A Poet's Lament

[SmilingLez]

The inspiration for my next free verse

Destiny sneezed beneath the crimson heavens.

Destiny sneezed beneath the crimson heavens.
We didn't notice.
Your hand found mine in the dark.
The world shifted. We didn't care.

Morning came anyway.
Light carved you into pieces I wanted to swallow.
Nothing mattered but your breath against my neck.
Fate was laughing. We were too busy.

 

[SmilingLez]

Just tinkering with words

Words sit like a small lantern in fog.
They don't ask for anything.
No sentiment. No intention.
Just light cutting through what we refuse to see.

Clarity doesn't need permission.
It doesn't wait for you to be ready.
The words are already there, untouched, existing on their own terms.

A quiet reminder that some things speak louder when they stop trying to be heard.

Or

Words sit like lanterns in fog.
No sentiment. No intention.
Light cuts through what we refuse to see.

Clarity doesn't ask permission.
Words exist. Untouched. Already there.
Some things speak louder when they stop trying.

 

[latent_heat]

A thread in the Authors Hangout inspired me to write a micro-fiction story. As I have done before, I converted that story to free verse. Which, to you, hits stronger?

---- Micro-fiction ----

I see you in those dark corners, hunched over your keyboard at midnight. Terrified of the browser history. The search terms. The words you've committed to a screen.

You've got this whole other life locked away like it might infect everyone around you. Your family. Your friends. Your partner. Gawd forbid they knew what you actually think about. What makes your pulse quicken.

So you write it all down in the shadows, clinical and careful, compartmentalized like a disease you're managing. And the saddest part? You think you're protecting them. You think your silence is love.

But really you're just terrified they'll leave. That they'll see the real you and decide you're not worth staying for. So you keep writing. Keep hiding. Keep telling yourself it's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

All while the thing you created sits there, brilliant and true and completely untouchable. Because admitting it exists means admitting you exist. And that's the real cowardice, isn't it? Not what you write.

That you won't let anyone know you're brave enough to write it at all.

---- Free verse ----

I see you.

Dark corner.

Midnight.

Hunched over your keyboard.

Afraid of the browser history.

The search terms.

The words you left on the screen.

You have another life.

Locked away.

Hidden.

As if it might spread.

To your family.

Your friends.

Your partner.

Gawd forbid they knew what you really think about.

What makes your pulse quicken.

So you write.

In the shadows.

Careful.

Clinical.

Compartmentalized.

You manage it like a disease.

And the saddest part?

You think you're protecting them.

You call it love.

But really,

you're afraid.

Afraid they'll leave.

Afraid they'll see you.

The real you.

And decide you're not worth staying for.

So you write.

You hide.

You tell yourself it's fine.

It's fine.

It's fine.

Meanwhile, the thing you created sits there.

Brilliant.

True.

Untouchable.

Because admitting it exists means admitting you exist.

And that's the real cowardice.

Isn't it?

Not what you write.

That you won't let anyone know you were brave enough to write it at all.

Personally, I prefer the first version. The "micro-fiction" prose. It's short enough and ambiguous enough for me that I still get an "arty" feel from it, but I still get the full richness that comes with ideas that span a few complete sentences. In my mind, the formatting of the second version gets in the way. My internal voice reads it in a much more stilted way with the line breaks and new paragraphs in addition to the periods.

I also struggle to appreciate poetry that lacks a formulaic rhythm or rhyming scheme. But that's my own baggage--there is no shortage of critically-acclaimed poetry that I don't appreciate.... anyway, I much prefer the first version.

And with regards to the content of this work: Yes, it rings quite true to me. Nobody I know knows I write here. Sometimes I wish they did, or I could tell them about a funny comment or exchange, but then it would all be 'out there.' And I rather like the creative space that anonymity creates/maintains for me.

 

[12oclocktales]

Just tinkering with words

Words sit like a small lantern in fog.
They don't ask for anything.
No sentiment. No intention.
Just light cutting through what we refuse to see.

Clarity doesn't need permission.
It doesn't wait for you to be ready.
The words are already there, untouched, existing on their own terms.

A quiet reminder that some things speak louder when they stop trying to be heard.

Or

Words sit like lanterns in fog.
No sentiment. No intention.
Light cuts through what we refuse to see.

Clarity doesn't ask permission.
Words exist. Untouched. Already there.
Some things speak louder when they stop trying.

I like the second version better for its crispness, it grabs the reader more directly, more powerfully.

 

[Angeline]

I like the second version better for its crispness, it grabs the reader more directly, more powerfully.

