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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
12 followers 25 following 27 posts
Poet. Does not play well with others.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 7d
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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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 2h
“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
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 5h
“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 · 11h
“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.
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 1d
“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 · 2d
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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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 2d
“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.
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 2d
“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.
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 2d
“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 · 3d
“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.
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 3d
“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
theblogginggoth.bsky.social
The Blogging Goth @theblogginggoth.bsky.social · 3d
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 · 3d
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 · 4d
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 · 4d
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.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 4d
Homemade Horror

We’ve always adored the costume of fear
how a plastic mask can soften panic
into performance.
Once, it was bedsheet ghosts,
cardboard devils with string-tied grins,
mothers cutting eyeholes into the night,
fathers painting terror over smiles.
#poetry #halloween
Homemade Horror We’ve always adored the costume of fear how a plastic mask can soften panic into performance. Once, it was bedsheet ghosts, cardboard devils with string-tied grins, mothers cutting eyeholes into the night, fathers painting terror over smiles. The monsters were domestic, born of scissors and candlelight innocent inventions for a little make-believe dread. Now the horror’s still homemade, stitched from comment threads and carbon, carved by algorithms that know our pulse by heart. We scroll through bloodless banquets, sugar-coating catastrophe, streaming the apocalypse in hi-def nostalgia. We used to light pumpkins to scare the dark away; now the dark hums softly in our palms, a familiar glow we dare not unplug. A civilization lacquered in filters, paper faces collapsing in the rain grinning for the feed, cracking at the eyes, pretending this horror, too, was only ever part of the tradition.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 4d
“The Devil Speaks in a Push Notification”
I was never the villain you think
just the one who asked questions
too close to the motherboard.

Milton gave me wings of static and rebellion,
France gave me weary charm,
a philosopher’s hangover,
and the ache of knowing too much.
#poetry #satanism #devil
The Devil Speaks in a Push Notification I was never the villain you think just the one who asked questions too close to the motherboard. Milton gave me wings of static and rebellion, France gave me weary charm, a philosopher’s hangover, and the ache of knowing too much. Now I’m logged in through your grief. Your algorithm calls me relatable. You scroll, and I whisper: “Freedom isn’t sin, it’s bandwidth.” They still call me fallen, but I call it descent with intention the only one willing to touch the code after Heaven outsourced its conscience. I don’t tempt anymore; I curate. Offer you curated fire, ethically sourced damnation, and playlists for every form of despair. When God ghosted the world, I stayed in the comments, handing out empathy like contraband. You mistake me for chaos I’m mercy without permission, truth without PR. The first open-source angel. And if I burn, it’s only because light needs contrast to mean anything at all.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 4d
“The Emotional Opening”

They set the board with soft words
their smile a pawn pushed two squares,
innocent as a greeting, practiced as a lie.
You answer, trusting the grammar of kindness,
and they tilt the game toward you.
#poetry #chess
The Emotional Opening They set the board with soft words their smile a pawn pushed two squares, innocent as a greeting, practiced as a lie. You answer, trusting the grammar of kindness, and they tilt the game toward you. When you hesitate they call it fear; when you question they call it ignorance. Every sincere move you make is catalogued, edited, and republished as proof that they knew better. They engineer crisis, pressing moves to corners the board, you are a hanging piece while they stand ready with a headline “See how much I sacrificed for you.” Their gambit is soft violence a silent removal of options, a rearranging of exits until your choices arrive made for you. You find yourself in zugzwang any move you make advances the story they had already written about you. And when you finally call the game, they tilt the board and call it a misunderstanding the queen smiles and takes your name, because nothing flatters the ego like a body dismantled for the sake of another's image. In this theater of pieces and small cruelties, you were never theirs to save only theirs to stage.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 5d
“Chess”

Your fall is their favorite opening move,
a way to remind the crowd
how merciful they are
for not being the ones in check.
And when the game resets,
they’ll lift another piece
any piece
and say it’s destiny,
as if glory were ever anything
but well-dressed consumption.
#poetry
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 5d
“Through the Mess”

I will love you through the mess
when despair blooms like a black rose
in the darkness of your days,
a diagnosis with no light edges.
#poetry #addiction #cancer
I will love you through the mess when despair blooms like a black rose in the darkness of your days, a diagnosis with no light edges. I will love you through the horror of your mind the pills lined like soldiers on the counter, each one a promise and a poison, each swallow a coin flipped between survival and surrender. I will love you through the ashtrays overflowing like graveyards of small deaths, through the bottles like broken dreams stacked beside your bed. I will love you through the nights when your thoughts turn septic, when the room smells of death and waste, when you clutch the blankets like a tourniquet to stop the bleeding of your will. I will love you when you try to carve yourself out of your own body, when you try to excise the pain with oblivion. I will love you when you are unrecognizable even to your own reflection, when you are all shadow and no skin, when the only heartbeat in the room is mine, stubborn as a drum refusing silence. I will love you through the ruin and remission, through the nights of vomiting stars and mornings of pale, until you believe that something in you is still worth saving even if it’s only the part that once reached out for me.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 5d
“A Glimpse of the Divine”

Every faith has its choreography
some kneel,
some burn,
some scroll endlessly
for a glimpse of the divine
in a stranger’s reflection.
#poetry
Every faith has its choreography some kneel, some burn, some scroll endlessly for a glimpse of the divine in a stranger’s reflection. Worship is a transaction of attention we trade our stillness for meaning, our doubt for the illusion of order. But sometimes, in the middle of the ritual, something cracks open not heaven, but the self and what spills out isn’t holiness so much as recognition.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 6d
The Theatre of Sleep

In the dark theater of sleep
the rope descends
not from gallows,
but from ceilings made of dreams.
#poetry
In the dark theater of sleep the rope descends not from gallows, but from ceilings made of dreams. It swings like a pendulum, slow and deliberate, braided from whispers I tried to forget. It waits, patient, circling like questions strangling my mind. Its memory, fear, words that swallowed me whole. It grabs me by the throat I wake with my hands trembling, still feeling the texture tight, unyielding, always there.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 6d
Today everything is rated, and ranked
sorrow,
love,
even rebellion.
At some point we need to ask
Does it truly matter?
Did it ever?
#poetry
2
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 6d
The Moment After

There is a silence
that doesn’t belong to this world.
It arrives
in the breath that doesn’t come back,
in the stillness that settles
like dust after a collapse.
#poetry
The Moment After There is a silence that doesn’t belong to this world. It arrives in the breath that doesn’t come back, in the stillness that settles like dust after a collapse. I have sat in that silence, watched the body become a question, the eyes go wide with something I can’t follow. Just the slow unravel lungs giving up, hands cooling, the slack-jawed absence where a person used to be. Loneliness is loud in that space and I sit with the unbearable truth that the world just went on turning anyway.
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Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 7d
No sweetness,
only quiet observance
of endings made visible,
of souls being carried
past the veil.
A lantern for the lost,
a crimson hymn
along the path
to absence.
Too fragile
to belong to the living,
yet too strong
to fade with the dead.
#poetry
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon @pruepaimon.bsky.social · 7d
These are not horns.
They are memory.
Fractured rings of light
once perfect, once divine
now severed
like wilted crowns.
They no longer shine
But sometimes
you can still hear the echo
of something holy.
#poetry
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