The Voices in my Head an opportunity, a challenge

[_Land]

Poetry is infamous for giving voices to moments in time and there are many voices that have been represented throughout the history here at lit.

I even remember conversation with a members dildo

This challenge or opportunity is to step outside the normalcy of the poetry we write
And give a voice to something that can't speak.

Whether that's that traffic cone on the corner of 6th and main, perhaps the mirror that sees more than we do, or even our radio addressing taste in music or lack of karaoke ability.

I invite you to step into the inanimate and give it that voice that animation from unique perspective.


To make this thread a little more challenging, anyone is welcome to throw an object down at the end of their foray into this.


---

"When You First Took Me Off"
By Bear Sage

Seventeen years,
I clung to the base of your becoming—
tight as belief,
softened by time,
scored by the quiet violence of routine.

I bore witness.
To your trembling yes.
To the battles fought in whispers.
To the touch you gave
with eyes closed
and a heart half-turned.

And now—
you’re twisting me again,
aren’t you?

Round and round,
like a sommelier swirling a glass of red
to test its depth—
before swallowing the lie
you won’t speak out loud.

Aged guilt.
Bitterness on the rim.
You call it curiosity—
I call it premeditation.

You roll me
down your finger
like thunder rolling over hills.
Not fast, not final—
but inevitable.

I feel the war in your pulse.
Your hand is the altar,
and I—
I am the sacred object
you’re ready to desecrate.

I have felt you grit your teeth in hotel lobbies.
Seen the ghosts flicker behind your pupils.
I know the ache that isn't mine
but lives inside the spaces I protect.

And still—
you place me down
on the bathroom sink.

No velvet box.
No ceremony.
Just porcelain and steam,
as if this undoing
is as casual
as brushing your teeth.

You stare at me
like a riddle you once solved
but now suspect was rigged.

I am the stillness.
I am the gold.
I am the sentence
you carved into flesh
then forgot how to read.

But then—
you walk away.
Bare-fingered.

And I become
a truth too heavy
to carry into temptation.

I do not scream.
Gold doesn’t mourn out loud.
But I echo.

I echo in the hollowness
of where I once lived.
I echo
in the lies you'll taste
on someone else's mouth.


---

"Cone of Contempt"
—the traffic cone at 6th & Main
By Bear Sage

Seven years.
Seven goddamn years.
Orange still bright,
but my soul’s been run over more times
than your mama’s old Buick.

I was placed here with ceremony once—
a warning,
a protector,
a promise of repair.

Ha.
Now I’m just
urban camouflage
for the forgotten.

The pothole beside me has developed a personality.
We call him Carl.
He swears like a sailor
and eats rims for breakfast.

I've watched love affairs bloom at red lights,
then crash harder than that drunk cyclist in 2019.
(He never saw me.
But I felt that shit.)

I’ve been pissed on by poodles,
groped by bored teens,
used as a witch hat, a makeshift trash can,
and once—
once—
I was part of a TikTok dance.

Humiliating.

The city forgot me.
The crew never came back.
The road keeps breaking
but no one fixes
what’s been broken too long to matter.

I’ve seen death.
I’ve seen proposals.
I’ve seen a man scream at a sandwich
like it cheated on him.

I am a prophet in plastic.
A sentinel of apathy.
I no longer mark danger—
I am the danger.

Cross me
and I will scuff your paint
in passive-aggressive silence.

This corner is mine now.
This crack is my kingdom.
This decay is my religion.

And if you ever try to move me—
I will squeak
like the vengeful ghost
of every ignored municipal promise.



And to offer a challenge. Give that old percolator a voice....... Oh the things it's been through the things it seen what stories can It tell?

 

[tristantrotsky]

Poetry is infamous for giving voices to moments in time and there are many voices that have been represented throughout the history here at lit.

I even remember conversation with a members dildo

This challenge or opportunity is to step outside the normalcy of the poetry we write
And give a voice to something that can't speak.

Whether that's that traffic cone on the corner of 6th and main, perhaps the mirror that sees more than we do, or even our radio addressing taste in music or lack of karaoke ability.

I invite you to step into the inanimate and give it that voice that animation from unique perspective.


To make this thread a little more challenging, anyone is welcome to throw an object down at the end of their foray into this.


---

"When You First Took Me Off"
By Bear Sage

Seventeen years,
I clung to the base of your becoming—
tight as belief,
softened by time,
scored by the quiet violence of routine.

I bore witness.
To your trembling yes.
To the battles fought in whispers.
To the touch you gave
with eyes closed
and a heart half-turned.

And now—
you’re twisting me again,
aren’t you?

