Poetry Community - Blog Posts

Occam’s Razor:

Suggests that the simplest explanation,

Is the most plausible one.

Which means, to put it simply, I love you.

But how do I contain the multitude of all that I feel

Within so little?

How do I tell you,

I see the stars in you;

All my poems from here on until eternity

Will be about you;

“I love you” doesn’t do justice to the fact that

I swear I was a Universe unlike any other,

But I found you and we were always whole;

But somehow, with you next to me, we feel complete.

In my next life time, I swear I will find Occam; tell him

That there are some entities which need to be multiplied;

Not out of necessity,

But out of love.

by Anika

Images taken via Pinterest

so maybe there will be no coming of age.

maybe there will be no moment, signifying glory;

hell, maybe there will be no glory.

maybe we'll simply be two people who were here and then weren't.

the gods will not line up moments for us to scavenger hunt our purpose;

maybe we will not have a purpose.

or a god for that matter.

in one moment you're driving home and you're singing loud with your best friend;

in another you get mistaken for a man with your helmet on, the bulky death bike and then you get out of a ticket when the policeman sees your face and you come home in giggles.

in another moment you've decided to live through another day.

so maybe we will not be anything that aches when it is gone.

maybe we'll be mundane and chaotic indecision floating in an abyss of our own selves

and maybe you never get to meet that famous 2010 singer you liked as a teenager,

and you never get to learn the fourth language,

or go to that remote country

or kiss the love.

maybe there is no love here.

maybe we will go quietly, with naive hope that is false but you hold on to anyways

because if you do not have this hope to hold on to, there is nothing else.

to hope is to have the courage to pray, against all odds,

to pray that there is someone out there lining up things for you,

lining up lives and people for you to become.

to have hope is to be terrified of all the realities.

we'll go quietly, unnoticed;

and yes this does not match what we wanted to be,

but there are happy endings in all those poems and stories to make up for all the ones you never get to have in your reality.

A.G.

Ghost Children

There are moments

Bad and hard to comprehend, mismatched;

I do not know how to 

String together an entire good life

Or a person

Out of so many broken things.

What I mean is 

The Cat gets pissed

And he yells

He’ll smash the Dog’s skull

And there is so much rage in his body.

I do not know

How to tell the men 

This fury is not something to be proud of,

To carry or pass on.

There are children who have shrunk themselves 

And swallowed their own being

To fit into houses filled with so much rage:

Children who are too loud or too dumb,

Children who will never be enough,

There is no time;

Children who would rather 

Sleep on the streets

Than be here.

Children who cut out parts of themselves,

Make themselves smaller, be appropriate,

To belong here.

Children who rebel,

Grow tired of waiting, grow weary;

Grow up

And then cry for their mothers,

Gulp their own tears.

Children sitting on floors

Of good houses

And full families

And have never been more alone,

More annoyed at themselves

For not seeing all the good,

For noticing the wreckage,

For not smiling through their own slaughter.

Children who move out 

And do things they weren’t sure 

They wanted in the first place.

The Cat screams and scratches everyone

Trying to help him,

The Hamster yells of how her life was ruined;

The Parrot bites me, claws at the Cat and 

Keeps breaking things, so many things,

Screams of his entrapment.

I am small:

A rat in a big world,

    I have never been alone.

Our love was wine drunk

At 3 am on the kitchen floor,

We made space for each other.

We were giggles illuminated

By the fairy lights in my room.

We were lights turned off

And windows pushed wide open;

We were a clear night sky,

We were so beautiful, so pure;

Two stars besides one another,

We were bright and free.

Boo.

To acknowledge the Monster is to say

It is here,

That it has been here all along;

It is to stand in the dark with a terrible thing

Hoping it does not devour you.

To be hopeful is to be terrified

Of anything otherwise;

It is to hold on

To withering threads of optimism

As the likelihood of the unfavourable

Gets the guillotine ready for your head.

To scream Monster is to say

Here stands a terrible thing

That scares me;

You cannot simply

Take the elephant out of the room

And throw it under the bus,

You know?

To be scared is to admit

You have something to be scared of

And something to be scared for.

To draw a monster and ask yourself

What makes one,

Is to ask yourself what you consider

Dreadful enough to be called inhuman.

To tell stories of your childhood

Is to say it is long gone;

It is to acknowledge

Childhood pushed you off the cliff

And ran away.

It is to say you have been

Free falling ever since,

Trying to grasp at things

That do not stay.

To have an inheritance

Is to say that

Everyone in the family is dead.

To scream Monster

Is to stand in the dark beside it

And say you know terrible well enough

To know what a Monster is.

To say you are here

Is to realize there was a time

When you were not,

That there will once again

Be a time

When you won't be here;

It is to say you don't know

What time is anymore.

To be alive

Is to be terrified

(All the time)

And hopeful,

Even if the guillotine

Is getting ready

For your very execution;

It is to turn the lights off

And sleep in the room

With the Monster

And pray like hell

It does not kill you.

- A.G.

I wrote a poem

And you thought it was for you.

I wrote an eulogy

And you thought it was

For my funeral.

To be with someone

Who thinks of nothing

But the ending

When you both are still here

Is to say there already exist

Thousands of ends in their mind.

I just wish he has also imagined

One mellow future where

We're both here and we're both okay,

No one buries us and no one burns us.

