clear,
As if I can outrun what’s already here.

Years Ago” reflects on a past love that once burned bright but faded with time. It’s for anyone carrying the bittersweet ache of memories that no longer sustain but still linger.

Years Ago-
Years ago, we were us, a flame alight,
Burning through nights that never seemed to end.
Your laughter was a song, pure and bright,
Each moment felt like we could always bend

The world to match the dreams we held so close,
Two hearts that burned with nothing left to lose.
We danced beneath the stars, defying ghosts,
As if our love could chase away the blues.

But time is cruel, it turns the heart to stone,
The years have stolen what we once had pure.
Now shadows stretch where light was once our own,
And empty streets recall a love unsure.

Years ago, we were us, now dust remains—
A fleeting dream, a love that couldn’t sustain.

This Was My Last One” captures the struggle between giving up and finding renewed strength. It’s for anyone who’s felt at the edge but discovered a reason to keep going despite the weight they carry.

This Was My Last One-
This was my last one, or so I thought,
The final breath that left me cold.
I gave my all, but what I sought
Slipped through my fingers, hard to hold.

The end seemed near, a quiet call,
But something stirred deep in my chest.
A spark, a flicker, not gone at all,
A reason to stay, a place to rest.

I left my past in shadows’ grasp,
But still, the echoes chase me down.
The weight I carry, all I clasp,
Tells me I’m not yet to drown.

So here I stand, though it’s enough—
This was my last one… but not enough.

August 12, 2025 at 2:47 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

For anyone who’s ever loved too hard, stayed too long, or lost themselves trying to feel whole- these poems are for you. Regret, beauty, and survival all tangled in the same breath. Let me know if one hits. #poetry #poems #blueskypoets

The Price of Her is about the kind of love that feels mythic- intoxicating, dangerous, unforgettable. It’s about giving everything for someone who consumes you like fire and leaves you with nothing but ash. I wrote it to explore what we willingly destroy when we want to be loved at any cost.

The Price of Her
She touched my wrist and kingdoms turned to smoke,
A whisper draped in lace that knew my name.
I cracked my spine to make her cruelest joke—
Let friendships rot and set my house to flame.

She bled perfume, a siren stitched in skin,
A promise made of velvet, teeth, and wine.
I burned the map to let her fire in,
And learned too late the pyre was never mine.

They warned me once. They watched me slit the thread.
I chose the kiss and drowned the chorus out.
She left me bare, unspoken, half-ahead—
A throne of ash, a feast of doubt.

Now silence feeds where laughter used to dwell.
She taught me love. She left me in its hell.

Ballad of the Burnout Romeo is a fast-crash love story- about mistaking chaos for connection, and the slow realization that you gave up too much for something that was never real. It’s part self-roast, part survival anthem for anyone who’s ever lost themselves chasing someone cooler, louder, or more dangerous than they knew what to do with.

Ballad of the Burnout Romeo
She winked once- yep, that’s all it really took.
I dropped my friends like classes I don’t need.
Sold half my stuff, rewrote my Facebook look,
Got high, got dumb, and called that love indeed.

She smelled like peach vape, ruin, cherry gloss,
Said “You’re deep,” then laughed when I said “thanks.”
I paid in Uber rides and moral loss
Crashed every couch and overdrew my thanks.

We watched cartoons and talked like we were stoned
On fate, or stars, or some dumb indie band.
I swore she changed me (yeah, she mostly loaned
Regret, plus debt, and some illegal sand).

She ghosted fast. My group chat’s still in grief.
Turns out the price of cool was self-belief.

This poem is a guide through the slow burn of hope fading into loss and the painful cycle of trusting, being hurt, and starting over again. It’s about the quiet heartbreak in learning that pain and disappointment are part of the human experience- and the courage it takes to keep going anyway.

Discontent, Disappointment, and Disillusion for Beginners
Start with a dream- make sure it burns just right,
not bright enough to catch the world on fire,
but soft, subdued, a candle in the night,
a thing that warms, then melts into the mire.

Next, place your trust in something built to break:
a vow, a hope, a hand that feels like stone.
Watch how it bends before it snaps in place,
then wonder why you thought you weren’t alone.

Now paint the sky with all the shades of loss,
let every color fade before it dries.
Name every wound, but never count the cost,
pretend that truth is sweeter wrapped in lies.

And when you’ve learned the lesson pain imparts,
just start again- the hardest part is heart.

$Fading Fog captures the feeling of wandering through memories and pain, where the past and present blur like a city lost in mist. It’s about youth, loss, and the fragile hope that even in darkness, something can be reborn. This poem is a quiet meditation on holding on when everything feels like it’s slipping away. Fading Fog Beneath the fog, the city holds its breath, A whispered hymn of shadows and regret. The youth that dances close to edge of death, With hearts too wild for silence to forget. Your voice, a ghost that lingers in the haze, A broken star against the waning light. We chase the echoes of forgotten days, And drown beneath the weight of endless night. The world outside, a distant, hollow drum, While secrets pulse beneath our fragile skin. In whispered storms, our fractured souls become A myth reborn where darkness once had been. So hold me close beneath the fading sky, Where silence speaks and time itself runs dry.$

August 5, 2025 at 2:06 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

New poems today- for anyone carrying wounds that still haven’t silenced them.
These pieces come from the places we survive, the places we rebuild from.

If the world’s felt heavy lately, I hope something in these lines reminds you:
you’re not broken beyond repair- just in the middle of the story.

This poem explores the quiet power and pain carried by women who’ve been broken and still offer love. It’s about someone who taught me the beauty and grief woven into silence—the way softness can still destroy you. It’s also about guilt, memory, and the ghosts we don’t get to forget.

She Dreams in Bruises
She speaks in silence stitched with velvet knives,
A hymn too soft for sinners to believe.
Her hands hold shadows gentler than our lives,
She taught me how the pretty girls still grieve.

Her eyes were quiet wars in smoky green,
A stare that knew my thoughts before I bled.
She kissed like she’d been taught by guillotines,
Then laid her head where all my angels fled.

I sleep beside the versions I betrayed,
Each one a ghost she left me just to keep.
Her breath still clings like lace I never paid,
A debt that whispers deeper in my sleep.

