๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฒ ๐ง๐จ๐ฐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ง ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ง๐ค ๐จ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ฌ๐ญ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ ๐ก๐๐ฏ๐ ๐๐๐๐ง, ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐ข๐โ๐ฌ. ๐๐จ ๐ฆ๐๐ญ๐ญ๐๐ซ ๐ก๐จ๐ฐ ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐๐ก ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ฌ๐ค๐ข๐ง ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐๐ก๐๐ฌ, ๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐ฅ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ซ๐ฒ ๐๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ข๐ญ ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ง๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐ฅ๐๐ญ ๐ข๐ญ ๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐จ๐ง ๐๐ง๐ฒ๐๐จ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ฅ๐ฌ๐.
excerpts from a book Iโll never write
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This is why I donโt love
Itโs taken for granted
I give it away to the wrong people
Itโs never returned how I give it
Iโve given you all the love I had
And you took a shit on it
It wasnโt important to you
I wasnโt important to you
This is why I donโt love
Youโve dug such a deep black hole in my heart and I canโt see and I canโt climb out, now Iโm stuck there with you.
All the patching Iโve done has turned out to be for nothing because youโve destroyed it again
Now here I sit back where I began. Back where Iโm putting every tiny piece of myself together, undoing what someone else broke to pieces.
This is why I donโt love
Please leave, put us out of our misery
End it so we can move on
Kill it so we can rebirth apart
Walk away and let it die
Put this to rest so we can rest in peace
Let me go because I love too hard to let you go
This is why I donโt love.
Every time itโs a lesson
A mistake
A โwish I would have ran the other wayโ
A regret
A bad time in my life
Something I should have avoided and would of if I had only known
This is why I donโt love
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My love
My heartbreak
My person
When you left
My creativity left to
It's hard writing now ,love
You were my muse
Now what do I do
The pages are empty
No words in my head
How do I write without you
You are my inspiration
My love
My heart
My person
My muse
my bloody life<3
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I am not me.โฅ๏ธโก
I will never be able to write something original, something new, something that has never been created.
I lack skills, I lack sincerity, I lack everything that should just make me, me.
I have no empathy, I lack compassion.
I fear I may no longer be human with how I stand and look out to the world.
I fear, that I. Even I will never be an original, never something new. That even my bones, my humanity, are stolen.ย
I will never be the art or even the artist.
I am no van Gogh, and I am no Picasso.ย
I am not even me.
โ Oresteiaโฆโก
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I used to be scared to post my work, especially my poetry, because poetry has never been my strongest workโ I will be dead honest in saying that I wasnโt even interested in writing poetry, because when I think of poetry, I think of Shakespearen sonnets with quartrains and couplets, and then I think that Iโm not that talented to write like that. Especially when you take into consideration all the parts of English that are used like metaphors and similes and contrasts, like no way am I that smart.
But, I recently met a guy who writes poetry and he opened my eyes to see that poetry is art and art is very subjective. It doesnโt have to be a certain way. Also, art is a way of expressing yourself and you can never be wrong is expressing yourself, because who else is better at expressing you than yourself.
And if someone does harshly criticise my work, that makes two of us. At the end of the day, I am my biggest critic, because I am never happy with the way my work comes out. I am always upset that it starts off wonderfully, but I donโt know how to end it. That I didnโt use enough parts of speech to make it a proper poem. Eccetera.
I just have to accept what is my best and learn to improve overtime.
