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Poetry Thread

I won a 6th Grade poetry contest so I guess you could say I'm a poetry god.

As the beautiful dress
Is stripped from her wearer,
Left is a shell,
A husk,
A hideous array of cold nothingness.

The tranquil symmetry is lost in the sun,
Skies clearing, yet leaving clouds below.

Why must mother nature's calmness be lost,
In her own stupidity, and as life is restored,
So is the waste of all that is beautiful.

A flood, a deluge, a tsunami,
Of the hideous resurrection.
 
I laid face down in an abandoned cavern
Not an isolationist, no, but also not one who was willing to depart my realm
The world was a scary place, full of people
Call me a madman, but I call the world outside madder

A mindset birthed through the couple of fear and apprehension spawned
Grew up on the playground of judgement
Like a toy a child no longer favored, the social outcast I was never saw the light of day
Set to spend my days in the depths of this cave, never to see the light of day again
Why depart my realm when I can remain without any risk, I ponder
My whole life encompassed by some childish comfort zone
I could not socialize, no I could make a fool of myself
I could not drive, no I could hurt someone
I could not go out, no I would end up alone
I could not make new friends, no they wouldn't like me eventually anyway
And I could not go anywhere

While a cavern has no doors, my brain pictured a steel wall enclosing the cave from the outside world
So there I laid, destined to perish alone and unaccompanied, but at least I was comfortable
One day, a strong individual fought through my mental wall of steel
She reached a caring hand out and led me to a new area, unfamiliar grounds
When I reached the light, I shielded my eyes
She swatted my arm away, had me take a clear look
When I saw another, I grew stiff and silent
She forced words out of my mouth
And so it began, the great departure from cave dwelling to actually living
The comfort zone became a thing of the past

Once, I strived to survive
Now, I strive to live

A storm cloud from the direction of the cavern danced overhead
Ominous in color and large in size, it appeared threatening
I found shelter and stayed for a while
Once it left, I came back out only to see that she had left
The world grew dark and cruel quick
The cave seemed to be an easy crutch
But I did not want comfort
I did not want isolation
I did not want to be alive
I desired more.
And so aspirations grew into goals
And my own life took off, in my own hands
 
I wrote this about a month ago in about 20 minutes when I was bored in class. I have considered using this for scholarship competitions so have checked for plagiarism and all so thought I'd share my terrible writing, so here goes even though I suck:
Prophecy of the Raven
Thump, thump, thump, thump
Hearts beat to the tremble of a lost mind
To foster the waves of phantom fullness
O’ what a lie, caught up in the madness
Of a long lost chaos, a liberty oh so far
From what we once called the inner home of freedom
I start to watch the raven so eerily sitting on the tree, out of real curiosity
Of the dark prophecy He proclaims so clearly, quote of His darkness
“Ye shall fall, ye shall bow, ye shall hear the three night owls”
The owls He speaks of are a fright to me, as I see so clearly now what He Has seen all along, we are in the dark and are caught in an eternal pillory pending our heed
Fear, anguish, the agony of uncertainty
Hail! Hail the raven for His prophetic warning
As we are a lost people, searching in the dark for the light of peace
One who went dim many a score ago
One which is buried under the withheld mercy from our higher power
Mercy of which He knows of, but not of
Mercy of which He sees, but He is blind
Mercy of which He holds, but cannot pour out on this land
For we are in an abyss the raven warned of, we fell in and bowed
To a power below the world, and to it, we vowed
“To ye, we surrender, one and us all, to no higher power can we still call,
For ye is the author, of our saving grace, we betray thy prophet, we bring the end of days”
The darkness heard, and for days we sat in a dark winter
Screaming for our salvation to the deity we thought was high,
Yet He trembles upon hearing this
As He fears our knowledge, lest we discover
His true intentions, bellowing like a dark noise
Falling down upon us in the night,
As a curtain, iron and heavy we o’ so fear thy might
Hail! Hail the aura of what we once knew
The aura of a messiah we once held dear
Whom now fears the rennaissance of learning
Whom fears the candle in the night
Whom is in awe of the truth that He knows not of
For He is oh so deeply veiled in His iniquity
Of heresy, never ending lies
Of delusion, of dubiety
I turn to my thoughts, oh could I be astray?
Has this prophet led me to paradise
Or to only disarray?
I weep
I weep for all of our kingdom, shrouded in doubt
Due to one conceited savior, all consumed
In His own false shouts
Do we know the truth
Or is chicancery about?
Do we know the light
Or is darkness all we tout?
Here and now in this turmoil, we are trapped
As if in a raging tornado
A vortex of never ending fear
A fear of our coming doom
Our coming descent into a dark purgatory
Opened by the illusion of light,
In the darkness of a false messiah
I see the vision in this moment, my heart races
For it is now I know, the end is nigh
The raven, most high, proclaims
“Ye betrayed me thrice, ye conceited serpent, for now I shall deliver you to your fire of destiny”
I shake in concern at His prophecy, knowing his error but not His way
Knowing His voice but not his mind
Who am I to discern His word?
Who am I to discern
When as a disciple of the true God
I still fell to thy stroke of the raven’s darkness
Was bound by the chains of His apocalyptic decree
But now I break
Now! I call
Now! I pray
Now! I know
The truth of my world
Of the true Him, Jesus
Our savior, our true Messiah of this broken kingdom
Of ancient seas, of bleak caves
For now He comes, us all He shall save
I see the raven, I have heard his cries
But His eery prophecy
I hereby, deny.
 