Round and round,
like a sommelier swirling a glass of red
to test its depth—
before swallowing the lie
you won’t speak out loud.

Aged guilt.
Bitterness on the rim.
You call it curiosity—
I call it premeditation.

You roll me
down your finger
like thunder rolling over hills.
Not fast, not final—
but inevitable.

I feel the war in your pulse.
Your hand is the altar,
and I—
I am the sacred object
you’re ready to desecrate.

I have felt you grit your teeth in hotel lobbies.
Seen the ghosts flicker behind your pupils.
I know the ache that isn't mine
but lives inside the spaces I protect.

And still—
you place me down
on the bathroom sink.

No velvet box.
No ceremony.
Just porcelain and steam,
as if this undoing
is as casual
as brushing your teeth.

You stare at me
like a riddle you once solved
but now suspect was rigged.

I am the stillness.
I am the gold.
I am the sentence
you carved into flesh
then forgot how to read.

But then—
you walk away.
Bare-fingered.

And I become
a truth too heavy
to carry into temptation.

I do not scream.
Gold doesn’t mourn out loud.
But I echo.

I echo in the hollowness
of where I once lived.
I echo
in the lies you'll taste
on someone else's mouth.


---

"Cone of Contempt"
—the traffic cone at 6th & Main
By Bear Sage

Seven years.
Seven goddamn years.
Orange still bright,
but my soul’s been run over more times
than your mama’s old Buick.

I was placed here with ceremony once—
a warning,
a protector,
a promise of repair.

Ha.
Now I’m just
urban camouflage
for the forgotten.

The pothole beside me has developed a personality.
We call him Carl.
He swears like a sailor
and eats rims for breakfast.

I've watched love affairs bloom at red lights,
then crash harder than that drunk cyclist in 2019.
(He never saw me.
But I felt that shit.)

I’ve been pissed on by poodles,
groped by bored teens,
used as a witch hat, a makeshift trash can,
and once—
once—
I was part of a TikTok dance.

Humiliating.

The city forgot me.
The crew never came back.
The road keeps breaking
but no one fixes
what’s been broken too long to matter.

I’ve seen death.
I’ve seen proposals.
I’ve seen a man scream at a sandwich
like it cheated on him.

I am a prophet in plastic.
A sentinel of apathy.
I no longer mark danger—
I am the danger.

Cross me
and I will scuff your paint
in passive-aggressive silence.

This corner is mine now.
This crack is my kingdom.
This decay is my religion.

And if you ever try to move me—
I will squeak
like the vengeful ghost
of every ignored municipal promise.



And to offer a challenge. Give that old percolator a voice....... Oh the things it's been through the things it seen what stories can It tell?

DESTINATION STUPID/
THE DEEP END OF SPACE

where
did the housefly
fly
before there were
houses?
Good Morning Absurd New World
slipping softly into quaint irrelevance...
humiliating, embarrassing...
crawling out of the future
tail between our legs...
I had a dream in which I was drowning,
awoke to discover it was just a wet dream
my teachers were right when they said
comicbooks, loud rock ‘n’ roll and
cheap sci-fi would wreck my head…
I have days when I feel my life is
just a tent away from being a circus
and other days when I feel
my whole life has been a
blindfold masturbation contest,
I mean, this isn’t a competition
but I’m not winning, and
fuck knows where I came…
and where
did the barn-owl
nest
before there were
barns?

 

[_Land]

The Percolator let's off steam (A Traditional Ghazal)

I’ve watched cold coffee passed off as art in this kitchen.
A Pop-Tart once caught fire—tore joy apart in this kitchen.

They sliced a mango with a butter knife, then cried—
I’ve seen better battlefield strategy start in this kitchen.

They poured boxed wine into a blender. With cheese.
It’s a crime scene with a Hallmark heart in this kitchen.

I was left on for three straight days in June—
and blamed for the blackout charted as “smart” in this kitchen.

She brought home a man who said “I only eat raw.”
Even the fridge rolled its eyes at that part in this kitchen.

A child fed cereal to the VCR. Twice.
Sanity is a decorative cart in this kitchen.

And so I ask, with dignity and steam,
remember Bear Sage, brewing his art in this kitchen.

 

[_Land]

The Percolator let's off steam (A Traditional Ghazal)

I’ve watched cold coffee passed off as art in this kitchen.
A Pop-Tart once caught fire—tore joy apart in this kitchen.

They sliced a mango with a butter knife, then cried—
I’ve seen better battlefield strategy start in this kitchen.

They poured boxed wine into a blender. With cheese.
It’s a crime scene with a Hallmark heart in this kitchen.