โ PE. 10.03.24
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If every time
I thought of your name
a star fell for you
The sky would be empty
In mere hours
And when all the stars
Fell from the sky
I'd pick them back up
and use them to fill your eyes
You are more lovely
than any star
spinning, falling, or otherwise brilliant
you are the brightest star in the sky
and I hope you never lose your shine
I am enthralled by your words
Your thoughts drown me
in the most wondrous feeling
Floating amongst the stars
I have never felt more at home
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Bystander
Last year, there was a senior who caught my eye
A tall girl with bleached ends and painted dark lips
Thin brows but thick eyeliner
An expression that teased hundreds of secrets
Talked about wanting nails but always chewed on the ones she had
Laughed a lot with the girl seated next to her and rarely smiled at anyone else
I never knew more than her name and the face of her boyfriend
I wondered why out of the many boys, she'd chose one who looks like any other plain boy
A boy with no real power but lets you know that if he did, you'd never see the light of day again
A boy that cares nothing for the feeling of a girl, only what he can take from her
A boy whose first reflex when he gets you away from your friends is to slap you
I sat in my parents' car, watching and asking myself over and over again
Why, beautiful girl, did you choose him?
Even I know I wouldn't deserve you
But did you not think you could do better?
Were you taught to be quiet, too?
I should've asked at some point
After graduation, I never saw her again
But in my mind, she's walking in a field of flowers,
She's smiling and laughing with that friend who, like me, always watched from the sidelinesโฆ
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Like A Painting - ๊ทธ๋ฆผ์ฒ๋ผ
A/N: I wrote this a year ago.. the reason why there is a korean title attached here as well is becauseโฆ wellโฆ the inspiration behind this poem was actually the saying ๊ทธ๋ฆผ์ฒ๋ผ.. a phrase used often when someone gazes upon something of beauty.. anyways.. anyhow.. happy womenโs day.. I hope you enjoy
She refuses to accumulate deep within her a child
Youโll regret it, they start with
What are you without your womb, they end indirectly with
What am I without myself, she thinks
For as she buttons up her skin and rises above their heads
She realises
Theyโll never see her as the woman with wings as her reflection speaks
On the ground, in their convoluted minds sheโll always be
But what can a few convulsions and conversations of the what-nots and what-ifs not fix
And even if stagnant on the ground she remains
Standing is a feat that she can always beat herself to
And in that way
Sheโll never be below them
For, even if she has to crawl her way back up
She refuses to lay lifeless on the ground
Sheโs been doing it for quite too long
After a while, you get weary and tired of doing anything
So, imagine not doing anything,
So, imagine being nothing but a pretty caricature on the walls
Imagine
Imagine how paralysing it would be for a human to stay still and play pretend
As a painting
As a picture
As an ideal
Her whole life she was expected to play a role
The altruistic mother who cradles her child to sleep,
The elder sister who stands as still as a mountain for her family to reach the sky
The deligent coworker who gets pushed aside despite building empires with her bare hands
But seasons come and go
And change is good for the heart
Therefore, she refuses to stick to the ground
Therefore, she refuses
No..
Therefore, she clearly will not be sticking to the strange principles that have been injected into her head
Itโs all she has known
That was what she thought
But the world is broad
And all she has known is not all that is to know
They say that is how life is supposed to be for people like her
But everyday a tadpole learns how to jump and a caterpillar learns how to fly
For as they say, pain is the mother of success
Change is the mother of survival
Better and bolder
Brighter and Wiser
People grow
People age
People learn
People crawl
People walk
People run
People find ways to fly
They are peasants with high hats pretending to be Confucius
But filial piety is not much of a pity compared to all the bruises on her heart that they cannot see
So she leaps away
Away from the beautiful painting she has been entrapped in
For even with perfect strokes you cannot overlook the mistakes of this stupid ideal that have been glossed over with paint
She stares at the world she has known
She walks away
For all that she has known
Is not all that is to know
For all that she has believed to be true
Is not all that is true
This painting isnโt warm
This painting isnโt cold
Her forehead is warm
Her hands are cold
But..
Sheโll recover
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once i write something down its a tattoo in my head
i've written down your name one, two, many times
my name you say, you say, you said
you say it like its something you are scared to forget
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I wonder if there is a world out there where I am gentle.
Where flowers like daisies grow from each step I takenโ
Where I have filed down my claws and I do not leave a mark on everything I love.