There's a creature living inside me, it resides deep within.
My heart is pure and my conscience free of sin
yet there's a creature living inside, rotten to the core
And with every breath I take, it strengthens a little bit more

He’s always active day and night,
Plotting, twisting, laughing, threatening to bite.
Filling my head with doubts, feeding me lies
Till my head rings out with its sinister cries.

There's a devil living inside me, I swear it’s not who I am
I tell it to stop always but it doesn’t give a damn
I love you dearly, but wish for your demise
The creature living inside me won’t be satisfied till everything dies.

I don’t think I'm evil, I rather think I'm good
But there's a devil inside me, like a stalker in the woods
When you see me laughing, I'm laughing just to keep from crying
With every breath I take, I feel like I'm dying

There's a beast living inside me, It rises to the top
No matter how much I yell, it will never stop
Destructive, horrific, chaotically immoral
Always hungry for disorder and quarrel

I can fake sanity, I can easily pass a test
But with this monster living inside me, it may not be best
Yet I put on a guise, smile and go about my way
Losing myself with the people who I may kill one day

There's something living inside me, something I really can't explain
I carry it around all day as it has become my bane
I like to think I'm good, but I don’t know any more
For there's a fiend living inside me, threatening to rise to the fore

You think you know me, you don’t know a thing
My sense of self is nearly severed, hanging by a string
For there's a creature living inside me, residing deep within
Urging me on, for it grows strong on my sin

I wish to die, to spare the world the horror which it will bring
But I every time I try, I can never do the thing
I'm too selfish, I love this life too much
And onto hope, I desperately grasp and clutch.

I know it’s no use. I've known it for a while now.
I try to hate myself, but the creature won’t allow
It’s gleeful, freed, brought to the brink
Beneath its might, I start to shrink….

I believe I am insane now. The world certainly seems less gray.
It’s all black and white now, all that I have and will slay.
The ground is filthy, dirty, with the blood that victims bled
The world is my canvas, and with my brush…I paint it red.

There's someone living inside me, I hear her scream and plea
It’s what’s left of who I was, of the person I used to be
I cut her off, silence her, for I don’t like to be disturbed
I am the creature now, and my blood lust will never, ever be curbed.
 
someone's poem from an irl poetry group, and it exists bc it's almost (valentines!) tuesday, anyway hope you guys like it

when two hands meet the heart soon inflates with a helium-like sort of happiness
it rises
and rises
and rises,
but
like a balloon prematurely burst it is
heaviest
when empty.

- precaution to floating
 
Ah, great thread! I've dabbled in poetry before, but haven't been practicing or creating any new works lately. I should definitely get back into it some time, since it would be a fantastic learning experience. Here's a couple of mine:

Flip flap, flip flap, the butterfly flies,
Up and up, into the skies.
Released from his organic prison,
He has arisen!