She never screamed- she didn’t need to speak.
She broke me like the moonlight breaks the weak.

This poem is about the sacredness of broken places- those late-night bars where outcasts gather, not to be fixed, but to be seen. It’s a portrait of quiet redemption in the wreckage: a kind of church for the damned, where confession comes through jukebox songs and half-finished drinks. I wrote it for the people who carry their pain into the glow and still show up.

Ghosts of the Last Bar on Main
The neon flickers like a sputtering prayer,
A drunkard’s psalm rising thin in the air.
Stools wobble under the weight of defeat,
Lives poured out on the cracked Formica seat.

He’s nursing a whiskey that tastes like regret,
The barkeep’s silence the closest he’ll get
To confession, absolution, or grace
A sin carved deep into the lines of his face.

The jukebox moans with a voice long gone,
Scratched vinyl ghosts still dragging along.
A laugh cuts through, jagged and raw,
Splitting the night with a desperate awe.

Outcasts gather in this fading glow,
Sharing truths only shadows could know.
This is no church, but it saves all the same
A sanctuary for the nameless and shamed.

Devour is about what it feels like to give everything to someone who only wanted to consume you. It’s the emotional aftermath of being used—when love turns into something predatory, and you’re left sorting through the ashes of what you thought was real. This poem was written from a place of betrayal and brutal clarity.

Devour
You took what was mine, a soul to devour,
Left me with nothing but ashes and doubt.
I gave you the blood, the heart, the last hour,
And still, you turned cold when I cried out.

I fed you my warmth, you drank it all down,
Yet you left me hollow with nothing to hold.
I’d been blind, but now I can see through the crown,
The one that you wear, so heartless and bold.

You said you’d love me, but only at night,
And when the sun rose, you faded away.
Now I’m left to unravel this endless fight,
Tangled in memories I can’t seem to shake.

I thought we were meant, like stars in the dark
But you were the spark that burned out too soon.

$The Struggle is about resilience- how conflict, pain, and compromise shape us without destroying us. I wrote it from a place of hard-earned clarity, after learning that survival doesn’t mean purity- it means persistence. The poem speaks to anyone who’s fought their way through doubt, betrayal, or hardship, and still refuses to let the world make them cold. The Struggle I’ve seen the weight of conflict shape the soul, How struggle brews the deepest, clearest light. In fractured minds, where shadows take their toll, I find the heart, untamed, still standing bright. The world demands its ethics made of gold, But gold is flawed, a brittle thing to trust. I’ve known the cost of choices, paid in cold, And still, I search for truth amid the dust. For compromise will always mark the path, A necessary lie we learn to wear. And though we tread through echoes of our wrath, It’s strength we gain from burdens we must bear. So let the winds of struggle rage and bend, For through the storm, our broken hearts transcend.$

July 29, 2025 at 11:20 AM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

For anyone walking through the dark-these came from the same place. Grief, regret, survival. I’m still here. You are too. That means something. It may get worse first but believe me will hurt less eventually. Just keep going.

#poetry ##blueskypoets #writingcommunity #poems

This one was for the ones who were told to shine when they were barely surviving. It’s about being broken, scorched, and lost—but still rising. Even when it hurts. Even when no one sees it. It’s survival in poetry form.

Of Dust and Light

They told you to shine,
but you were dust, scattered, lost.
Still, you rose,
a flicker in the dark, no matter the cost.

You are light,
though scorched by night,
an ember in the ruin,
still fighting, still bright.

What does it mean to be here?
To flicker when the world would fall,
to burn the ashes,
to rise through it all.

You are the spark that won’t die
the one who dares to fly.

This one came from that spiral- when every choice feels like the wrong one, and the harder you try, the worse it gets. It’s about that quiet collapse, the slipping, the fight to stay upright when you don’t even know why anymore. But it’s still a poem about trying.

Decisions Getting Worse

Each choice I make just leads me to the edge,
where all the roads I knew have turned to dust.
I thought I’d find some peace within the ledge,
but now I see the height that I can’t trust.

The whispers grow-there’s nothing left to win,
and every step I take just takes me down.
I keep pretending I’m not caving in,
but under pressure, I just start to drown.

I used to think that I could make it right,
that all my wrongs could someday find their cure.
But now each move I make’s another fight,
and I don’t know what I’m even fighting for.

The harder that I try, the worse it seems
decisions fading into broken dreams.

This poem captures the fragile, tangled nature of connection- how love, loss, and fear weave together like threads in a tapestry. It’s about those subtle shifts that change everything, leaving marks we carry in our hearts.

The Unfolding of Us

You spoke, and something came undone,
A thread unspooled from lips and hands,
A quiet shift, a thread begun
A weave too fine to understand.

We moved like echoes, soft and slow,
A pattern traced through time and skin,
A pull too deep to ever know,
Yet felt in everything within.

And now, the thread lies tangled here,
Each knot a name, each twist a scar,
A map of love, of loss, of fear
A story stitched in who we are.

This poem reflects on the fragile, worn edges of hope and love—the quiet losses that wear down the fabric of our lives. Yet despite frayed seams and fading light, there is a subtle promise of rebirth and resilience.

Threadbare Dreams

The fabric thins where hands have clung,
A ghost of warmth, a trace of skin,
Each seam unraveled, loose and strung
A quiet loss that pulls within.

The nights collapse in folded sighs,
A pillow worn by weight of thought,
The stars blink out like tired eyes,
A dream undone, a thread distraught.

Yet morning comes, though soft, unsure,
And though the cloth is frayed and torn,
The wind still hums, the light is pure
And something waits to be reborn.

July 22, 2025 at 5:51 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

They want us quiet. Docile. Even with freedom of speech, they still fear what we might say. Never let anyone control your voice. Never silence your truth.
These poems are for those already speaking — and for those still gathering the courage to rise. 💙💙💙
#poems #poetsofbluesky #poem#poetry

This poem is about the lie of indifference—the performance of apathy we wear to survive when we’re still feeling everything beneath the surface. It’s for anyone who’s ever hidden their pain behind strength, who’s claimed they don’t care just to keep going.

