//Ive always been a little jealous
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i want to learn to look at myself the way i've come to look at the world. i get my breath taken away at the ever-constant, ever-changing sky. feel tears well in my eyes at the distant sound of children's laughter. but i can barely muster a smile at my own reflection. i have learned to love this world. to take the awful and the awe-inspiring and hold it close to my heart. one day, i will find space there for me too. i will wipe my own tears. tuck myself into bed. believe the good things about myself. smile at my reflection and mean it. i will hold myself in my arms, like the crying child i tried so hard not to be, and wonder: how could i have ever wanted to leave you?
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I'm fucking scared of losing myself.
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I don’t usually make posts like this, but I’ve been seeing a lot of anti-intellectual junk lately, and I really think we need to put the word “pretentious” up on a shelf until people learn what it actually means.
It doesn’t describe someone who likes artsy-fartsy deep meaning media. People who are pretentious are fake. They’re posers trying to be sophisticated and unique, not like other girls. They pretend to only like stuff they think will make them sound cool when they talk about it. They want to act like they know something you don’t, and they want attention for it.
By definition, if you genuinely enjoy something, you can’t be pretentious. If it resonates with you, and you analyze it, and you don’t care what people think, that’s the polar opposite, actually. If you love obscure experimental prog music, if you watch underground high concept indie films through English teacher eyes, if you spend hours in a modern art museum reading each piece as a vessel for storytelling, if your backpack’s full of poetry books that inspire you, if you play underrated games that were someone’s passion project, if you have an interest in studying the classics or the masters, you are not pretentious.
Of course, some people just don’t like some stuff, and that’s fine, but that’s not what this is about. Don’t let anti-intellectuals shame you for enjoying things just because your interests are inaccessible to them, because they refuse to be brave and put effort into critical thinking. You’re not stuck up for refusing to overlook the craft of artists.
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I have ants all over my room. They always come in more numbers than the day before.
Sometimes I wake up with the ants crawling up my spine.
Sometimes the ants come to take away the bodies of their compatriots.
I respect them for it, I think. I just wish they would find a different battleground.
I am tired of this slaughter, and so i no longer kill the ants. And so they come in larger, greater numbers than before.
I am afraid of them, in a sense.
Not genuinely, more just a semblance of tired annoyance stemming from my mother.
I have mold growing in a teacup by my bed. I have no desire to wash it. No need to.
My mother is frantic now. So desperately tired. She slams her broom onto the ants. Tells me to do the same.
They are just as tired of dying as I am of killing them.
They work and toil to keep the colony alive.
My mother is like an ant in that sense.
And because she is my mother, I am like her, and so I am an ant.
But my mother has a murderous fury. And I have my father's willfull ignorance. I let rot thrive.
Maybe my mother will tire of my ignorance and she will come to kill the ants in my room. Maybe she will rid me of my teacup. Maybe she will kill every last one of the ants. And becasue she is an ant, and because that makes me an ant,
Maybe she will kill me too.
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Playing The Part | 2.26.24
Note: This is the second poem I've written about this topic in 2 days and I'm realizing now that the reason it's been so hard to write in the past year is because I haven't been writing honestly. I was trying so fucking hard to write love poetry about a guy I wasn't into, and now I'm just speaking my feelings and it's so easy to write again.
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wine glass, empty cans
air maxes and yellow sunglasses
ashtray, cocaine, getting high on the amber wave
kiss her and don't tells, silver tongues, toothache
choke her with a seaview, puff pass and i choked when your smoke got in my eye
bad logic and bad move
those stupid jokes only we know, just act normal
black-and-white film camera, nights like these we’ll remember
you said love was a pretty lie, i will always love you
we held darkness in withheld clouds, i know nobody understands me like you do
you smile at me and say it's time to go, but i don't feel like going home
i would ask, should we just keep driving?
science and edibles, you said grass was a dirty drug
tea with cyborgs, you like to preach with a vodka in your mug
life hacks going viral in the bathroom, i love all the things you know
we stand up tall and beat our chests, jump off the roof, i’m king on a 50-metre road
riot america, we shout some things that we'll regret
you know it’s times like these, passports in footwells, we’re so much happier
hot wax, those songs we wrote, side boob, only we know
you know when i’m with you, hashbrown, egg yolk, i’m so much happier
swimming pool, going deep for the ones who do the same
sit down with a master plan, maple syrup, coffee, pancakes for two
settle in for another heavy one, moka pot, monday, it's all good
waking up to start again, a small concern with how the engine sounds
there's nowhere else that i would rather be
hey you, should we just keep driving?you and me until the end.
Keep Silver Tongues Driving:
mashed lyrics into not-poems, a series (1/?).
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pre(teen)
I’m sorry I hated you for so long. I’m
sorry that I dug your grave with
my bare hands and shoved rocks into your
mouth, shutting up your tongue. I’m sorry I loathed
your innocence, your ignorance. What
little we had. I never comforted you, wishing
you’d disappear, that we died. I’m sorry
no one ever held your hand and that I
wasn’t able to. I’m sorry I blamed you
instead of him. You’re tired and beautiful
and this time I’ll build a better headstone for
you. This time I’ll be everything we wanted.