Flashes of bold black and bright yellow,
What a beautiful fellow.
Fragments line his wing span,
Polka dots of the lightest tan.

The specimen flew through the air,
And the wind brought its brawn to bear.
Despite this valiant force
The Swallowtail fought through and came upon a delectable source.

A single cluster of perfect penta,
Of the deepest magenta.
The flowers swayed harshly in the wind,
But they stood firmly with a bind.

The butterfly struggled to make it to the blossoming bud,
But finally landed on it with hardly a thud.
Laying down on a petal,
He waits for the wind to settle.

When the wind ceased its gusts and blows,
The Swallowtail arose,
And crawled towards the nearest flower,
And stuck his tongue in the stigma and began to devour.

When he had his full of sweet, sweet nectar,
And the sun receded and the moon became a projector,
He took off into flight,
To find a shelter to endure the night.

The cold night air nipped at his wings,
But he persevered, no matter how much it stings.
His efforts did not go unrewarded,
For he came upon a wooden shack that was quite sordid.

Cutting through the black murk,
He landed daintily near the shoddy woodwork.
The miserable structure sat near the edge of the plain,
A few rocks surround it, eroded from rain.

The butterfly fluttered over to a small cluster,
To find a resting place that was not lackluster.
Searching and scanning for a crevice or a crack,
He found the former that was pitch black.

Approaching the entrance of the narrow, damp slit,
He crawled through with grit.
Once safely secure inside the rock and rubble,
He became inactive to prepare for a new day and new trouble.

When the sun's nosy rays finally peeked into the Swallowtail's hole,
He shook his wings and wriggled out like a mole.
The wind was blowing hard outside, yet the butterfly stood stout.
And he took off in a new direction without a doubt.

Murky city, both sky and ground,
Smog that is so profound.
A land of cement and asphalt,
The earth underneath showing its faults.


A man, with dirty debilitated wear,
Lumbered out onto the street, going who knows where.
Having only one goal in mind,
Sat himself down on a street corner and began the grind.


Pulling a tin can out of his torn coat,
He also tweaked his guitar and played a note.
No vocals, his throat too dry,
A purely instrumental piece, one that will hopefully rectify.

Strumming the strings, he watched people walk by,
Few stopping to listen, most turned a blind eye.
He was losing hope, before someone sprinkled a few coins into the can,
He smiled; he may be able to enact his plan.

Hours passed, he had gained two bucks,
But he had not yet hit the crux.
Feeling tired, his playing grower slow,
He put down the instrument, rested and laid low.

He looked to the sky, the afternoon drawing to a close,
He picked up the tin can and jiggled it at anybody in sight, trying to get the most.
Nobody paid him any mind, and he looked down into the can, mostly air,
The money would buy him something, but not something that was fair.

Before the sun was replaced by the moon,
Before night replaced the afternoon,
He went to the nearest grocery store,
To get something to eat before receding to his hideaway to feast and to snore.
 
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Something I wrote for my creative writing class. To give you a bit of context, I'm writing a fantasy novel at the moment, and it's the oath taken by the antagonist team before a battle. It's simply called The Oath.

I was once alone in this dreadful place
I was once nothing more than my face
I was a boy / girl who thought of no one but me
I was a boy / girl who could never be free
I was nothing before I found you

I am the hammer that knocks in the nail
I am the weapon that shall never fail
I am the one come to fix the past
I am the meal to break the world’s fast
I am someone now I’ve found you

I will strive to be above the rest
I will fight until my heart stops in my chest
I will be the world’s leading light
I will be the sun to cut through the night
I will lay down my life for you
 
I think there was another thread about this but not for just poetry. I've been writing poetry/short stories since I was a little kid. Growing up, it was a form of expression and release and from time to time I'll draw up enough inspiration to write more. I really like the beauty of short simple unfinished work. Most of what i'm going to share are unfinished dumps of small thoughts I've had years ago (Literally went on my Tumblr today and found them) Looking back at now is nostalgic because the person I was years ago isn't a fraction of the person I am today. Hope you enjoy!