⸻

Pretending I Don’t Care Anymore
The mirror whispers lies I wish were true,
A face composed of stone, a hollow hue.
I trace the cracks and call them battle scars,
A galaxy of pain trapped in glass jars.

The words they throw bounce off, or so I say,
But echoes linger long beyond the day.
A heart encased in ice, the fire gone,
Pretending apathy, I stumble on.

A mask that fits too well, it starts to bind,
Hiding the storms that rage inside my mind.
Each breath a question: do I still exist,
Or just a shadow drowning in the mist?

I claim indifference, a shield I wear,
But the truth is, I still deeply care.

This poem explores the illusion of power, the loneliness of ambition, and what remains when dreams rot from the inside. It’s about chasing greatness only to find yourself alone atop something broken. A reflection on what we sacrifice to rule — and what rules us in return.

⸻

The Kingdom of Empty Dirt
I sit upon a throne of crumbled stone,
A kingdom vast, yet barren, and alone.
No banners wave, no subjects kneel to me,
Just howling winds and ghosts of what could be.

A crown of rust adorns my weary head,
Its weight a monument to dreams long dead.
The scepter’s grip is cold, a brittle lie,
Its hollow power echoing my cry.

The fields I rule bear nothing but the dust,
Each grain a monument to broken trust.
I thought the world was mine to shape and mold,
But clay turns dry when hearts are bought with gold.

The king of empty dirt, I reign supreme,
A ruler trapped within a shattered dream.

$This poem is about resistance through art, and how collective chaos, when guided by purpose and truth, becomes something transcendent. It’s a tribute to those who fight back with fire and music — who create beauty from disorder and blaze a path through the dark. ⸻ Fractured Symphony The night hums low, a hymn of chaos blooms, Righteous fire ignites the shadows deep. Through jagged soundscapes, night’s wild voice consumes, Each whisper a storm, each echo steep. Your words, a compass forged from mythic stone, Carve paths where fury dances into light. Together, you unravel the unknown, Where justice spirals into dreamlike flight. A fractured symphony tears through the dark, Its rhythm raw, a heartbeat made of steel. Yet woven through, a celestial spark, A vivid cry that forces worlds to heal. The song grows fierce, a phoenix born from dust, A hymn to chaos, hope, and sacred trust.$

This poem is a gritty road song for the dreamers, rebels, and survivors—those living on the edge of hope, where art and pain collide. It’s about finding truth in noise, defiance in ruin, and beauty in what the world tries to discard. A ballad for the lost and loud.

⸻

Broken Wings and Riot Strings
Highways hum with a restless tune,
A motel neon flickers at the moon.
The pavement’s cracked, but it tells no lies,
While dreams are traded for alibis.

A clash of chords and shattered glass,
The future’s a question, the past won’t pass.
White lines and red lights cut through the haze,
A city of shadows, a world ablaze.

But freedom’s a myth sold door to door,
A promise for some, a curse for the poor.
Guitars scream truths the suits can’t kill,
Rebellion’s a whisper, then it’s a thrill.

In the wreckage of hope, we raise a toast,
To the ones who fought and loved the most.

July 15, 2025 at 4:15 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

The world feels off its axis, and yet-
there’s still light. Still fire. Still us.
These poems aren’t solutions. They’re flares for the ones holding on.
Maybe one of them finds you.

💙 #Poetry #HopeInDarkness #BlueskyPoets #WritersOfBluesky #poems

This poem is about surviving by staying loud in spirit, even when forced into silence. It came from the feeling of being expected to shrink—to stop resisting—but realizing that sometimes just existing is resistance. It’s for anyone who’s been told to be quiet and chose instead to burn.

⸻

The Fire Refuses Silence

I’ve bitten my tongue ‘til it bled truth,
swallowed the heat just to make peace.
But fire does not shrink when it grows old
it learns to burn without release.

My silence wasn’t silence.
It was kindling.
It was the hum beneath the scream.
It was survival singing soft
through the seams.

They thought I’d hush with time
that ruin would teach me to fold.
But I was forged in backlash,
in stories untold.

I don’t need to shout.
I exist. That’s the riot.
The fire refuses silence
and I refuse quiet.

This poem explores a love that was intense, beautiful, and doomed—something fragile pretending to be strong. It’s about the way intimacy can feel like a storm: electric, dangerous, impossible to contain. Even in the wreckage, something survives. This is a poem about the strength that remains after love shatters.

⸻

Glass Heart in a Thunderstorm

We wore our love like armor made of glass,
Fragile shields beneath a sky of storms.
Each touch a spark that threatened to trespass,
Lightning strikes where quiet passion forms.

You spoke in riddles wrapped in velvet night,
A siren song that lured me to the edge.
But thunder rolls beyond the softest light,
And cracks the calm where secrets dare to pledge.

I gather shards of promises you broke,
Piecing truth from shards of whispered lies.
Our story’s flames ignite the midnight smoke
A firestorm beneath unforgiving skies.

Yet in the wreckage, something fierce remains
A heart reborn through loss, and love’s refrains.

$This poem was written for anyone feeling worn down by the chaos of the world. It’s about collective resilience—the kind that doesn’t roar but endures, that refuses to be broken no matter how heavy the headlines get. We may not come through unscathed, but we will come through. ⸻ We Will Survive This The air is wrong. The sky keeps bleeding headlines. But so do we we bleed poems, we bleed kindness, we bleed truth the world can’t choke. They want us tired. They want us fractured, folded. But we gather. We hold the line with cracked hands. We hum lullabies that never forget. No, we don’t move fast. But we move. Together. And when they say it’s already too late, we laugh softly, and begin again. We will survive this. Not untouched. But unbeaten.$ $This poem explores how pain, chaos, and emotional fragmentation can become a kind of raw, defiant art. It’s about owning every scar, every storm inside, and refusing to edit the truth out of what makes you whole. Beauty isn’t always calm—it’s often carved from the wreckage. ⸻ Canvas of the Broken Mind A chaos blooms beneath my fractured skin, Colors collide where anger meets desire. I paint my scars where silent screams begin, A twisted dance of flame and funeral pyre. Your voice, a jester in this court of night, Mocks shadows lurking in the corners deep. We chase the ghosts that flicker out of sight, And cradle secrets that we dare not keep. Yet in the madness, clarity will shine A fractured light that breaks the darkest cage. The wild heart’s art, both broken and divine, Transforms the pain and fury into rage. So here I stand, a canvas torn but true, A masterpiece of chaos born anew.$

July 12, 2025 at 2:51 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

The hate is loud. The fight feels long. And yeah- some days hope and fatigue sit in the same chair. We don’t kneel to cruelty. We name it. We survive it. We outlast it.

