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azurePond
2 2,176 M Hopeful Heart 3
The name is Pond, Azure Pond. I make lame jokes. Calm on the surface, but with some ripples underneath. Watch out for the occasional duck!
PathStep 4 Compassion hearts553 Forum posts215 Forum upvotes428 Current upvotes428 Age GroupAdult Last activeDecember, 2024 Member sinceOctober 3, 2024
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The Race Against Time
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 23 hours ago
...See more “Why do you always leave first?” I stumble forward, breathless, concerned. The streets are alive, a chaotic stream, Yet you’re already a distant figure in a dream. Your shadow lingers, a sunrise glow, Though you’ve vanished where I can’t go. “Because I know you’ll catch up,” you say, Laughing, dodging a man in the way. The city smells of coffee and oil, A whirlwind of voices, a life in turmoil. “I’m like a ninja,” you grin with pride, “Silence and speed are what I abide by.” Your footprints, though, still mark the way, Through sands that cling at the close of day. “I thought ninjas were supposed to hide.” Your gaze drifts to the sea, wide. “The tide comes in when it’s ready, And leaves seashells for patient eyes.” “Well then, you’re the tide,” I tease, bemused, “But I’m not ready for the tsunami that will bruise.” “You’ll drown standing there,” your loud warning, Then you walk into the sea’s shifting sheen. It pulls you in, a force untamed, Sharp strokes cutting where waters are claimed. “I think you’re racing the calendar now.” I sit by the pool, my hand on my brow. “I’m just racing time,” you reply with flair, Adjusting your goggles, no sign of despair. “And I’m always ahead, but I’ll turn around, If ever you stumble or hit the ground.” You wink as you dive, the stopwatch still, While I dangle my feet and admire your will. “If you’re ahead of time, then warn me of rain,” I complain as the storm clouds the windowpane. You hand me an umbrella, swift and sound, And step into the downpour, rain all around. “I can outswim time, but not the weather,” You laugh as the rain soaks us together. “Darling, I’ll build you a raft, you’ll see, Or teach you to dance in the rain with me.” Your hug is warm, though drenched and absurd, I push you back but savour your word. “God, you’re like a wet dog!” I cry. You howl to the storm, your declaration to the sky. “To time, the swimmer who falters,” We toast with laughter that never alters. Yet your dimples hide; your thoughts are far, Trailing the edge of where you are. “You’re not even listening to them,” I softly confess. “Don’t worry,” you murmur, “I’ve heard it, I guess.” The music swells as you turn to the flame, And I feel the distance, though you remain. “You always leave me in the cold,” I say. Your eyes flicker, concerned in their sway. “You’re not cold, you’re just... hold on.” And again, everything moves on. We’re children on that frozen shore, Where icy water bites and currents roar. I slip below; your grip holds tight, Your voice steady through the wintry night. “Hold on, this time, I’m not letting go,” you vow, Fierce and steady as the ice breaks now. “I’m not letting go,” I yell in return, As the wheels of your bike spin fast and burn. You’re a bolt of speed, the hill aglow, I’m chasing, but my steps are slow. Like the  book on a shelf, too high to find, You are always too far from my hand. “There you go, Thumbelina,” you tease, Handing me what I could not reach. You turn to leave, as you always do, Your rhythm faster than I could pursue. “You never wait!” I cry in despair, Running to catch the train’s heavy air. Tropical heat, the earth’s wet perfume, “You’ve got to catch me,” you say with a tune. But when the train jolts, your hand finds mine, A fleeting grasp, firm, aligned. “Will you ever stop running?” I yell in the blur, The landscape bending, the wind a slur. You pause just long enough to climb, Over the estate wall, a feat sublime. “Will you ever stop chasing a ghost in the air?” You smirk, extending a hand with care. Still my fingers miss; you slip once more, The city’s hum swallows you like before. A rush of voices, a tide of the streets, My steps falter, my lips repeat: “Why do you always leave first?”