"I’m not knowledgeable to the reason
as to why fireworks light up inside me
only when I’m exchanging words with you
But never with another. Never with another

"Like the glistening stars
embraced by the inconspicuous God
my soul is in the arms of inconspicuous love"

Something I posted on Hellopoetry]
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/457479/is-there-a-heaven-for-me/
 
I was in an extremely deep depression 2-3 years ago. I still read this from time to time to see how far I've come.

I grew to hate the surface,
With its monotony and its emptiness.
I grew to despise the sun,
that constant and fickle provider and destroyer,
as it seared my skin and evaporated my companions before my eyes,
and sapped my mind as punishment for my own helplessness.
Drained, I withdrew into my own depths.

The benign horror coaxed me slowly down,
feeding on my final sparks of curiosity and emotion,
its charismatic appendages looping round and round my hysterical mind
soothing me into resignation, no longer caring what I saw or felt,
or how my lungs burned and my skin prickled,
protesting their asphyxiation as I descended.
I knew that to soothe the screaming animal would be an exercise in futility.

No longer thinking, or caring for rhyme or reason, I sank to join the monster,
ignoring that it was the one that so ingeniously concocted my pain.
Silently down I drifted,
lilting and listing with the dynamic subtleties of apathy.
As I reached the silent black bottom of the brine below,
the volcanic hotbed of adrenaline began to boil me alive
and the pressure from being seven miles down compressed my soul into nothing
and threatened to blast my entrails gloriously out of my ears.

These sensations and my own queer convection,
the roiling, superheated cycles and writhing seismic convulsions,
those unseen fireworks that are the core of one’s unknown being,
batted about my limp corpus like a cat’s toy,
tantalizing me with the closeness of the cold, dark peace that I so desired,
a desire that constituted the only distinction between me
and the void I wished to quietly fade into, to create a true nothing.

It would not be empty, this nothing, as there would be nothing to fill.
My decaying world was empty; the next would be nothing.
Gentle nothing, quiet nothing, peaceful nothing, uncaring nothing,
Let me be free with my nothing nothing,
let there be no me as I am nothing nothing,
HAIL the coming of the true nothing,
let the nothing inside me free, that it may join its fellow nothing,
let nothing rejoice in my return to nothing,
as my family of nothing invites me back into its nothing,
welcomes me home from my fight against thingliness,
a war not for peace or for victory, but for nothing.

Caring little for the madness of desiring nothing, I drifted indifferently through the black,
and slowly forgot about the searing, hardhearted sun,
the quite, compassionate moon,
and the lazily rolling, rhythmic wavelength of life.
 
This is interesting. Very interesting.
I love writing, both in French and English, and I'd like to write some poetry in the near future if I could just stop being lazy and running a million projects at the same time.
Would covers of game soundtracks (namely, Ace Attorney soundtracks) count as such ? I swear it rhymes and stuff.
Also wondering if there's a Writing subforum somewhere around here.
 
So I've stopped posting here or on my writing thread since I'm more focusing on getting my poetry seen by a larger community, so I've started up an Instagram account dedicated for my spoken words PM me if you want the account name. Anyways, here's one of my new poems that I wrote 2 weeks ago.

Unopened letters are the only kind of letters,
That are tainted with so much errors,
When every single word screams sorry,
A voice filled with agony and sorrow,
Unopened letters are like space,
No matter how violent are the words,
There will always be this perpetual state of silence’s grace,
Broken chants of these hummingbirds,
Singing for love and a calm mind,
Replaced by crows breaking all the harmony,
Like a heart so blind,
With no armory,
Trying to follow the other lead,
But these crows keep on intoning shattered hums,
Insanity asking for a plead,
As thoughts transform to guns,
Late night sleeping turns into late night torturing,
As these crows keep on plucking,
Painful wounds portraying a state of mind,
Soft breeze of the wind,
Washing away the debris,
Of this catacomb that is called a body,
A sweet hum so serene,
As the scenes becomes foggy,
Vultures benefiting from this massacre,
Take away with you some unopened letter,
Because the only reason they are unopened,
Is because I was afraid to send them.

Hope you still like my style. :p
 
Funny but kinda racist poem i wrote:

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a (BAN ME PLEASE).