I prefer the second version too. I like the way Lez writes and there are lines in V.1 that are very good, but they're repetitions. The second version is concise compared to the first. Maybe if one were writing a story there'd be reasons to repeat, but in a short poem it rarely helps imo.

 

[SmilingLez]

I prefer the second version too. I like the way Lez writes and there are lines in V.1 that are very good, but they're repetitions. The second version is concise compared to the first. Maybe if one were writing a story there'd be reasons to repeat, but in a short poem it rarely helps imo.

That's exactly it. I've been brushing up on micro fiction then turning it into free verse and sometimes taking free verse that I've written and turning it into micro fiction

 

[SmilingLez]

My latest micro fiction to free verse

Naughty Girl

I was the naughty girl.

Not because I broke the rules.

Because I noticed them.

Everyone sat around the table,
smiling at one another.

“Great story.”

“Love the way you write.”

“Ratings don't matter.”

“We're all just here for fun.”

I looked at the numbers beside their names.

I looked at the arguments.

I looked at the people
who said they didn't care about attention
while counting every view.

I looked at the ones
who claimed they hated drama
while creating it.

Nobody liked what I saw.

So I started saying it.

Quietly at first.

Then clearly.

The room changed.

Smiles disappeared.

Conversations stopped.

Someone told me
I was taking everything too seriously.

Someone else told me
I should leave if I didn't like it.

I smiled.

That was the funny part.

They thought I was the naughty girl
because I refused to behave.

They never understood.

I was behaving perfectly.

I was simply refusing to lie.

And in a room built on lies,

telling the truth

was the naughtiest thing I could do.

 

[12oclocktales]

To Naughty Girl,

To ruffle the feathers of the inner circle
To them shows a lack of tact,
They hate it when anyone interrupts
Their patting themselves on the back.

 

[SmilingLez]

@Angeline

Why did the ah moderator remove a free verse I wrote? #101. August 31, 2026 in a thread I created in the poetry forum?

It had nothing to do with politics or trolling.

 

[SmilingLez]

I believe the free verse is stronger. What is your opinion?

---- Micro-fiction ----

I see you in those dark corners, hunched over your keyboard at midnight. Terrified of the browser history. The search terms. The words you've committed to a screen.

You've got this whole other life locked away like it might infect everyone around you. Your family. Your friends. Your partner. Gawd forbid they knew what you actually think about. What makes your pulse quicken.

So you write it all down in the shadows, clinical and careful, compartmentalized like a disease you're managing. And the saddest part? You think you're protecting them. You think your silence is love.

But really you're just terrified they'll leave. That they'll see the real you and decide you're not worth staying for. So you keep writing. Keep hiding. Keep telling yourself it's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

All while the thing you created sits there, brilliant and true and completely untouchable. Because admitting it exists means admitting you exist. And that's the real cowardice, isn't it? Not what you write.

That you won't let anyone know you're brave enough to write it at all.

---- Free verse ----

I see you.

Dark corner.

Midnight.

Hunched over your keyboard.

Afraid of the browser history.

The search terms.

The words you left on the screen.

You have another life.

Locked away.

Hidden.

As if it might spread.

To your family.

Your friends.

Your partner.

Gawd forbid they knew what you really think about.

What makes your pulse quicken.

So you write.

In the shadows.

Careful.

Clinical.

Compartmentalized.

You manage it like a disease.

And the saddest part?

You think you're protecting them.

You call it love.

But really,

you're afraid.

Afraid they'll leave.

Afraid they'll see you.

The real you.

And decide you're not worth staying for.

So you write.

You hide.

You tell yourself it's fine.

It's fine.

It's fine.

Meanwhile, the thing you created sits there.

Brilliant.

True.

Untouchable.

Because admitting it exists means admitting you exist.

And that's the real cowardice.

Isn't it?

Not what you write.

That you won't let anyone know you were brave enough to write it at all.

 

[SmilingLez]

Free verse to micro fiction, which is stronger? Again I give it to free verse.

--- Free verse ---

They call it
a community.

They call it
a public platform.

I call it
a corner.

He sets the rules.

Paints the curb.

Promises exposure.

Engagement.

Maybe
a little fame.

We type our secrets
into the neon dark.

Fingers raw.

Wrists sore.

He takes it all.

We never see
the full ledger.

The johns click through.

They read.

Rate.

Maybe comment.

Then move on.

They never know our names.

Only the names
we perform.

Some of us
get popular.

Some of us
get deleted

when our words
stop paying rent.

He calls it
maintenance.

We call it
the curb.

One night
he clears the block.