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The Paper left in a Drizzle
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 17 hours ago
...See more (Trigger warning - Drowning and Suffocation) The Paper left in a Drizzle “You always smell like rain,” I say. It’s not entirely true. Today, it’s chlorine mixed with soap, something green, maybe cedar, and beneath it, a faint trace of your cologne— the one you wore to fight off summer. You shrug, like you always do, half-smiling, the left corner of your mouth lifting. “You never liked the rain,” you say. “I liked how it clung to you,” I reply, and you laugh, dimples carving the sound into my chest. Your dark hair drips water in uneven rhythms, each drop curling your edges, like paper left in a drizzle. But you don’t push it back like you used to. It glistens against the scar just above your eyebrow— a crooked line carved by childhood and a game of "who’s braver." “Me, always me,” I teased back then. “Sure,” you said, bleeding and grinning. I catch myself staring. “You still look the same,” I tell you, and your brows arch, a small wave rolling across your face. “Liar,” you say, “Didn’t we make a pact against nostalgia?” “I missed you,” I say, though the words come out garbled, wrapped in the heavy weight of the present. “Yeah, you’d better,” you reply, grinning in that crooked way that reminds me of the boy who climbed trees with us, who swung into the azure pond with the biggest splash, But now I see the lines, the new shadows beneath your eyes, the years have etched in quietly, as if you’ve been carrying us both. “He missed you too,” I add casually, my voice edged with that familiar grumble. “He was mad you left. I was too. But it’s okay now. You’re back, aren’t you?” You tilt my head, “I am back.” Your voice wraps around me, a low hum like summer cicadas, a sound that softens the edges of time. Your brown eyes settle on me, warm and certain, like the earth deciding it can bear you forever. “You’re staring again,” you say. “Can’t help it,” I reply with a wide smile. Your fingers trail the edge of my jaw, cool and careful, the way you once touched clay sculptures in your mom’s studio where we snuck in to paint mustaches on them. “I thought you’d forget me,” you admit, soft, as if the current might carry it away. “Never.” The word slips out too fast, my throat catching on the sharp edges of a riptide. You lean closer, your breath brushing my cheek, cooler than it should be. “Breathe,” you whisper in my ear. “Why don’t you ever breathe around me?” I shake my head, tilting it to see the surface above us, a silvery ceiling trembling in waves, just out of reach, my hand raised to hold yours— solid, real, warm as always. “Why didn't you come back sooner?” I ask, the words bubbling up like a last confession. “You’re the one who decides when… the one who keeps coming back,”, Your voice holds something heavy, not anger, not sadness— just the weight of knowing what comes next. The ripples arrive suddenly, shattering the shape of you— that smile, those eyes, the scar I once kissed. And then hands—too hot, burning through my skin, searing me into motion— yanking me upward, dragging me through the surface. Air crashes into me, wild and burning, my lungs clawing at it like it might undo the silence below. I cough, choking on your name, and look up into a face I may or may not know, but it’s not yours, like the first time. It’s never you. It will never be you again.
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🧛‍♀️
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 December 14th
...See more The Vampire With A Painted Face Her face is a locked door, the kind that creaks in empty hallways, paint peeling like a scab. Her lips, stitched shut with shadows, hold no warmth—only the promise of a cold draught when they part. Anger drips from her like leaky pipes, pooling under her feet, smearing the floorboards of every room she haunts. She chews on my kindness like stale bread, spitting out crumbs with a laugh sharp as broken mirrors. Her words are fangs, sunken into the jugular of my patience. Even when I give her roses, she crushes the petals underfoot and tells me the thorns were sharper than her expectations. She walks like a storm cloud, her shadow long and damp, staining my day like spilled blood. The air curdles around her, and even the birds forget to sing. I hand her joy, wrapped in ribbons of goodwill, but she pulls the threads loose, unravelling my efforts into tangled knots. Her thanks? A grimace, a scoff made of cold ashes. Her laughter, when it comes, is a raven’s call in a dead forest— jagged and echoing, feeding on what little life remains. My hatred is the oil in her lantern, burning low and endless. She takes my silence and moulds it into complaints, her voice a draught through cracked windows, always finding a way in. Even when there’s nothing left to break, she presses her hands against the walls, listening for the cracks to widen. And when I dream of her demise, whispering curses into the night, she wears my hate like a funeral veil, smiling—not with her lips, but with the hollow, endless ache of her presence. She stands tall, gloating, her smirk carved like gargoyle stone, head held high as though the weight of disdain only polishes her crown. She looks at me like I am the dirt she refuses to scrape from her boots, like I am the rust on the lock of her unyielding scowl. And you would hate her, too, if you met her. You would despise the way her shadow stretches longer than her frame, the way her disdain curdles the air into something thick and choking. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d hate me more, for telling you this story. For dragging her image into your mind, for pressing her sneer into your dreams. Because at least she has the audacity to hold her head high, to bask in the wreckage she creates. But I? I just bring her to you, Complain about her through a poem in first person, so that makes me worse. Doesn’t it?