Thoughts?
 
If anyone is into artists that use Spoken Words, September Stories just released a new album last week and these lyrics hurt and are amazing. September Stories have turned into one of my favorites Spoken Words artists, after Hotel Books. The former speaks in a happier tune with sad lyrics but it still hurts while the latter is just sadness overload. If you haven't checked both of them, please do. Also here's my favorite songs on the album.

If you want to listen to the full album, it's uploaded on their youtube channel, which can be found here.
 
Merely Memories
And yet they plague us
Ghostly visions, reminders, regrets
Move On.

One Change
Like a Time Machine
Never change a single Thing my friend
Yet, Butterflies.

The Present
Named as if a Gift
Live for yourself and for those around you
Be Happy.
That one turned weirdly motivational at the end lol

Also here are a few haiku:
First, for Finch:

They rest above him
Sturdy, thick nests of wonder
Don't shave the eyebrows

Next, one about writing haiku:

It's 5 / 7 / 5
So simple yet so complex
They don't have to rhyme

One you can guess:

Madness of the mind
The twine and needle of it
May mend or impale
 
less so a poem and more so a stream of consciousness but wutevz

cw: self harm / depression

I wish depression worked the way it does in movies.

I wish that the Hollywood facsimile of mental illness we're exposed to time and time again was all that it was--this solvable, beatable sickness. I wish my depression gave me an attractive air of melancholy rather than making it almost impossible for me to do basic things. I wish that I didn't have such trepidation showering in the morning because I don’t want to walk by a mirror and be exposed to what my brain determines is a disgusting, insufficient human being.

I wish my depression inspired me to write poignant verses about existential pain and ennui. Instead, it fills my brain with an impenetrable fog that robs me of the only skill of mine I've ever had any cause to be proud of, making me feel even more useless than before.

I wish my depression made me brooding and handsome rather than neurotic and insecure and constantly sure that everybody I love thinks I'm worthless. I wish my depression could be cured through true love or sunshine or finding my calling in life, because I've tried all those things and I'm still as empty as before. I wish that I was able to successfully defeat it with tablets instead of having dealt with their miserable side-effects, because feeling unlike yourself all the time is supposed to be better than the alternative.

Depression is a vile thing that lives in my brain, a cancer eating me alive from the inside out, and there is nothing I can do to stop it, only slow it down. It is a thing one fights with doctors and pills and support groups and oneself with the sure and certain knowledge that it will win anyway. Depression is an upward slope with no peak in sight. People talk about a battle, a struggle, like it's something that can be beaten, like there is anything brave or noble or heroic about it, like it is anything other than sick and twisted and ugly; something that corrupts everything it touches. If this is a fight, it is against a vastly superior, better-equipped enemy: a fight against impossible odds. If this is a fight, I'm losing. If this is a fight, I've lost.

I wish depression worked like it does in movies. Instead, it is the reason I sometimes lie in bed for six, eight, twelve hours at a time just mindlessly staring at the ceiling, unable to get up even though I'm hungry and haven't eaten in days, even though I know I'd feel better if I read a book or took a shower or did quite literally anything at all. There's something very uniquely dehumanising about spending an entire six hours thinking to yourself, "my laptop is right next to me, I could open it and watch Netflix until I feel better," but being unable to do even that because the fog is so thick you've forgotten how to make your muscles work. It feels like being trapped within your body. It feels like being subhuman. It feels like not being alive.

I wish my depression made me the dashing, albeit pale hero of a novel about star-crossed lovers or sparkling vampires, but it doesn't—it makes me violently angry, makes want to tear the skin off my own body because I am so repulsed with everything about myself and feel like I deserve to be punished for existing; makes me want to get into a car in the middle of the night and drive it off a cliff because it feels the world would be a better place without me; makes me want to destroy every personal relationship I've ever built because I feel I don't deserve love or affection or attention or happiness or humanity. Depression tells me, over and over and over again in the voices of everyone I've ever known and loved and wanted to love me back, that there is nothing redeemable about me, not one thing; that the only thing I can do to improve the world is take myself out of it. It tells me that every minute of every day and I'm somehow meant to find the strength to ignore it. I cannot think of anything more cruel and tantalising than that.