Here’s a few poems from the slow burn. For the tired, the alive. 💙

#Poetry #BlueskyPoets #Resist #WritersOfBluesky #HopeIsAFlame

This poem is about the resilience of a soul that refuses to stay caged- the kind of fire that won’t go out, even when the world tries to break you. It’s about connection, rebellion, and finding your way back to the fight when everything feels lost.

Broken Rebel Heart
I shout against the walls that cage my mind,
A storm of fire that cannot be contained.
The shadows whisper truths I cannot find,
A restless soul by endless doubt unchained.

Your voice ignites the embers in my chest,
A battle cry that breaks the silent night.
We run the edges where the wild hearts rest,
Two broken flames that hunger for the light.

Yet in the chaos, still a fragile thread
A tether holding hope against the fall.
Through shattered dreams and words we left unsaid,
We rise again, defying every wall.

In rebel hearts and echoes loud and true,
We find the strength to start again anew.

This poem reflects on love, memory, and presence that remains long after people are gone. It’s quiet and tender—about how some lights, both literal and emotional, stay with us even when everything else moves on.

⸻

The Light that Lingers
The porchlight hums against the dark,
where moths still burn for something bright.
A ghost of warmth, a final spark
but never quite enough for flight.

Footsteps press where others fade,
the wooden boards still know their weight.
A love not lost, but merely stayed
a shadow bent but never late.

The night forgets, but not the glow,
a filament of something true.
We learn to leave, but still we know
the light remains when we are through.

$This poem is for the wanderers, the dreamers, the ones still chasing meaning through all the noise and ruin. It’s about finding your own rhythm in a fractured world, and following your own stars—even when the map falls apart. ⸻ Footprints on the Moon The skyline hums with an aching sound, A hymn for the wanderers unbound. The years have weathered, the edges worn, But from the wreckage, new life is born. Every chord’s a step on a fragile stair, Climbing toward something that isn’t there. A bittersweet fire runs through my veins, A melody steeped in pleasure and pain. The world is vast, but it fits my song, A place for the restless, the right, the wrong. So I walk alone, but the stars still shine, Guiding my steps to a fate that’s mine. The road may crumble, the path may stray, But I’ll keep singing come what may.$

This poem is a quiet tribute to resilience. Inspired by the image of an old oak standing through storms and seasons, it speaks to the kind of strength that doesn’t shout—but lasts. It’s about endurance, rootedness, and the quiet power of simply staying.

Tall Old Oak
Beneath the sky, a tall old oak stands still,
Its branches reach as if to touch the blue.
The leaves are whispers, stirring soft and shrill,
A thousand stories told, yet always new.

Its roots stretch deep, entangled in the soil,
A silent testament to years endured.
Through storms and seasons, steadfast in its toil,
A silent pillar in the world’s vast blur.

Its bark is scarred by battles time has fought,
Yet still, it stands, unmoved by what has passed.
The wisdom in its shade can’t all be taught,
For in its silence, it remains steadfast.

The oak endures, a constant through the wild
A symbol of the strength that’s born in trials.

July 8, 2025 at 12:57 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

The world breaks us down — but it hasn’t buried us yet. Hearts are heavy, fists are ready. Some poems for the weathered, the grieving, the ones still standing when the flood rises. We aren’t done. 💙🌊✊
#Poetry #BlueskyPoets #Resistance #Poems

This poem reflects the feeling of betrayal when those in power sell out the people for personal gain. It’s about how hope gets commodified, promises turn to ash, and leaders profit while everything collapses. I wrote this with current events and frustration heavy on my mind.

The Time He Sold the World at Half Price

He sold the world at half price,
His whispers laced with fire and glass.
Each lie was silk, each truth was ice,
And every soul he broke was brass.

He peddled hope like secondhand,
Then laughed as kingdoms turned to rust.
The chains he sold for peace and sand
Became the throne on which he must.

He carved his name in every scar,
And marked the deal with blood and bile.
He traded stars for broken jars,
Then called it progress, called it style.

And when the world had begged for more,
he sold it back, and locked the door.

This piece is about resilience, unity, and carrying each other through dark times. I wrote it with the idea that even when the world feels endless in its chaos, we can still chart a course forward together—scarred, fierce, and unbreakable.

Sails Against the Endless Night

We hoist the sails against the endless night,
A crew of shadows chasing dawn’s first gleam.
Our hearts aflame with fury, hope, and fight,
Bound by a brotherhood that fuels the dream.

The stars, our compass through the storm and flame,
Guide every step on paths both dark and wide.
We bear the scars but honor every name,
A legacy no shadow can divide.

Though waves may crash and skies may thunder loud,
Our spirits soar beyond the breaking sea.
In unity, we rise above the crowd,
A flame eternal, fierce and wild and free.

So here we stand, with courage as our guide,
Sailing through night where endless dreams reside.

This poem reflects the quiet struggles people carry beneath the surface—the scars, the weight of old nights, and the search for connection. It’s about finding fragile hope, even when everything feels frayed. The ink becomes both memory and survival.

Tattoo Blues

The ink beneath my skin tells silent tales,
Of nights where laughter drowned the aching cries.
A spotlight’s glare that dims as daylight pales,
Revealing scars behind my weary eyes.

We dance through crowds but feel alone inside,
Two ghosts entwined in neon’s hazy glow.
Your voice, a broken hymn, my soul’s divide,
A melody of highs and crashing low.

Yet in this twilight, hope still softly gleams,
A fragile light that cuts through fading pain.
The night’s a canvas splashed with shattered dreams,
But from the cracks, new strength will rise again.

So here we stand, tattooed and battle-worn,
A testament to nights both bright and torn.

This poem reflects on borders, injustice, and solidarity. It’s for anyone displaced, silenced, or hurt by systems built to divide. The streets, the pain, and the fight for belonging sound the same everywhere—this is for those still standing.