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The Angel With Sapphire Tears
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 December 8th
...See more The Angel With Sapphire Tears She would cry— Cry at me, Like sapphires spilling from a broken necklace, Each tear, Clattering against marble floors. She would cry, Saying I caged her And cut off her angel wings, That she was cursed with me, Her fingers, jewelled and cold, Closing around my wrist, Pressing down like the weight of her mind Until I felt the burn of velvet ropes Tightening me, In suffocating softness. Her tears fell like liquid gems, Staining the high-thread-count linens Fraying at the edges, Drenching me With the scent of maternal love gone rancid, Drowning me in the overripe perfume Of her hatred– “You should have died that day.” Other times, Her indifference was like the winter chill, Her eyes cold and still, But when she looked at me, Those eyes were like scorching summer, Hard and unforgiving, Each tear a flawless crystal, Glinting in the light As they carved into my soul— A silent condemnation, Each bearing the weight of a thousand lashes Upon my back. Maybe I should have died that day. Now, I cannot cry– Even when I try To check if I inherited her sapphire tears too But I don't remember how to cry anymore, Though, I remember her tears— Each one, a drop of precious blue As she crushed me Beneath the weight of her fluffy pillows.
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while True: print("I love you")
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 December 8th
...See more Declare love as infinite, Assign the heart as a variable, Set to true. Recursion. I check the conditions— "Has the love looped enough to call it endless?" All the while, love is growing, Looping back into itself With no exit in sight… (Is this a poem? A program? An elaborate pun?... But I’m certain it’s part of my pondering... So, I’ll leave it here <3)
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Icarus
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 December 9th
...See more Icarus I have no regret for wings of fire, Their burning heat, my heart’s desire. The sun, a mirror, far yet kind, A friend, not foe, to a restless mind. What is this earth but shadow’s grace, A hollow throne, a fleeting space? I sought the stars, the endless blue, Where dreams take flight and truth shines through. The sea below, a siren’s cry, Could never chain the will to fly. A mind that breaks the world apart Seeks winds that sing to the yearning heart. They warned of heights, of the price to fall, But dreams rise higher than the fear they call. I kissed the sun, I touched the sky, No chains could hold my soul to lie. The winds spoke words in ancient tone, Of paths untraveled, fate unknown. I’d rather blaze than fade away, To burn is to live, not to decay. Though I fell, I was not undone, The cost of flight so sudden We burn to rise, we rise to fall And in the end, we give our all. No waters claim the flame I bore— I burned, I roared, the price adored. No tears for wings that once soared, I lived, I loved, and dared for more. (PS: I do not own the art. It is "Icarus" by John Singer Sargent)
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Mirror on the Wall
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 November 21st
...See more “It’s just a mirror”, you tell me, Nothing but glass and light. But when I stood there, I saw my hand move— A second too late. “You’re imagining things,” you say. But I know I wasn’t. The reflection didn’t follow, It waited— And now, I’m not so sure Who’s looking at who. “Stop staring at it,” you say. But I can’t. It’s not just glass— There’s something inside, Trapped. I think it’s watching me. “You’re overthinking,” you say. But I know what I saw. It’s not me in there anymore, It’s something waiting to step out.
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Not an Elegy
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 December 10th
...See more Trigger warning - death and funerals “She was always smiling,” Someone murmurs, Eyes glossy as they clutch A bouquet that’s already wilting. I’ve only seen her smile In her wedding photos, Or when she was speaking to a patient, Kindness scripted in her tone. Whispers spread like ripples: “She was so kind,” “so graceful,” Like a river flowing smooth, No stone to stir the current. But I remember something else— The late nights, When she sat on the couch, Fingers trembling, Gripping a glass she never finished, Staring at the wall as if it owed her answers. “She was there for everyone,” Someone says, voice quivering, As if trying to convince themselves. I remember her absence, When I needed her most, The hollow nod she gave, Eyes already elsewhere. They praise her kindness, But forget the little things— The rolled eyes when asked for help, The tight nod, A silent “yes” she didn’t mean. “She gave her all,” Someone says, and I almost laugh. Who really gives their all? Maybe she did, That is why she had nothing left for us. I remember how she’d disappear Into her office, Slamming drawers, Pretending to be busy So she didn’t have to face What she was running from. “She was an angel,” Someone whispers, And I wonder, Which angels muffled pillows Over faces? Which version of her do they remember— The one who could barely see other’s pain, Or the one who’d burn to ash If she stepped into a church? And now I look for smoke rising. “She had a heart of gold,” Someone chokes out, Eyes darting around the room As though the truth is hiding Beneath the chairs, Between the flowers. Though I agree. I remember her solid and cold, How she could stand next to you And still make you feel Like a stranger. We didn’t deserve it. But, here we gather to mourn The saint she never was, To sing her praises Like a melody we never knew how to hum. If she were alive,  She would’ve sung it better than the choir, Played the piano too, Critiqued on the decor, And ordered me to look more distraught. But none of that matters now. So here’s to the quiet saint, The one who never asked for anything, Except to be seen as perfect, And she pulled it off Until the very end. Good for her! Bring the award for this philanthropist Or reserve six feet for her In the Elysian fields. Rest in peace-- We say goodbye To the woman We wanted her to be. I hope the afterlife brings you ease.
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