Depression is a death sentence, slow and painful and impossible to escape. The day I was told I was clinically depressed, I heard the cell door clanging shut behind me and knew I would never be free of this. I have known for quite some time that this would be the thing that kills me. They say we have biological clocks inside of us. This is mine: a ticking in the back of my head even when I'm happy, even on my best days, even when life is good, reminding me that there is a cancer inside of me, eating me alive from the inside out, and that one day there will be nothing left for it to devour, no good or bright or beautiful thing left for it to take, and that will be the end of me, an entire lifetime of pain too late.

It'll drive me mad one day, probably.
It's driving me mad, probably.
It's driven me mad, probably.

Everyone dies and everyone is dying and I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm feeling sorry for myself. I don't feel sorry for myself at all, because part of being depressed is being absolutely certain that there must have been something you did, some inherent defect of the self, to make you deserving of this. I dream of finding mine and gouging it out of me, excising it like one does a tumour, a clean cut of the scalpel, making sure to get every last bit around the edges so that it can never grow back. But I know that will never happen, because the truth is that depression isn't a tumour—it's toxin spreading through my veins with every beat of my heart, and the only way to end it is to make my heart stop.

I wish depression worked the way it does in movies. I wish I could write this without knowing that it will make people a little more fearful, a little more distant, a little more disgusted than they already are. I wish depression was turning your pain into art and sad songs making sense, but it's not; it's a life where there are no sad songs because there is no music at all, nothing beautiful, nothing poignant, no soul to anything. Depression is soullessness. Depression is the absence of anything other than absence. Depression is an immeasurable abyss that you can't see the bottom of. Depression is a cancer eating me alive from the inside out, reducing me to nothing.

I wish depression worked the way it does in the movies.
 
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I'm not such a great poet. Usually I write poems when I'm depressed. This is one I wrote after my mother constantly refused to buy me a smartphone (still don't have one and I'm still stuck with a '90s phone my mom gave me 8 years ago).
One of my friends suggested I should post this somewhere online. So I decided to post it here.

Alone like a baby bird sitting under his nest
Waiting for his mother, to get a good rest
No friends around with whom he can tell
His stories about how from the nest he fell.

I wait for a call, a message, a reply
But in the end, I sit and cry
I try to forget this problem in life
But it's impossible to end this horrible strife.

I count the number of friends I've got
"My, oh my! That is a lot."
But what's the use if they do not
Prevent you from letting you rot.

And thus is my life without a smartphone
I sit at home.....all alone
The digital world is a curse in my life
I ask for a dagger, a blade, or a knife.
 
What is love unrequited?
Drinking enough scotch to swim through your thoughts,
Only to find a friendly face in every break of the waves uninvited.
I see her in my sleep and when I close my eyes,
Still I see her subtle strabismus
Her snaggletooth and get excited.
She has a dimpled nose and if I stare off too long it appears.
Fear not for I am woefully betided,
For in my thoughts...
She's only delighted.
Worry not for I see the error of my ways,
If we should ever be reunited.
 
I haven't done much posting on any forums so far, but I've done my fair share of lurking. However, this thread piqued my interest. Of course, I knew the community was a creative bunch, but I guess I wrongly assumed most of that creativity went to team building, memes, and/or shitposting. I used to write quite a bit of poetry but I haven't had much to write about or felt creative in the last year or two. I would still like to join in on the fun and post a few poems. Warning: my poems tend to contain blatant references to drugs and sex. Hope you all enjoy. I would be happy to hear what everyone thinks.

Her body was wrapped in a tattered American flag
small tattoos scattered across the skin,
the back of her left hand read find me
my hand searched down her thigh and found
the words never again. We flattened underneath
the surreptitious fluidity of pale nostalgia,
legs refused to touch, held back
by the sheer gravity of the past. Oh,
how she feared me, pupils constricted
lips thinned like cut ribbon, breathing inaudibly
sharp like contrasted colors.

I’ve pondered your pallid skin over a morning cigarette,
a cup of black coffee, imagining you as
my sugar, us running across emerald grass
stray blades caught between our toes
and we will drag them into bed
later that night, where your timid smile
raises the hair on my arms
nothing but the smooth sympathy
of beer can fix. Oh, I fear you, too.