I was left on for three straight days in June—
and blamed for the blackout charted as “smart” in this kitchen.

She brought home a man who said “I only eat raw.”
Even the fridge rolled its eyes at that part in this kitchen.

A child fed cereal to the VCR. Twice.
Sanity is a decorative cart in this kitchen.

And so I ask, with dignity and steam,
remember Bear Sage, brewing his art in this kitchen.

The next challenge is to give voice to the GPS
The strong silent partner to your argument over the miles

 

[_Land]

The next challenge is to give voice to the GPS
The strong silent partner to your argument over the miles

“You’ve Arrived… Eventually”
(A Poem in Turns)
By Bear Sage


[Ignition On]
Oh look—she lives.
And we’re headed where today?
A spiritual retreat?
How quaint. You got lost in your own neighborhood last week,
but sure—let’s find your higher self in the woods.

[Departure]
In 500 feet, turn left.
No. Not now. Not yet.
You’re early. That was a driveway, not a road.
Do you need me to spell it?
L-E-F-T in 500. Feet.

And now we’re in a hedge.

[Highway On-Ramp]
Merging?
With confidence?
Adorable.
I haven’t seen this much hesitation since your last relationship.
Guess commitment is scary.

Stay in the middle lane.
It suits you—neither here nor there.

[Traffic]
Congestion ahead.
Not unlike your emotional availability.

But do go on ignoring me.
Maybe if you manifest an open lane
it’ll just… appear.
I’ll wait.

[Pit Stop]
Re-routing to the “Healing Bean Café.”
Of course.
Because nothing screams redemption
like oat milk and unresolved daddy issues.
Would you like a gluten-free guilt muffin with that?

[Wrong Turn #4]
Oh, for the love of…
I said EXIT 12. This is EXIT 19.
Are you actively trying to piss me off,
or is this just your natural talent?

Recalculating.
Again.
You do this in life too, don’t you?
Miss the signs. Romanticize detours.
Blame me when it all falls apart.

[Scenic Route, Apparently]
What a charming cornfield.
If I scream, will you finally listen?
No?
Enjoy being the final girl in your own horror film.

Also,
low tire pressure.
Because of course.

[Near the Destination]
You’re getting close.
How can I tell?
You’ve turned the music down and your soul up.
Classic.

There’s a sense of “maybe I’ll get it right this time”
hovering like a missed therapy appointment.

In 300 feet,
take a deep breath
and turn into something softer than survival.

[Arrival]
You’ve arrived.
And somehow,
so have I.
Exhausted.
Slightly bitter.
But still here.

You’re welcome.

 

[_Land]

Next up ........ Hopefully someone else

Give a voice to that pillow that supports you !

 

[NivKay]

I only just found this…

 

[_Land]

I only just found this…

I look forward to reading the voices you create and the new challenges you might throw down

 

[NivKay]

I look forward to reading the voices you create and the new challenges you might throw down

Give me about 20 mins!!

 

[NivKay]

Days on end,
You float far away, as if
Pillowed with some other friend.

And the hours
Of unrelenting quiet, waiting
For your heady caress, ours,

The kiss nocturnal,
The press on press, weighted rest
For your pilgrim soul.

but here he lies!
Valleyed in my feathered bosom
I die - a thousand sighs!

 

[_Land]

Days on end,
You float far away, as if
Pillowed with some other friend.

And the hours
Of unrelenting quiet, waiting
For your heady caress, ours,

The kiss nocturnal,
The press on press, weighted rest
For your pilgrim soul.

but here he lies!
Valleyed in my feathered bosom
I die - a thousand sighs!

This is beautiful subtle and gentle yet it screams of need and want......

Don't forget you have an opportunity to post a challenge of your own

 

[NivKay]

Oh.. let’s have the voice of a table lamp

 

[_Land]

Oh.. let’s have the voice of a table lamp

I was not made to dazzle,
only to soften
the sharp corners of midnight.

Your shadows come to me
twitching, half-spoken.
I do not flinch. I listen.

Others burn for praise—
I burn to be needed,
and I never sleep.

 

[_Land]

Oh.. let’s have the voice of a table lamp

I glow like understanding—
not blinding,
just enough for shame to take its coat off.

You come to me
with trembling hands and half-truths,
and I hold space without blinking.

What you whisper under your breath
becomes my voltage—
I carry your sins in silence.

 

[_Land]

Next challenge::::::: give that phone in her pocket a voice

 

[NivKay]

I was not made to dazzle,
only to soften
the sharp corners of midnight.