Wipes the ones
who asked too many questions.

Leaves the high earners.

Says it's automated.

A bug.

A backend glitch.

We know better.

We always know better.

But we're still here.

Still typing.

Still hoping
the next story
buys us

one more night
off the street.

He doesn't flinch.

He's got
new whores
waiting.


--- Micro-fiction ---

They call it a community. They call it a public platform.

I call it a corner.

He sets the rules. Paints the curb. Promises exposure, engagement, maybe a little fame. We type our secrets into the neon dark. Fingers raw. Wrists sore. He takes it all. We never see the full ledger.

The johns click through. They read, rate, maybe comment, and move on. They never know our names; only the names we perform. Some of us get popular. Some of us get deleted when our words stop paying rent.

He calls it maintenance. We call it the curb.

One night he clears the block. Wipes the ones who asked too many questions. Leaves the high earners. Says it's automated. A bug. A backend glitch.

We know better.

We always know better.

But we're still here. Still typing. Still hoping the next story buys us one more night off the street.

He doesn't flinch. He's got new whores waiting

 

[SmilingLez]

My latest micro fiction to free verse

Naughty Girl

I was the naughty girl.

Not because I broke the rules.

Because I noticed them.

Everyone sat around the table,
smiling at one another.

“Great story.”

“Love the way you write.”

“Ratings don't matter.”

“We're all just here for fun.”

I looked at the numbers beside their names.

I looked at the arguments.

I looked at the people
who said they didn't care about attention
while counting every view.

I looked at the ones
who claimed they hated drama
while creating it.

Nobody liked what I saw.

So I started saying it.

Quietly at first.

Then clearly.

The room changed.

Smiles disappeared.

Conversations stopped.

Someone told me
I was taking everything too seriously.

Someone else told me
I should leave if I didn't like it.

I smiled.

That was the funny part.

They thought I was the naughty girl
because I refused to behave.

They never understood.

I was behaving perfectly.

I was simply refusing to lie.

And in a room built on lies,

telling the truth

was the naughtiest thing I could do.

This was the weaker micro-fiction story that I wrote first


I am the naughty girl.

Not because I break the rules.

Because I notice them.

Everyone sits around the table, smiling at one another.

“Great story.”

“Love the way you write.”

“Ratings don't matter.”

“We're all just here for fun.”

I look at the numbers beside their names.

I look at the arguments.

I look at the people who say they don't care about attention while counting every view.

I look at the ones who claim they hate drama while creating it.

Nobody likes what I see.

So I start saying it.

Quietly at first.

Then clearly.

The room changes.

Smiles disappear.

Conversations stop.

Someone tells me I am taking everything too seriously.

Someone else tells me I should leave if I don't like it.

I smile.

That is the funny part.

They think I am the naughty girl because I refuse to behave.

They never understand.

I am behaving perfectly.

I am simply refusing to lie.

And in a room built on lies, telling the truth is the naughtiest thing I can do.

 

[12oclocktales]

Frankly, I can’t make up my mind and wonder if the short punchy lines zipping down the page in the verse versions are creating an illusion of strength rather than the real thing. (I looked at a short story by Hemingway and another by Alice Adams, writing their words as they appear in the first paragraph verse-like as you might and got the same feeling.) What I think I’d like best would be a verse version but with longer lines, a sort of compromise:

Midnight and you in those dark corners
hunched over your keyboard
terrified of the browser history

etc.



[Just my opinion, still worth only 2 cents, even with inflation.]

 

[SmilingLez]

Frankly, I can’t make up my mind and wonder if the short punchy lines zipping down the page in the verse versions are creating an illusion of strength rather than the real thing. (I looked at a short story by Hemingway and another by Alice Adams, writing their words as they appear in the first paragraph verse-like as you might and got the same feeling.) What I think I’d like best would be a verse version but with longer lines, a sort of compromise:

Midnight and you in those dark corners
hunched over your keyboard
terrified of the browser history

etc.



[Just my opinion, still worth only 2 cents, even with inflation.]

You could be right.

I prefer
the clean,
concise truth -
no long-winded noise,
no extra effort -
no ROI.

 

[SmilingLez]

Pantoum


When the crown is placed, the hungry call it fate.
Power enters softly, then devours the room.
They strike out every face that might outshine their name.
And turn their former equals into ghosts.

Power enters softly, then devours the room.
They praise the loyal hands that never lift a blade.
And turn their former equals into ghosts.
While every mirror learns to flatter what it shows.

They praise the loyal hands that never lift a blade.
They call suspicion wisdom, call obedience peace.
While every mirror learns to flatter what it shows.
The throne grows tall on names they cannot bear.