The Streets Speak the Same

To those who cross with nothing but a name,
I offer not my pride, but this regret
For walls that cage and laws that bear the blame,
For lives erased we’ll never quite forget.

No border marks the wounds upon the soul,
No visa grants the right to call home free,
I stand with you, broken and made whole,
Apologies for the world’s cruelty.

The streets speak the same in every tongue,
Their stories carved in scars and silent pain,
May justice rise where songs remain unsung,
And hearts embrace beyond the chain.

July 5, 2025 at 12:05 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

It’s a new day. A new chapter. We’re still here- bruised maybe, but unbroken. The fight’s slow, but the fire’s still burning. Here’s some poems for whoever needs them. Maybe they’ll ache. Maybe they’ll heal. You’ll know when they land.

💙 #Poetry #BlueskyPoets #WritersOfBluesky

$A sharp, defiant poem about surviving what was meant to destroy you. It’s about the cracks we carry—and the way they shine when we refuse to fold. I wrote this as a reminder to myself: I wasn’t built to kneel, and neither were you. Unbreakable They told me break- I welded bone to bone, Stitched all my edges jagged, raw, and true. Their silence cracked- I carved myself in stone, The fire stayed when everything fell through. They see the fractures- think I’m built to fold, But ruin taught me sharper ways to rise. I carry wreckage like a flag unrolled, Defiance burning quiet from my eyes. Their rules collapse, dressed pretty as control, But I’ve been wild since I learned my name. My scars are songs - rebellion is my role, And none of this was built to kneel or tame. Let them drown in quiet -I stand tall I’m unbreakable- I outlive them all.$

A poem about fire disguised as patience. It’s for anyone stuck in the slow grind—waiting, underestimated, dismissed—while the fire builds beneath the quiet. I wrote this as a reminder: even standing still, we burn.

Still I Burn

The hours crawl- monotony on loop,
But quiet never dulled the flame I keep.
The boredom festers, smolders in the roots,
And fire stirs beneath what looks like sleep.

You think delay can choke the heat I hide?
Patience isn’t silence- it’s the spark.
I sharpen every second I bide,
And burn the slowest brightest in the dark.

The world may stall- I simmer, coil, ignite,
My ribs still hum with every fight they stalled.
You can’t unmake a flame that learned to bite,
The fire waits- it never cools or crawls.

Let them choke on time they tried to steal
Still, I burn- and nothing dims what’s real.

A poem for anyone carrying scars—visible or not. Pain doesn’t disappear, but it teaches us how to speak, how to survive louder than silence. I wrote this for every rebel stitched together by what they’ve endured.

Bruises That Learned to Speak

The bruises fade, but every scar still hums,
A song beneath the skin they couldn’t chain.
They dressed their silence soft, disguised as numb,
But I was carved from noise that outlasts pain.

They thought the breaks would quiet what I’ve bled,
But bones remember- wreckage learns to speak.
The names they buried rise inside my head,
A hymn of sharpness stitched from all the weak.

You tried to soften every jagged line,
But damage hums- it never falls asleep.
I wear the cracks like proof I still survive,
The quiet bends- but scars refuse to keep.

We bloom from hurt- unpolished, scarred, and whole
The bruises speak- they carved my rebel soul.

$This one’s for everyone they tried to shrink, rewrite, or silence. They polished you down to fit their lines—but scars, flaws, and raw edges tell the real story. I wrote this as a reminder: you can’t edit the truth of who you are. Edited They trimmed my edges, softened every scar, Rewrote my name to make me disappear. But damage stays- the fractures travel far, And every break still writes me sharp and clear. They polished lies as peace- I called it cage, Their tidy script could never bind my name. I carved rebellion on the empty page, And burned the parts they tried to hide in shame. I’m raw, unfiltered- jagged, flawed, alive, The storm you edit never stays contained. I wasn’t built for quiet to survive, My ribs hum songs they never learned to tame. You can’t redact the damage that I be No one edits the truth in me.$

July 1, 2025 at 1:26 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

It’s the last Saturday of Pride. I’ve done tributes for the icons. But today, this one’s for the living. For everyone still fighting to exist, to love, to speak, while leaders strip rights and fuel hate. You’re not alone. Here’s a few poems for the battle. 💙🌈
#Pride #Poetry #Resist #blueskypoets

A poem about rejecting fake conformity. They tell us to be quiet, blend in, follow rules that were never made to protect us. But I never fit their “normal,” and I never will. We bloom through the smoke.

Normal
They tell me to grind my edges smooth,
choke down the wild burning my veins.
Normal’s a noose disguised as truth,
a grave they carve with polished chains.

Their laws bloom sharp as shattered glass,
their love, a blade tucked in the hymn.
Tradition hunts what won’t collapse,
names rubbed to ash, bones broken thin.

But I was built from outlawed scars,
stitched from the wreckage they can’t drown.
I carry cracks that outlive bars,
the crooked roads that tear walls down.

I’ll never be Normal—let them choke,
we bloom like fire through their smoke.

A poem calling out the hypocrisy. The rich, the powerful—they make the rules, then break them. They preach morals while bleeding the world dry. But truth survives their greed, and so do we.

Rules For Thee, Not For Me
They ink their morals in blood and ash,
crown the corrupt, chain the rash.
Preach of sin with dirtied hands,
build empires on stolen lands.

They preach order, preach grace,
rot bleeds out behind each face.
Laws for the beaten, for the small—
none for the wolves who guard the wall.

I’ve seen pulpits dressed in fraud,
heard tyrants pray, caught their applause.
They cage the wild, burn the free—
Rules for you, not for me.

I won’t kneel, won’t believe,
Truth outlasts their greed.

A poem about love—the raw, tangled, electric kind. It’s universal. No rules, no labels—just two souls burning past the borders they tried to give us.

Electric Skin
Your hands speak in shadow-tongue,
tracing the scars I hide beneath skin.
A breath drips slow between us—
half promise, half sin.

We melt between sighs,
silk tangled with smoke,
where names dissolve like ash,
and flesh forgets its borders.

Your lips carve riddles,
soft knives in the dark—
never his, never hers,
always ours,
always the spark before the flame.