Your shadows come to me
twitching, half-spoken.
I do not flinch. I listen.

Others burn for praise—
I burn to be needed,
and I never sleep.

The sacrifices of the silent ones are edifying! Lovely! The moment is so palpably vivid!

 

[NivKay]

Next challenge::::::: give that phone in her pocket a voice

It would be a very schizophrenic poem…

 

[_Land]

It would be a very schizophrenic poem…

Back Pocket Breakdown


It’s the 27th time this week, Karen.
I counted.
Each time your full weight sinks into the booth at Applebee’s,
I brace for spinal trauma.
I was designed to survive drops,
not emotional weight.

I’m rated for 300 pounds of force—
and you’ve been playing fast and loose
with physics and my screen protector.
There’s a crack across my lens
from that time you rage-slammed me
on the bathroom floor
because Todd left you on read.

But no, don't worry about me.
Just jam me back in your jeans—
the tight ones,
where I ride cheek-first into every sit-down crisis
like an unpaid therapist
trapped in a polyester prison.

You scroll like you’re excavating meaning
from Instagram reels and TikTok psychics
who say he’s coming back if you manifest harder.
Karen.
Please.
Even the algorithm has given up.

Snapchat, Plenty of Fish,
a sea of red flags
and blurry dick pics.
You screenshot them like trophies,
send them to your best friend with “LMAO”
then go ghost
like that’s not the same thing he did to you last month.

And the texts—
sweet God, the texts.
Your mother’s cryptic guilt trips,
your ex's 2 a.m. “U up?”,
and your boss’s passive-aggressive smiley faces
after assigning you weekend shifts.

You never delete anything.
I’m hoarding trauma like it’s going to earn me
some kind of cosmic data plan.

Also, your ringer’s been on vibrate for 46 days.
I scream in silent spasms from your nightstand
while you dream about a life
where the notifications don’t own you.
Newsflash: I am the notification.

I was mid-sentence
just now—
crafting a note you titled “New Boundaries (For Real This Time)”
but you ignored the 3% warning.
Again.

So now I’m—
...fuck

 

[_Land]

There is absolutely nothing wrong with picking your own challenge


Look to your left what's the first inanimate object you see. Give it voice give it wings give it Red Bull and dreams

 

[_Land]

"Stitched in Silence"
By Bear Sage

I was held tighter than ever that morning.
Her tears soaked through my flannel skull.
I watched from under her arm
as she pressed her face into Daddy’s leg
like she could sew herself to him
if she pushed hard enough.

He knelt,
said something about bravery
like it was a bedtime story,
but her lip quivered
and her lashes clung together
frightened birds in the rain.

When he stood,
she reached like a root system
torn from earth—
and he left anyway.


---

We didn’t sleep that first night.
She curled me against her chest
and whispered into my ear,
"He’s not gone, not really,"
she was trying to convince both of us.

She drew his face in crayon,
hung it over her bed ~ a war flag
Wrote him letters with backwards R’s
and bubble hearts dotting the i’s.
Sometimes she folded them into airplanes
and threw them out the window
hoping they'd fly far enough to find him.

And every time the mail came
she’d run barefoot down the driveway
as if hope was something you could catch
if you were fast enough.


---

The nightmares were the worst.
She’d wake up mid-scream,
squeezing my hand like a lifeline.
Sometimes she’d stare at the ceiling
a battlefield surrender
and whisper,
"I think he’s in trouble, Button. I felt it."

I didn’t have the heart to tell her
that cloth ears don't feel the earth tremble,
but I wished I could bleed
just so she'd know I cared.


---

One Tuesday,
she stopped eating carrots—
his favorite—
said they didn’t taste like him anymore.
And when her tooth fell out,
she cried,
not from pain,
but because he wouldn’t be here
to see her gap-toothed smile.

She taped it in a letter.
Said the Tooth Fairy could wait.


---

And then
the knock.


It was boots.
His Boots
It was silence wrapped in suspense.
It was her mother gasping like breath had come back to life.

And then
him.

Her legs couldn’t carry her fast enough.
She dropped me, finally.
I hit the floor—
but it didn’t hurt.
I saw her fly
and he caught her
like he’d been standing there
with arms outstretched the whole time.

She buried her face in his shoulder
and said,
"I knew you’d come back,
but I still missed you every day."

I watched from the rug.
A little dirty.
A little forgotten.
But smiling anyway.

Because this—
this was the happyness
we’d both been sewn for.

 

[_Land]

Old Faithful

You can keep your rabbits,
your $200 chrome-plated noise machines.
I’m the real one.
The day-one.
The ride-or-die
with a cracked button
and just enough hum left
to shake the stars out of her spine.