I wonder if I tried just a bit harder if my voice would be softer, kinderโ
I wonder if there is a time where I can be soft, and simple.
I wonder if there is a way I could get rid of this family heirloom,
this anger,
This anger that lingersโ
Under my nails, in my chestโ
This painful reminder of my harshness,
The abrupt unkindliness of my person.
This anger has been passed down,
Father to son,
Mother to daughterโ
A gift that leaves your shoulders heavy and your chest heaving.
There is a reason so many in my family have taken to being loudโ
I worry that we are not built for being soft.
I wonder if there is a day where I will be described as something safe.
When you are born among flames, The ash in your lungs is second natureโ
There is a reason my parents took up smoking.
There is this burning in my bloodโ
I have my father's eyes ;
I have his violence too.
I have my mother's hair ;
And her loud existence.
I am born into this anger. I am born with this burden.
I hope that someday, I will mold myself into something loveableโ
I think I would enjoy being delicate.
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๐ ๐ค๐๐๐ฉ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ฎ๐๐ค๐๐ ๐๐ฐ๐๐ฒ ๐ข๐ง ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ก๐๐๐ซ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐ฅ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐ซ๐๐ฆ๐๐ข๐ง ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ๐จ๐ฎ๐๐ก๐๐. ๐๐จ๐ฆ๐๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ ๐๐๐ญ๐ฐ๐๐๐ง ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ง๐ ๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ฆ๐ ๐๐ข๐ซ ๐๐ฌ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฐ๐ก๐ข๐๐ก ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐ฅ๐ฐ๐๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐๐ซ๐ข๐๐ญ ๐๐๐๐ค ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฒ ๐จ๐ง๐๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ ๐ฐ๐ก๐ข๐ฅ๐. ๐๐จ๐ฎโ๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ค๐๐๐ฉ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ฌ ๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐ญ ๐จ๐ ๐ฆ๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ง๐จ๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ข๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ก๐๐ฅ๐ฉ ๐ค๐๐๐ฉ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ๐.
excerpts from a book Iโll never write
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I do not know whether to be relieved or mournful that you are not around anymore to figure out I'm not doing okay. No one looks into my eyes too long, to find me trying to bury something inside. Not anymore.
-04/11/2023
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Okay
You made me want to writeย
About being in loveย
To write about feelingย
Wantedย
Sitting here now,ย
I wish I didnโt open up at allย
I wish I didnโt tell youย
I wish you didnโtย ย
Ask me that questionย
Make me feel like I was on topย
Of the worldย
Only to take it away from me
Over and overย
This happensย
I think Iโm done,ย
I think I'll be a good auntย
But never a momย
My friend wonโt get the chanceย
To be my maid of honor
And Iโll never get the life I dream ofย
Itโs okayย
It has to be okayย
There isnโt another optionย
Because everything always has to beย
Okay
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โโพโ Lungs โโพโ
My lungs often betray me, it gets harder to breathe. They are old and rotten. Even they resent that of which I have become.
Sometimes I feel as though I shouldn't take a breath, that I shouldn't inhale and exhale.
That I shouldn't waste oxygen.
That I am a thief.
That I should rot beneath the surface of the earth even though I am already only a corpse underneath my skin.
And When I dance with another perhaps I should mention they dance with my blood rather than my bones.
They would only crack under pressure.
Frailness that belongs in no world of living things.
โ Oresteiaโฆโก
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A
prairie
winter canโt
be tamed. Hungry
and ice-feral, it tears across
the snow-huddled land, rippingย
down trees and roofs and power lines.
Come first light, we all stamp our boots atย
the cruel cold, blinking at the twisted world. Then
a robin begins to sing, and the strain in ourย
shoulders eases. We crack wind-rawย
smiles, grab tools and coffee.
True resistance is just this,
holding tight to joy,
smiling as weย
pick up
tools,ย
yet
againโ
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