Here, we are no questions, no rules—
just fire and silence,
electric skin on electric skin.

A poem for the fighters—the ones who know the struggle never really ends. I wrote this as a reminder: history’s scars don’t fade, but neither does our fire.

Remember This
They say the fight is done,
banners folded, streets gone cold.
But history’s scars stay raw,
a pulse beneath the old.

Every step carved in fire,
every voice that dared to rise—
thunders deep inside our bones,
a promise sealed in cries.

No matter how long the night,
no matter how sharp the silence,
hope is a wound that bleeds,
a battle never lost, only violence.

So stand—
stand like fire that won’t die—
we carry tomorrow in our fists,
freedom’s breath never still.

June 28, 2025 at 11:39 AM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

For #PrideMonth, I’m honoring Gertrude Stein—modernist icon, bold voice, and pioneer of queer love in literature. Her words rewrote language itself. Here are four Stein-inspired poems I crafted in tribute. 💙🌈
#blueskypoets #pride #poems #GertrudeStein

$A poem about language falling apart — and how we rebuild meaning even when words wound us. It reflects how poetry, and survival, often come from broken places. The World Breaks in Sentences The world fractures in sentences. Words fall apart mid-sound. We patch meaning with commas, but grammar bleeds anyway. They called language safe. But my tongue’s all edges— I carved shelter from syllables, bled verbs until they spoke.$ A poem about how pain loops — how repetition cuts and comforts all at once. It explores cycles of language, memory, and hurt that refuse to break.

Repetition is a Knife
Again cuts.
Again softens.
Again is velvet—
velvet bleeds.

The ache repeats.
I swallow the ache.
The ache repeats.

Sentences circle.
Circles wound.
Again cuts.
Again stays

A poem about how pain loops — how repetition cuts and comforts all at once. It explores cycles of language, memory, and hurt that refuse to break.

Repetition is a Knife
Again cuts.
Again softens.
Again is velvet—
velvet bleeds.

The ache repeats.
I swallow the ache.
The ache repeats.

Sentences circle.
Circles wound.
Again cuts.
Again stays

A poem about how spaces carry memory — how rooms, walls, and objects hold onto people long after we forget. Grief lingers in places more stubborn than the mind.

Rooms Remember You
The room hums.
The walls keep score.
The chair leans heavy with forgetting.

Your name is sugar on the floor.
The cracks whisper it back.
The walls, the air—
remember you better than I do.

A poem about the relentless power of language and grief intertwined—how words keep coming back, refusing to be silenced or still, carrying pain and life at once.

The Sentence Refuses to Die
The sentence refuses death.
It chews its words raw.
It births itself again.
It burns itself again.

I stitched grammar to grief.
I stitched grief to grammar.
Words refuse stillness.

The sentence hums beneath my teeth.
The sentence bites.
The sentence lives.

June 24, 2025 at 8:35 AM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

Next up for #PrideMonth is my poetic hero Emily Dickinson. Yep, I did a tribute for Women’s History before—but she’s that important. New Dickinson-inspired poems are coming your way. Was Emily the greatest poet of all time to me at least yes. 💙🌈
#blueskypoets #pride #poems #EmilyDickinson #poetry

$A fierce, personal declaration about resisting silence and shame. This poem reflects on finding voice amid hardship and standing proud despite expectations to be quiet and subdued. The Silence Between My Bones I wasn’t born for quiet rooms— my voice arrived before my name. They taught me how the silence blooms, then blamed me when I lit a flame. My mother prayed in bitten tones, my father carved the world from fear. I learned to write on fractured bones and speak when no one wants to hear. The world prefers its rebels soft— subdued, repentant, neatly framed. But I have stood on shame aloft— and still refuse to be ashamed.$

A bold reflection on faith beyond convention, embracing strength and defiance instead of quiet submission. This poem honors those who carve their own sacred path despite judgment.

A Hymn for the Untamed
They said that Heaven has no place
for those who speak with ragged grace.
They said that saints wear softer skin
and swallow every sacred sin.

But I have knelt, and I have bled,
and stitched a psalm from what I said.
I do not fit their gilded mold
my faith was forged from breaking cold.

If God exists, they’ll know my name
a hymn too loud to burn in shame.

A quiet, haunting poem about creating one’s own form of spiritual refuge—one built on compassion, not condemnation. It explores belief as a deeply personal act of survival and solace.

The Basement
I built a God beneath the floor
It did not flinch or ask for grace.
It listened from the cellar door
and kissed the shadow from my face.

It never warned of wrath or rules.
It never sent me dreams in red.
It made no use of guilt as tools
It wept with me and raised the dead.

I brought it bread, and named my grief.
It asked for nothing-gave relief.

This piece mourns the ones we’ve lost and the words we never said. It’s about grief as memory, as starlight—always present, always out of reach. A quiet elegy for family, pain, and where we come from.

I Named the Stars
I named the stars for those I’ve lost
they blink like bruises overhead.
Some faded soft. Some bore the cost.
Some haunt the things I should have said.

My brother flickers near the moon.
My mother lives in morning frost.
Their names still hum an aching tune
a quiet toll for what I’ve lost.

I carry them like hidden songs
not right, not wrong—just where I’m from.

June 21, 2025 at 6:50 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

For #PrideMonth, I’m honoring Audre Lorde—fearless and proud Black lesbian poet, warrior, and truth-teller whose work burned through silence with clarity, fury, and love. Her voice empowered generations. Here are four tribute poems I wrote in her honor. 💙🌈
#blueskypoets #pride #poems #AudreLorde

This piece tries to weave some of Audre Lorde’s themes—silence, survival, and defiant truth—into my own voice. It’s about growing up being told to be quiet when all I knew was how to speak honestly, even if it hurt. I wasn’t built for silence. And even when I’ve tried to whisper, something in me keeps screaming anyway.

I Never Learned to Whisper

I wasn’t built for silence—
not when I was born
shouting metaphors into the dark.

They taught me how to kneel
before I learned to read.
Said truth makes noise
but survival is quiet.

My mother held her tongue like prayer beads.
My father beat the world into sense.

I asked God for change.
God gave me shame
and a debt I couldn’t spell.