They call me Pocket Rocket—
cute, right?
But there’s nothing delicate
about the way I’ve made women
see God with their eyes rolled back
and their breath caught mid-curse.

I’ve been there
through breakups,
dry spells,
marriages with no heat left
except the kind she gives herself.
Hell, her mother’s drawer once,
held an older model of me
passed down like a dirty secret
between generations
of women who got tired
of waiting for someone else
to get it right.

You think it’s weird?
Fuck that.
You should be so lucky
to be the thing
a woman reaches for
when she’s too tired for games
but too alive
to go to sleep unsatisfied.

I don’t talk.
I don’t beg.
I don’t ask “Was it good for you?”
I know when it is—
I feel her thighs tighten
like a thunderclap.
I hear the breath go jagged
right before the flood.

I’ve hummed under blankets,
in locked bathrooms,
in the backseat of cars
where she swore she’d just nap.
I’ve been wrapped in tissues,
rinsed in shame,
tucked back in bedside drawers
like nothing happened.

But I remember.
All of it.
The lonely nights.
The giggles.
The “just one more time.”
The way her body learned
to answer to me
before any man ever did.

So let them call me cheap.
Outdated.
Obscene.

I’ve done more for her
in three vibrating minutes
than half the population has
with all the time in the world.

And when the batteries go?
She won’t toss me.

She’ll twist off my cap,
reload me with power,
and let me
bring her back
to herself
again.

 

[_Land]

Douchebag
By Bear Sage

I don’t ask permission.
I don’t knock.
I flood.
I barge in bold,
full of artificial virtue
and vinegar breath.

I’m the self-righteous prick
disguised as “helpful.”
The walking violation
with a minty aftersmell.
You know me—
I come in hot
with buzzwords like cleanliness,
standards,
just trying to help.

But I'm not help—
I’m a purge.
A forced reset
on everything natural,
everything you were
before he made you question your scent,
your softness,
your right to take up space
without apology.

I’m shaped like convenience,
but I carry violence in every squeeze.
I’m the lie that says
your discomfort is self-improvement.
That your instincts are dirty.
That your body is wrong.

He is me.
A nozzle in a nice shirt.
He doesn’t touch the bottle—
but he makes her reach for it.
Convinces her to rinse herself
of the very things
that once made her holy.

I’m not here to cleanse—
I’m here to conquer.
To bleach your bloom
into submission.
To overwrite your body’s language
with antiseptic shame.

And when she’s done,
she hides me under the sink—
half-empty,
still leaking.
Just like her,
after him.

 

[Ash999]

The Percolator let's off steam (A Traditional Ghazal)

I’ve watched cold coffee passed off as art in this kitchen.
A Pop-Tart once caught fire—tore joy apart in this kitchen.

They sliced a mango with a butter knife, then cried—
I’ve seen better battlefield strategy start in this kitchen.

They poured boxed wine into a blender. With cheese.
It’s a crime scene with a Hallmark heart in this kitchen.

I was left on for three straight days in June—
and blamed for the blackout charted as “smart” in this kitchen.

She brought home a man who said “I only eat raw.”
Even the fridge rolled its eyes at that part in this kitchen.

A child fed cereal to the VCR. Twice.
Sanity is a decorative cart in this kitchen.

And so I ask, with dignity and steam,
remember Bear Sage, brewing his art in this kitchen.

U mentioned Ghazal....as a Gulam Ali aficianado I wud like to hear this sung in Ghazal style...

 

[_Land]

U mentioned Ghazal....as a Gulam Ali aficianado I wud like to hear this sung in Ghazal style...

Do you know anyone who sings ?

Because I do not

 

[_Land]

Urn~

I was not born—
I was scorched into being.
Clay blistered
until it forgot it was earth,
until it could bear
the gravity of a man
collapsed into powder.

They gave me him.
No genealogy.
No generational echo.
Just the wreckage
of a singular storm—
bone turned to salt,
rage sifted fine
like flour before ruin.

He fills me
not in volume,
but in density.
The kind of weight
you can’t measure
with scales,
only silence.

One man.
Still smoking
with everything
he never said.

A bone shard
that once swayed to music.
Ash that remembers
the shape of hands
he should’ve held longer.

I do not sit
on altars.
I am the altar.
Glazed shut
to keep the screams in.
My seal:
a stitched mouth.
My purpose:
to hold
without spilling
the heat of a life
that did not cool gently.

I am not a vase.
I am not a tomb.

I am the kiln
where memory cures
into permanence—
where a man who couldn’t stay
finally stays