Each day I hope your slender silhouette
will wander through my door, over the walls
and slip onto mine, cut the lights out
whispering about the time we
climbed trees on the salty coast of Virginia,
human lighthouses illuminating the coast with the
purity of clandestine love. Waves
beating against the sand, the swooping wind
carrying us back to a small cottage, where
polychromatic dreams moan
over the cries of two past-ridden souls.

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact
moment you fall in love,
isn’t it? Shit, it’s hard to see
love when it’s staring you unblinkingly
in the eye, coffee brown centers
with resolve in them
like the moon,
poor thing idly drifting
around our little planet,
beat to shit and no one ever visiting,
never allowed to touch the surface of the one thing
it has known, wishing to make contact
with an immensity so intense
it pulls the seas back and forth, demanding
attention. The night you were drunk
and we had sex in your room,
broken condom dangling there
like an unworn piece of clothing,
I remember thinking
I love you sitting in silence like
the moon but slightly
different because no matter how
beat to shit or how far
away or how long the wait
I know I’ll get to descend
and touch the surface of the one
thing I know;
maybe that’s the night I knew I loved you.
I remember pain, however, in stark colors
the dress and earrings
my grandmother wore in her
casket, the everlasting orange
of my father’s jumpsuit in prison,
purple and black track-marks on my best friends
arms like stars shining in the dull field in which
we stood – talking about shooting pills,
this is better, that shit took forever to cook –
the fucked up conversations I thought I would
never have sitting comfortably on the edges of my lips
and I’m still here holding on to a syringe like I’ll never use it
still chasing smoke on aluminum foil like
a child rushing after a friend on the playground.
Although all the nights of pursuit blend softly together
to make a blur of gray and plastic like rushed video frames
zooming across a metropolis, those dulled
colors reverberate the most,
but I’m ready for the good colors to come back—
the navy and green dress my girlfriend wears that I love,
the happiness we get from
dying leaves, melted forms of yellow and orange,
the electric blue tint of cigarette
smoke, and maybe even the psychedelicia
of an acid trip.
I’ll get there some day,
because I’m trying to aptly apply the meaning of my grandfather’s
last words to me, “Give em hell”
he rasped from the delicate blue hospital bed,
and so it’s time to stop giving myself hell,
and turn the world colorful again,
giving them hell the entire way.
 
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yesterday
it stormed
my dog reacted viscerally
fear.

in light of this, my family saw red
but this only engendered more darkness
fear.

i thought to myself abt how this interaction isn't so much different
than my own life
the way trauma causes me to perform in
fear.

my beloved companion delilah
was lambasted while she was down
unable to grasp why
fear.

i've the capability to interrogate my body
but despite that
i always resort to the same defense mechanisms
fear.

and what's even more weird is that
people tend to react comparably
confusion espouses anger
because that seems to be the default
when met with
fear.

and there always tends to be
the silent bystander
in this case, it was me
just one comment just one person
can heal someone in
fear.

perhaps it isn't weird
perhaps it's learned
kinda like my scars
the way i'm stuck in the world unable to
reposition and translate my defense mechanisms
stagnant in
fear.

our scars are meant to be beautiful
to show off what we've been through
to act as reminders of our resilience
of our courage, of our strength, our of compassion,
in times of
fear.

i've come to the realisation recently
why all my loved ones seem damaged too
we've weathered the storm of life
our privilege of ignorance has been forsaken
it seems like the most empathetic and loving
of people i've met
have been met with
fear.

but i don't wish this upon everyone
i don't think we have to face it
in its repugnance
to be whole
so i'll act as a reminder
to not be that bystander
to promote empathy, to act against hatred
its origin
to make the world
devoid of
fear.
 
Reasons to live

Hope, even amid suffering,
Rick and Morty season 3,
That tasty Mulan szechuan sauce.
I'm tiny Rick, somebody, please God, help me.
Anybody, I'm slowly decaying in a vat in the garage.

So the story behind this one is I can't actually write decent poetry/am not original. Wubalubadubdub!
 
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