Still, I learned to scream
in lowercase,
to love without apology,
to call my wounds by name.

Soft things break slower,
but they still break.

This one channels Audre Lorde’s defiance—how identity isn’t something we outgrow, it’s something we fight to survive with. I wrote it as a response to being told to quiet down, to soften, to disappear. But I didn’t. And neither did anyone like me.

We Are the Things That Won’t Disappear

We don’t vanish.
We harden.
We sharpen our teeth on silence.

I was called a problem
before I was called a child.

This skin has memory,
and memory has fists.

I am not cloth.
I am not clean.
I am not here to comfort your mistakes.

My voice is a siren,
a wound that sings.

They told me to make peace—
I made fire.

I’m still burning.
So are you.

Don’t you dare call it a phase.

This piece came out of anger—but the kind that’s earned, not aimless. I wrote it for every time I was told to shrink, to soften, to be small and safe. I wasn’t built for that. This one’s about surviving fire by becoming it.

What the Fire Taught Me

I was not born to be polite.

I was born in heat,
broke teeth on ash,
taught to swallow embers
and call it prayer.

They asked me to smile
while burning.

My name still tastes like defiance.

Love was never a safe word.

I’ve survived by becoming louder
than the world could ignore.

We are the story
they tried to edit out.

We speak,
and history flinches.

This one’s about existing without permission. I wasn’t chosen. I wasn’t welcomed. I just was. I wrote it for every outsider who didn’t wait for permission to live, love, speak. It’s soft-spoken defiance—quiet strength that refuses to die.

and still we bloom in the burn

i was not chosen
i was not invited
i existed anyway

my voice
was the sermon
they tried to bury

the bones of my joy
are sharp

my blood is bilingual

i learned
not to wait
for freedom

and still
we bloom
in the burn

June 17, 2025 at 7:46 AM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

For #PrideMonth, I’m honoring Joshua Jennifer Espinoza—whose raw, luminous voice speaks truth with fire and fragility. Her poems like “I’m Alive. It Hurts. I Love It.” and “The Moon Is Trans” are breathtaking. Here are four pieces I wrote in tribute. 💙🌈
#blueskypoets #pride #poems

This piece explores heartbreak with mythic weight — grief rendered through silence, memory, and the remnants of once-sacred love. Inspired by Espinoza’s brutal honesty and poetic clarity, it mourns a love that’s both holy and hollow, all while refusing to flinch.

Full Text:
The Moon Has Nothing Left to Say
I told the silence what your mouth once meant,
And silence coughed, then looked away in shame.
My ribs were altars, hollowed, badly bent—
You left your prayers, but never signed your name.

I watched the stars retreat from where we slept,
The constellations dimmed, ashamed to shine.
I held the ghosts of promises wept
And cursed the echo that still calls you mine.

I tore the future open, thread by thread,
Unraveled time to see what love became—
A breath, a bruise, your footprints in my head,
The shattered stained-glass windows of your name.

Love’s not a dagger—love is what it takes
To keep on bleeding just to prove it breaks.

Written as a quiet anthem, this poem affirms survival in the mundane and broken. It’s about finding small dignity in overlooked lives. Inspired by Espinoza’s ability to pair despair with beauty, it honors the act of enduring without applause.

Full Text:
I’m Still Here, Even if the World Forgot to Clap
I’ve eaten soup in the dark
from a chipped bowl
while my neighbors
yelled at a god who never paid rent.

I’ve laughed with a hole in my shoe
and a splinter in my spine—
because joy is a cracked cup
that still holds water.

I’ve been called mad,
myth,
messiah,
and mistake.

And still,
I walk outside
and the sky
doesn’t crush me.

$This confessional piece digs into fractured identity, psychosis, and the tension between faith and futility. Inspired by Espinoza’s raw vulnerability, it offers no clean resolution—only the bravery of saying “this is me, still burning.” Full Text: There Are Versions of Me I’ve Buried in Cities I Can’t Spell I was thirteen when the voices started. One of them told me I’d never be forgiven. Another wanted me to burn Oklahoma down— politely. I’ve loved people like dirty pennies clutched in a kid’s fist— tight, desperate, worthless. There was a time I thought I could write my way into God’s lap. Now I settle for silence that doesn’t bite. Sometimes I dress up my pain in rhyme. Sometimes I let it scream naked. I think the world ended and nobody told the sky.$

A minimalist offering, this piece captures the absurd, broken poetry of survival in short lines. It owes everything to Espinoza’s free verse style—fragmented, plainspoken, and holy in its smallness. It’s about nothing, which is to say, it’s about everything.

Full Text:
this isn’t a miracle / but i wrote it down anyway
i opened the fridge
to cry
and forgot why.

somewhere
a poem dies
because i was tired.

my name isn’t mine.
it’s a sound
that survived.

i buried yesterday
with a plastic spoon.

the stars
are late again.

June 14, 2025 at 8:49 AM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

For #PrideMonth, I’m honoring Lord Byron—the tempestuous bard of passion, rebellion, and dark romance, whose legacy defied convention and celebrated love in all its forms. Here are some Byron-inspired poems I crafted in tribute. 💙🌈
#blueskypoets #pride #Byron #romanticism #poems

Description: A lyrical, romantic sonnet set at twilight, blending themes of memory, longing, and the haunting beauty of lost love. The imagery weaves night, wind, and rain into an emotional reflection on a love that endures beyond time.
Why I wrote it: This poem came from the ache of remembering something beautiful that couldn’t last. It’s about how certain emotions—especially love—can remain in us long after they’ve gone from the world around us. That ache is part of what makes us feel alive.

Poem Text:
Twilight’s Bitter Embrace
Beneath the twilight’s faint and flickering sigh,
I tread the edge where dreams and shadows blend,
A restless heart beneath the endless sky,
Yearning for love that time cannot amend.

The breeze revives a vow once left betrayed,
Soft whispers of a wild, unspoken flame,
A secret pledge within the moon’s cascade,
That stirs the pulse of every silent claim.

Though daylight wanes and steals the fleeting day,
The ghost of passion haunts my veins’ refrain—
A spark that lingers at the dusk’s soft sway,
A tender ache that pulses like the rain.