I’ll leave flowers at your grave every Saturday and
we’ll sit in silence and I won’t tell
you how I’m doing because you already
know. I live in your skin and you
live in mine. Rotting and stitched back
up in the same breath.
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haiku about the end of the year
it’s this time of the year
when you say goodbye
to moments of doubt and anger and tears
don’t let fuckers win
screw them
let’s focus on goodness and light
they will never know these feelings
goodbye bad bad people
✨✨✨✨
once upon a time, in a faraway land
in a small and shitty mall
there was this "luxury" store
and guess what was it called? ****Trend
there was a girl, poppy was her name
she used to work in this place
and oh, it was once her safe space
but not anymore, what a shame
the job was shitty, that's not a lie
her workmates were amazing though
they made her laugh, laughed at her jokes
(she even befriended the new guy)
and then one day no fun, no more
she got the worst news ever
"we are transferring you", the bad bitch witch tells her
"to a different mall, a different store"
the store was far away from poppy's
and her new team couldn't accept her
there was one guy who fucking hated her
she couldn't take it, she wrote her notice
i guess you can say she wrote her way out
but she still had to stay for quite some time
tried to be nice to them, was that a crime?
"i will survive this, without a doubt"
crying sessions in the bathroom
that was poppy's way to cope
but then one day she just said "nope"
new idea, sick leave, BOOM!
who's laughing now? i guess not them
she's gonna have long christmas break
she knows for sure that wasn't a mistake
that's why now she is writing this poem
she also got a new job offer
her teerico merch is on the way
good things are coming, also, hey!
she's taking the job, it starts next year!
she saw in the heights live in koszalin
she met jakub gierszał with her bestie, bel
she wrote her way out of this hell
(maybe one day she will also meet lin?)
here's to new year, here's to the new chapter
here's to uk trip and the eras tour
in poland!
here's to my friends, my moots from foreign land
may poppy's life be full of laughter!
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handing you all some more trauma poetry in the form of a religious metaphor. (none of this is about any flavor of suicidal ideation at all fyi. it's just a metaphor I have yet to understand)
the story of Cain and Abel always kinda fucked me up as a kid and here we are
transcription under the cut
Cain. Abel. Rock.
I am Cain
I am Abel
I am the rock
I am the me that is my brother
I love the me that is my brother
I long to be the me that is my brother
I am the rock that kills me
I am the rock that kills me
I am the rock that kills me
I am the me that uses the rock to kill me
I am the me that is killed by me
I am the me that is used by me to kill me
The me that is jealous spills my blood
The me that is betrayed crashes to the ground
The me that is the rock is motionless at last
I am the Cain that kills Abel
I am the Abel killed by the rock
I am the rock I hold in my hands
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hmm
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Three little dark brown spots set
in a splash of milky light brown
On the palm of my left hand,
I showed to my mother, curious.
She took one look and said: "Dirt."
I felt my heart crushed to powder.
My sister, filled with self-loathing
About her appearance, envious
Of how I never seemed to hate mine.
"I love my big, poofy, wavy hair!"
"You love frizz for some reason."
She lamented her dark eyes,
Told her I always liked mine,
They reminded me of black tea—
A deep, reddish-brown; tea-coloured.
She looked closely at my eyes; "Dirt."
I felt my heart crushed to powder.
I never stopped loving my hair or my eyes!
I just loved them less: sad, hateful things.
Returning after prayer in medical school,
Lashes still too wet for my glasses,
I stepped into my sunny lecture room,
My late friend (one of only two) cried:
"You have light brown eyes! Your glasses
Hide them–destroy them." Like a poem!
Once, I sat on my bed, in the sunlight.
Mama insisted on open windows,
I like morning light, but not mid-day heat.
So I always closed them at noon—
I sat in the sun, mama stood in the door
She hurriedly called my dad over to see.
"Look, in the sun, her hair looks golden!"
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didn’t expect the anne carson post to get notes but now that it has i myself am the recipient of bad takes. horrible
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If I'm going to feel this way for the rest of my life I'd rather not live at all.
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The HORROR of hearing your little five-year-old voice singing awkwardly along to a pristine backing track because your dad was just dying to shove you in front of a mic and produce a song as soon as you could enunciate words semi-intelligibly.
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sometimes.
most of the time i’m okay when i’m around you.
most of the time i’m me and i’m myself.
most of the time we are just two friends laughing together.
but there are sometimes.
sometimes my dysphoria takes over.
and i become a different person.
and it makes me hate you.
it makes me hate your voice and your muscles and your jokes and your laugh and everything else in between.
it makes me angry.
it makes me feel robbed.
because that should be me.
that should be me.
i should have the flat chest and the deep voice and the boyish charm and the strong muscles.
i should be roughhousing with our other roommates.
i should be making sex jokes at you all too.
but instead it isn’t.
and instead i’m me.
sometimes i get enraged.
and i want to scream and cry.
i want to throw myself at the cold hard ground until i look bloodied and beat up and you can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl you’re looking at.
i want to rip the guitar out of your hands and smash it over your head.
i want to punch you and scream and yell because you have everything i want.
and it isn’t fair.
and when these sometimes happen, i feel so guilty afterwards that i can barely look you in the eye.
it isn’t your fault.
it’s not your fault i was born wrong.
but during these sometimes it sure does feel like it.
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