The Wars We Fight In Our Names
Here’s the thing:
I tried planting a seed
Embedded it in fresh soil and watered it with patience and good-will
But it never quite came to fruition
It was never quite enough, somehow
So here’s my plan B:
To drill a hole into my skull and scream
Loud and obnoxious, until my lungs corrode and my ears tear in half
Until I can’t deny the existence of it all anymore
I want to yell kindness and bruise compassion
I want to cry happiness and choke on contentment
Want to rip open my chest with the feeling of finally being enough
I may look gentle,
But no-one gentle goes so viciously to war with themselves
No-one gentle self-sabotages with such a twisted delight of finally proving what everyone denied:
that you’re falling apart
C r u m b l i n g
I want to imprison all the kindness into my head
Until it knocks against my skull like a steady clockwork-cacophony
Every smile and compliment, every touch and every action that yelled: “you are enough!”
And I was too busy drowning out the bad to notice the good
Whoever said self-love isn’t violent?
You eradicate whatever you had constructed so you don’t have to build from a rotten foundation
Even if you feel that the worms would be good company and the soil looks warm, like a hug perhaps
To live, perhaps, one day
If I have to split myself open for a garden to bloom in-between my ribs
Maybe I will do that
This is all a process
Of growth and destruction
When did I ever un-learn to love myself?
When will I ever un-learn to un-love myself?
Human beings are animals who can die because of emotions. Loneliness. Misery.
— Oh Su Jin (Oh My Venus)
Do we have to go that far? Block each other and behave like 12 year olds? I won't reach out to you. You've hurt my heart. Yes I used to be the person who would keep aside "self respect" and keep reaching out to those who had hurt me so cruelly. But I'll tell you the difference. Once I figure it out. You've hurt my heart in a way that i won't reach out to you. You've hurt my heart by showing me that you never wanted it. There's a difference. I'm not going to be a bother anymore. I'll stay away. Loneliness? Misery? These emotions are not new to me. I won't die because of them.
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The text of the poem can be found here.
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As much as I'm drawn by the romanticism of road trips,
the realization strikes what matters most is the company,
whom you choose to spend those lost moments with,
for, while the journey is most often craved,
the camaraderie is what makes it worth it.
There's hope for the life that remains,
to comprise of road trips in your companionship,
as we navigate our way through the many bends of life,
never letting go off the paths we sketch together,
nor the destination that we are striving towards.
- DG (Road trips)
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You part 2
Two weeks after I
I caught feelings
Words now I dare not speak of
For the fear that you may even stay further from me
Than you already did.
What I didn’t tell you
Are the things that I liked about you
Did you know
It’s the quiet determination
That now you use to avoid me
It’s the thoughtfulness, intelligence, diligence
That now works against me
It’s the humble friendliness you give everyone and makes them feel respected
That no longer reserved for me
It’s the sparkle in your eyes
your cheeky little smile
That died at the call of my voice
When I look you in the eyes
I only see silence
an absence of joy
a graveyard of false promises.
My favorite things about you
Are also the things about you
that hurt me the most
while your silhouette
and your lingering scent
still enthrall me
in a dead choke.
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You and Yours
Begins with believing,
Ends with being
Revel the becoming,
Grandeur start diminishing,
As you start growing,
Coz reality hardly allows a dent,
When you are in abandon,
Coz care turns into concern,
Gradually rot in your inhibitions,
Whirlwind of emotions,
Hollow as well as overwhelming,
Ride the wave or drown in it,
If onlys and would have beens,
Essentially doing the opposite,
Reminiscing your future and fantasizing the past,
When your hopes die,
Whats left is a walking piece of flesh and bone,
Just counting the days to turn into ashes or buried under a stone..
A speck of dust or a whole universe,
Existence momentary or immemorial,
Just match your perspective with society's perception..
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𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒎𝒆,
𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒐 𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒆
𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒎𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒚
𝒍𝒎 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ,𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒊 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘
𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒏
𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏
𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒕
𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒘𝒔
𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖
𝒊𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔
𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔
𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒕
𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆
𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔
𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒑 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍
𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒆
𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈
𝒊'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈
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I find myself lost often,
within the realms of time,
searching for art within the words,
refusing to accept the mediocrity,
only to realize that is all there is,
and that is all there will ever be.
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a poem about nothing
sometimes, words aren’t enough: there's the infinite and the
ubiquitous, overlapping when it comes to you – all my
poems are a clear indication of that. what's left to say when
everything has already been said? i want you, it’s truly
remarkable – the depth of the sea of yearning you’ve
created. sometimes i wonder if i’m just a living vessel meant to
abate the inevitable – you know, the forbidden word:
it’s an understatement, it’s akin to setting fire to the
future. there’s easier routes to death, and here we are
reading one another’s poetry, scavenging for meaning in
all the words we’ve authored. i almost rather that you
gouge out my eyes – gazing into your eyes reminds me of
infinity, and i can no longer tolerate it. to know of
love and to live it, are two different things and
i no longer want to know of love – i want the
sunlight to position and hit only me in a crowded room, i want
tea to stay perpetually warm, and to drink it and you,
in a lithe world.
can i be honest with you? if just for one moment,
each word i pluck for you seems to stained of a shade of
xanthous yellow – are you the sun?
perhaps, you’re the moon tonight and
i resign to a fate of being a celestial body caught in
a elliptical orbit of you, i spend little time with you, and more time
lamenting of your absence. is an apology owed?
i’m sure in another life we were only apart in our
dreams, reality would’ve been promising -
offering aromas of jasmines, sandalwood, and
chocolate. our sweet nothings were saccharine enough,
of all your honeyed words that crystalized (and i really do
understand), i think it’s time to melt the first one again, and
soak in it – i never know what’s next to vanish.