So let the night enwreathe its velvet chain—
My soul will dance within love’s sweet, sharp pain.

Description: A dramatic sonnet set on a stormy shoreline, exploring themes of pain, defiance, and inner transformation. It uses vivid ocean imagery and the myth of the phoenix to depict rising from suffering with fierce pride.
Why I wrote it: This poem is about resilience—how the wounds we carry can become part of our strength. I’ve lived through storms that left marks, and writing this was a way to honor the part of me that kept rising anyway.

Poem Text:
Phoenix of the Salted Shore
Upon the shore where restless waters break,
I trace the scars that time has yet to heal,
A captive bound beneath fate’s cruel stake,
Each breath a wound too raw for time to seal.

The siren’s song, a lure of sweet despair,
Calls out beyond the mortal eye’s confined,
A flame that flickers in the salted air,
Consuming edges of the dark entwined.

Yet through the storm, my spirit dares to rise—
A phoenix clad in shadows and in flame,
Defying fate’s relentless, watchful eyes,
To claim the truth no chain can ever tame.

Though scorned by worlds that shun what they despise,
I wear my scars like armor, fierce with pride.

Description: A dark, brooding sonnet that journeys through decay, shattered dreams, and the harsh truths hidden beneath a world of false appearances. It captures a rebel spirit that defies fate amid sorrow and desolation.
Why I wrote it: This poem reflects a deep struggle with loss and isolation, and the fierce desire to claim one’s voice despite pain. It’s about embracing the darkness as part of creation and identity, even when the world rejects tenderness.

Poem Text:
Ruins of Forgotten Dream
I rove through ruins where forgotten dreams decay,
Where beauty’s ghost, pale as the waning moon,
Wails softly through the night’s relentless sway—
A soul in fragments, torn and marred too soon.

The world’s a tempest veiled in gilded lies,
Exalting those who scorn the tender heart,
Yet in the darkness, flickers truth’s last cries—
A dying spark that seeks to kindle art.

O’er cliffs of sorrow, wild winds howl and tear,
As passion’s flame consumes the frozen night,
I carve my name upon this jagged lair,
A rebel’s shout cast forth from fading light.

Though fettered by the chains that fate insists—
I taste the abyss and savor its dark twists.

Description: A powerful, gothic sonnet evoking the image of a tortured, rebellious soul caught between light and darkness. It portrays intense passion, defiance, and a profound connection to Byron’s tempestuous legacy.
Why I wrote it: This poem is a tribute to the enduring spirit of Byron himself—his fierce emotions, his pain, and his refusal to be tamed. Writing it was a way to connect with that legacy of wildness and artistic rebellion that continues to inspire me.

Poem Text:
Lord of Storms
In caverned depths where shadows weave their song,
A tortured soul laments the weight he bears,
With eyes ablaze, he rights the ancient wrong,
His voice a tempest borne on whispered prayers.

The world’s disdain, a cloak of jagged thorn,
His heart a chalice brimming with contempt,
Yet still he loves beneath the shattered morn,
Embracing loss—a kin forever kept.

A lord of storms, unbound by mortal chain,
He dances ‘twixt the angel and the fiend,
His passions fierce as thunder’s ruthless rain,
A reckless spirit none may hope to glean.

So rise, O Byron, from your darkened tomb—
In fire and shadow, let your legacy bloom.

June 10, 2025 at 3:51 PM

Joshua Walker

@bigjosh84.bsky.social

For #PrideMonth, I’m honoring Oscar Wilde—poet, wit, and rebel of beauty. His words defied shame and celebrated love with elegance and fire. Here are some Wilde-inspired pieces I’ve written in tribute. 💙🌈
#blueskypoets #pride #poems #OscarWilde

A decadent, gothic-style poem reflecting on a love that was both intoxicating and destructive. Inspired by Wildean beauty and ruin, it explores how sacredness can exist even in sin and heartbreak.

Velvet Ruins

Beneath the chandelier of guilt and gin,
I kissed a mouth that reeked of prayer and sin.
Your beauty staggered—opiate and bloom—
a velvet ruin aching to consume.

The glass decayed, the mirror told a lie:
you were the ghost that danced behind the sky.
I wore you like a tailored hurt—divine—
with roses rotting in their grand design.

You whispered truths like polished arsenic,
each vow a blade, each smile a clever trick.
I sang in silence while the saints looked on—
still drunk on dusk long after you were gone.

I did not flinch as love began to fade—
some sins are sacred, even as they’re made.

A dark, elegant sonnet blending sharp wit and longing, reflecting a complex identity wrapped in glamour and defiance. This poem honors Oscar Wilde’s legacy of beauty, truth, and scandal in a modern voice.

The Last Wildean

I dress in shadow stitched with threads of gold,
a wit too sharp to pass for mere disguise.
Beneath my smile, a longing takes its hold
the orphaned truth that dances in my eyes.

I quote the stars, then drink their borrowed light,
a dandy’s mask adorned with bruised perfume.
My sins, though soft, still scandalize the night,
and bloom like roses torn too soon to bloom.

The world would trade all velvet for the whip,
yet shame still stutters when it speaks my name.
I sip from ruin’s cup with poised lip
half-ghost, half-laugh, half-love, and wholly flame.

Let marble gods condemn me if they must
I kissed the truth, though crowned in ash and dust.

A poetic prose piece defending the beauty found in what society calls sin, embracing honesty and light in a world that often rejects both. Inspired by Wilde’s courage to shine despite hatred.

Brief Defense of the Beautiful Sin

Call it sin if you must, but I have worn it like silk—soft, scandalous, and shimmering in defiance. What they name vice, I name memory. I name longing. I name the breath held too long behind cathedral ribs. Beauty, they say, must behave. But I have seen beauty weep, kiss, and curse—and in that trembling, I found God.

They taught me to bury the parts that glittered; Wilde taught me to wear them. His mistake was not his love, but that he dared to be luminous in a room that hated the light.

And so yes, I defend the beautiful sin, not for its rebellion, but for its honesty. For its music. For the mirror it holds to the faces of the damned and says, “You are not ugly. You were never ugly. You were only honest in a dishonest world.”

June 7, 2025 at 7:52 AM

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