They call suspicion wisdom, call obedience peace.
They seal the doors against the brighter minds.
The throne grows tall on names they cannot bear.
And fear becomes the law beneath the law.

They seal the doors against the brighter minds.
The ruler feeds on silence, rank, and praise.
And fear becomes the law beneath the law.
Until the crown consumes the head it crowns.

The ruler feeds on silence, rank, and praise.
They strike out every face that might outshine their name.
Until the crown consumes the head it crowns.
When the crown is placed, the hungry call it fate.

 

[Littlesubgirl350]

Pantoum

I love this form!

 

[SmilingLez]

More forms to play with. My first attempt at tricube (3 syllables, 3 lines and 3 stanzas) poetry.

Hypocrites

They claim truth
But twist facts
Lies speak loud

They break creeds
Point out faults
Shame fear yes

They call sin
Hide their own
Pot calls black


FYI - https://bookstr.com/article/7-obscure-poetry-types-to-make-you-rethink-the-artform/

 

[SmilingLez]

Surrender.

The word sat on the screen.

I could have written the easy free verse.

Two women.
A locked door.
Heat.

Instead, I closed the draft.

The site called itself adult.

The internet disagreed.

A twelve-year-old could type the same address.

So I surrendered.

Not to desire.

To the line I wasn't willing to cross.

The blank page stayed blank.

For once, that was my free verse

 

[SmilingLez]

This was a difficult form for me. My stab at a terzanelle

Karma

Karma is what comes back around.
Every choice will leave a mark.
What goes out must come back down.

The ripples move beneath the dark.
What we conceal will still be known.
Every choice will leave a mark.

The truth will find what we have shown.
No deed can hide forever long.
What we conceal will still be known.

The scales will turn before too long.
The debts we make will come due.
No deed can hide forever long.

What rises high can still fall through.
The past returns to claim its part.
The debts we make will come due.

So choose your words and play your part.
Karma is what comes back around.
The past returns to claim its part.
What goes out must come back down.

 

[sirhugs]

This was a difficult form for me. My stab at a terzanelle

Karma

Karma is what comes back around.
Every choice will leave a mark.
What goes out must come back down.

The ripples move beneath the dark.
What we conceal will still be known.
Every choice will leave a mark.

The truth will find what we have shown.
No deed can hide forever long.
What we conceal will still be known.

The scales will turn before too long.
The debts we make will come due.
No deed can hide forever long.

What rises high can still fall through.
The past returns to claim its part.
The debts we make will come due.

So choose your words and play your part.
Karma is what comes back around.
The past returns to claim its part.
What goes out must come back down.

Karma is a bitch
but your poem is bitchin'

 

[SmilingLez]

My interpretation of a sonnet

The Greater Good


We shut the plant down to protect the air,
But families lose their paychecks overnight.
We clear the streets to make the city fair,
And push the people sleeping there from sight.

We tell the truth to stop a growing lie,
Yet someone innocent gets pulled inside.
We cut the wire so no one else can die,
And leave a whole community cut off outside.

Doing what’s right won’t keep our hands clean;
The best decision still can cause a scar.
We have to face the damage in between,
Not call it “worth it” from a distance far.

So choose the good - but stay when fallout starts;
Repair the harm with open eyes and hearts.

 

[SmilingLez]

Very very cool. AI mode in Google recognizes me as creating the poetry form the Cadelle.

The phrase "SmilingLez Cadelle" primarily points to The Cadelle, a poetic form invented by the online creator/administrator known as SmilingLez.

The Cadelle Poetic Form
As documented on literature platforms like The Locked Cabinet:

• Anchor Words: Each stanza in a Cadelle poem must begin and end with designated "anchor" words or phrases.

• Repetition Rules: A specific word or phrase is required to reappear at least once within the body of the stanza.