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is an act
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the warmth of the sun
kisses your skin -
twilight frost melting
into dew drops,
seeds planted deep.
- aleta jay
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@writerscreed prompt 229: road trip
Page number 25 in the book of road trips: Richmond to Baltimore.
We have a new friend in the form of a ladybug that drifted into the window while we were at a stoplight right before getting on the highway. It spends its time walking across the dashboard, occasionally trying to fly through the front window to the outside.
Forty-five minutes into the drive, Dana sees a billboard featuring a specialty fast food burger.
“I heard about those,” Dana says. She rubs my thigh. We stop. This leads to two specialty burgers plus fries plus sodas.
As per usual, thirty minutes later, Dana says, “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Gas station bathrooms suck. $3.15 gas price sucks. Washington, D.C. traffic sucks.
Dana asks, “Can we stretch our legs?” A casino is two exits away. We stop. This leads to me losing $2.00 at a slot machine and Donna buying a new blackjack-themed hat. Also, the ladybug is liberated from the car.
“Good luck,” Dana says as the ladybug flies away.
We reach the Inner Harbor in Baltimore. Parking is expensive. The aquarium is nice. We take the shark tour.
Outside, a street performer uses bubbles, cigarette smoke, and a kazoo to entertain us. I tip him $1.00.
Dinner is sushi. I take a picture of one of the plates and send the image to some friends.
Jordan texts back.
JORDAN: Looks tasty
Dana asks, “Want some more sake?”
I hold out my cup. “Sure.”
Photo Credit: karmaalwayswins
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It’s the kind of pain
that never goes away
and I don’t even know what kind of pain that is
It’s like cancer in my bones
I cannot kill it
cannot remove it, throw it away
and crying doesn’t help
it grows and grows, as if trying to swallow me
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italics plus parenthesis
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How many of us are walking on cracked glass,
knowing one more step could be our last?
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It almost doesn’t seem enough to say that I’m scared, that I’m afraid. Fear is not enough to describe what I’m feeling. It’s too bespoke, singular, confined. What I feel is pulsating, in motion, constant, like a swarm of bees in flight or birds during the great migration.
It doesn’t help when nostalgia buys property next to this feeling. She makes things irreparably harder. Soft warmed streets of my childhood, freshly cut grass, bike rides in summer, having a map of memories cut as deep as the worn lines on my palm. Each house a cornerstone, each monument a memory, each building an anchoring point to knowing and belonging in this place. Yet, unsurprisingly or perhaps surprisingly, whilst I’m in flux so does become the infrastructure, so does the streets that line my memories. Houses get torn down, changed, renovated, stripped empty and now only existing as dirt and empty columns. Shops close down, put up their 50% off closing down sales, new shops open. Restaurants upgrade, downgrade, change management, become anew with revised menus, interior decorations, technological advancements.
It only makes sense that once change becomes embroiled in the blood that it begins to take shape around you, pulling strings, shaking down sunlit streets, settling permanently in the bloodstream.
I’m fucking terrified. This is the most adept word I’ve come across as of late, this kind of nauseous, anxious, fizzing feeling. But as the birds get ready for the great migration, as things change right in front of me, the past, present and future have a good taste of me. And with a line of birds perched at the ready, wings spread out, the sky blooms orange, I too fall into the expanse.
the great migration and all it’s feelings // s.g.
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The Middle of a Miracle
see you . . . I see . . .
you're right in the middle of a miracle
can't see it yet,
but these are days you'll never forget
and soon enough
you'll know what this magic is all about
your feelings will
blossom like earliest flowers in spring
once you can see
such wisdom, your miracle will bring
life's path will open
you'll be capable of almost anything
both rain or shine
will feed your soul and you'll be fine
I hope you know
soon your garden will be flowering
beautiful as summer
your light will shine till late at night
with a future so bright
you'll become what you need to be
the shimmering star
I see . . .
the miracle of you . . .
in front of me
©️ @followcb ☆ May 8, 2021
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mend my head.
i used to read about the voices.
the voices in one's head.
now, a million words fail when i
try to write down the voice in my own head.
the scream sleeps in my stomach,
i slap myself
one cheek cold, one cheek hot
tomorrow when i comb,
roots in my scalp will give in.
in my head, i'm always brewing
so when the time comes,
i can poison myself.
i am tired.
the voices are getting loud
my cheeks are hot
tear ducts empty
my shoulder aches
my bones are weak.
i am tired.
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Sleep is not for the weak, but for the weary.
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