We kissed and fought wars

With our tongues,

You seemed to taste an awful lot

Like the lull after a bomb;

The quiet after the storm

When there is nothing more left

To break apart, nothing more left

To get undone.

We tore limbs and rearranged parts

Of our own selves-

Like the Jenga tiles

We never seemed

To arrange right.

We crumbled there on your bed,

And never could hold each other again,

Could never hold our own selves again.

Inevitable

We were a prolonged sunset,

Something beautiful

That we knew 

Would end in darkness anyways.

We were a mouthful of words

The tongue couldn't help but mess up.

We were a tiny cat

Who climbed the big tree

And forgot it had yet to learn 

How to come back down.

We went skydiving,

Up, up, up 

And the earth pulled us back down;

We free fell into our own demise

And made a mess,

We left chaos behind.

I am a walking grave

Of all the people

I did not let myself become.

This sadness is the only eulogy

They will ever hear.

There are skeletons which live in closets

That have been kept shut

For far too long

And the skeletons need their coffins

And the coffins their graves

And one too many graves

Makes a cemetry

I am the cemetery:

The door that locked its own kind out;

The graves, the coffins and the skeletons.

But I am alive, goddamn it!

Buried within myself

People I did not

Let myself become.

People were not meant

To carry so much of

What wasn't alive,

Coffins do no justice to the living.

Lives aren't meant

To be spent within boxes,

How the hell did

We get tricked into believing

They will do death any justice?

You are alive,

And everything

You could've been too,

Just not here.

But somewhere,

In another universe,

You exist

But are everything

You have always wanted to be,

And perhaps,

Someday in this life too.

In order to talk with the dead

Poem by Jorge Teillier

26/02/22

ngày 100, quả chò như rơi thật chậm

bức thư đầu tiên em trao, là một chiếc thiệp hồng đỏ thắm.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4PIcKL18kY

Enough?

Can you miss something you never had

Or is it just the feeling, that makes you sad

Every time you think about

the great moments you’ve left out.

You’re saying you were too scared

And not prepared

You had Too much doubt

And Too much to care about

But that shit holds you back

And leaves u with a ship wrack

So she packed her backpack

And started trying new things

Hoping its the feeling of joy, it bings.

Step by step getting closer

But one step further and it shows her

Again the face of the clown

Making her drown

showing it all was a joke

And had nothing to do with hope

Its like the creepy box

Its not the friendly music that shocks

Its the red big smile jumping in her face

Showing her all the disgrace and the hate

Thinking its her fate

To be always late

And get the last piece from the plate

Just the feeling of not getting enough

that made her so tough.

-B.I

The Artist

What are we here for

If not

To become the spectators 

Of the cosmic artwork

Unfolding before our eyes

The cosmic artwork

Of a blue sky

With rose strokes across

As the sun's about to die

Over the far horizon

Only to be born again

The next present

With a new light

The cosmic artwork

Of the birds singing, 

On birth of light 

Each sunrise, of the clouds

Swaying and changing hues

The cosmic artwork

Of each little life itself

The chaos seemingly random

Binding us all with one life

Of the artist itself.

The cosmic artwork

That created nature,

The mother herself

For she's the artist of 

the cosmic art,

Her eyes glittered in awe

Of her own self.

.

.

Kaltes Licht

Stimmen, die zu dir sprechen

Stimmen, die über dich sprechen

Doch wer spricht mit dir

und wer hört dein Schweigen?

Wer liest deine Sätze,

und wer zwischen den Zeilen?

Künstliche Lichtstrahlen

- Zittern in beleuchteter Dunkelheit

Poetry. Prose. Some Other Drivel.

Hi. I'm An. I'm 19. And I never fuckin learned how to read.

They / them. Genderfluid gay. Filipino. Undergraduate prisoner.

Writing and Blog Details Below ^^!!!

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Trigger Warnings:

- Religious Trauma

- Bad Childhood Experiences

- Sexual Language

Mental Illness Trigger Warnings:

(i write about my mental illnesses a lot and these are):

- BPD

- OCD

- ADHD

- Bipolar Disorder

Some of my Inspirations:

- Rue Raros

- Zoe Adrien

- Richard Siken

- Chen Chen

- Franny Choi

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DNI: Transphobes, Zionists, etc.

8 Years in the Desert

-kalika

Walking Dead

-kalika

~Controlled~

Brain Dead my thoughts leveling my body as contractors level city blocks. I'm positively your dumb little slut, cum in me with no room for any remorse but to fill my tight cunt with your needy cum. I'll bring the pussy if you bring the cream and without a thought my only wish is for you to fill me while you feel on me. Dick me down and pound me hard play your part and fuxk me until I say stop did you think you was in power? The need to be filled is my desire not your I called you over here you didn't call me, see baby I'm in control of everything you do cause there is no me without you "Pussy Needs Dick, and Dick Needs Pussy." Fuxk me cause its your civic duty. Put my legs where they need to be on your shoulders, twist my legs I'm your sexual pretzel make me scream your name to the realization you soon will be moaning mine know your soul is mine. "Controlled"

The Pond

anna magee (May 9th, 2021)

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/artsymagee/the-pond

Hey guys! 

I just made a Twitter account for my poetry, and I’m slowly starting to find a few of my Tumblr mutuals on there! 

If you have a Twitter account and want to give me a follow, I’ll follow you back! 

The pain of being criticized for your interests as a child really never subsides.