https://www.google.com/search?q=SmilingLez+Cadelle&sa=X&sca_esv=02101c1a41f63a00&nfpr=1&sxsrf=APpeQns6nZWCQj5AW4QOKcZnFRhXr7RFSg:1790626950782&udm=50&fbs=ABfTbFUxGEP8yeZbmk97ajdTjIq-Fell6yjIojusYtuKjXhLi43HlmHdBhkjA3l1LeWMNI0LOnU0cPW7uXXBordtxQ_wfObzo-A4Vap3gVNM1a1XTNwN_GExt6jxNNImFtco6qjzwWfXKPJ6imr_A0QuBbusD10_WLB3_t5jxPWOkC3KGpk0VGUZx8apI5-L-39YPCXFgjdon07M9-sv80C-AGzZDmi6Z4hWIHjZXojPYvrT4qy-yjM&vsint=&aep=1&ntc=1&cs=1&ved=2ahUKEwilhs6ajZKXAxXvPEQIHVW4Ks0Q2J8OegQIDxAE&biw=424&bih=804&dpr=1.7&mstk=AUtExfCEbMJajnwoqhdhRSF3AMiC2FEU-zGIdvuABcoZNcnVtsi-MFzL0yNTuex-2M3HuQTVTbFKrqlptX7Ly1tSajY6UzDPvK5pn7O3JNuyHiC-W0pfXQxm3wloyPdZUSeshmflbLbzHVBCe8y-wOXNrtLSE_iKpyWjBTmLABVyrqQ47wVozWxz1U11XkihodcctASx1DM4sI99K-0MCS_Ncov3on0bqVAo53yzrBWarntw4StHGFazD0ARgQ&csuir=1

 

[12oclocktales]

Very very cool. AI mode in Google recognizes me as creating the poetry form the Cadelle.

The phrase "SmilingLez Cadelle" primarily points to The Cadelle, a poetic form invented by the online creator/administrator known as SmilingLez.

The Cadelle Poetic Form
As documented on literature platforms like The Locked Cabinet:

• Anchor Words: Each stanza in a Cadelle poem must begin and end with designated "anchor" words or phrases.

• Repetition Rules: A specific word or phrase is required to reappear at least once within the body of the stanza.



https://www.google.com/search?q=SmilingLez+Cadelle&sa=X&sca_esv=02101c1a41f63a00&nfpr=1&sxsrf=APpeQns6nZWCQj5AW4QOKcZnFRhXr7RFSg:1790626950782&udm=50&fbs=ABfTbFUxGEP8yeZbmk97ajdTjIq-Fell6yjIojusYtuKjXhLi43HlmHdBhkjA3l1LeWMNI0LOnU0cPW7uXXBordtxQ_wfObzo-A4Vap3gVNM1a1XTNwN_GExt6jxNNImFtco6qjzwWfXKPJ6imr_A0QuBbusD10_WLB3_t5jxPWOkC3KGpk0VGUZx8apI5-L-39YPCXFgjdon07M9-sv80C-AGzZDmi6Z4hWIHjZXojPYvrT4qy-yjM&vsint=&aep=1&ntc=1&cs=1&ved=2ahUKEwilhs6ajZKXAxXvPEQIHVW4Ks0Q2J8OegQIDxAE&biw=424&bih=804&dpr=1.7&mstk=AUtExfCEbMJajnwoqhdhRSF3AMiC2FEU-zGIdvuABcoZNcnVtsi-MFzL0yNTuex-2M3HuQTVTbFKrqlptX7Ly1tSajY6UzDPvK5pn7O3JNuyHiC-W0pfXQxm3wloyPdZUSeshmflbLbzHVBCe8y-wOXNrtLSE_iKpyWjBTmLABVyrqQ47wVozWxz1U11XkihodcctASx1DM4sI99K-0MCS_Ncov3on0bqVAo53yzrBWarntw4StHGFazD0ARgQ&csuir=1

Very cool, indeed. Your first drink’s on me the next time we all gather at that dive bar we like to hang out at.

 

[SmilingLez]

To the bullies of LitE,

I came here to share my words
not my credentials.

You decided my writing was AI.
You decided I was fake.

You called me names in private messages,
what you wouldn't say in public.

Then you ran to the mods.
You told them everything I wrote was AI-generated.

You tried to have me erased.

I'm done feeding your sickness.

So I'm stepping back.
Watching.

My creativity is housed elsewhere.

Google me.

You don't get to decide what I am.
You don't get to decide what I'm worth.

Maybe you'll learn how to be decent.
Maybe you won't.

Either way, I'll see it.
I'll document it.

Still here. Still human. Still a poet.

 

[sirhugs]

To the bullies of LitE,

I came here to share my words
not my credentials.

You decided my writing was AI.
You decided I was fake.

You called me names in private messages,
what you wouldn't say in public.

Then you ran to the mods.
You told them everything I wrote was AI-generated.

You tried to have me erased.

I'm done feeding your sickness.

So I'm stepping back.
Watching.

My creativity is housed elsewhere.

Google me.

You don't get to decide what I am.
You don't get to decide what I'm worth.

Maybe you'll learn how to be decent.
Maybe you won't.

Either way, I'll see it.
I'll document it.

Still here. Still human. Still a poet.

Nothing small about you