Poetry On Tumblr - Blog Posts

08.01

Confession ♱

“You’re a furious person.”

That’s not wrong, not really. I am not kind; I was not taught to be kind. Even if kindness had been there to guide me through my youth, I doubt it would’ve taken root. Anger has dwelt in me for too long. Resentment festers within me like a plague, making me bitter—too bitter.

Yet, it’s never enough. This anger floats inside me, scarring my soul so deeply that it aches, but I can never act on it. I am not vengeful; my resentments merely turn into abandonment of those presumed closest to me. But I’m learning now as I mature—you cannot abandon love. Physically, you cannot.

When I was younger, care-free and proud of my independence, it was so easy to leave. I had never experienced longing for another person; I had never formed trust with anyone. I built myself up from nothing, and if there was even the slightest chance of being torn down, I cut it off. Quicker than these relationships could even form, I would leave them without a trace of sympathy.

I can no longer say the same. Caution has seeped into me, and I am wary of my future. I can fearfully admit, I am at a point where I have come to rely on someone. People dream of finding their soulmate, but I fear it is to my detriment. I wanted to be alone, but you won’t let me. And because you won’t let me I am angry.

Once again, I feel as I did in childhood. During puberty, I was consumed by a fury that came with the tumult of a growing female body. My emotionless self was suddenly overwhelmed with a flood of feelings that had to be drowned out. But now, as I edge into adulthood, they return, and just like then, I don’t know why. Perhaps when I am older, when my smile lines deepen, and the skin on my knuckles loosens, I’ll understand. But for now, it feels like there is nothing I can do.

I often find myself looking back at those restless teenage years, remembering when I confused innocence with bravery and charged headlong into any situation. My soulmate knows nothing of it—I was a different person then. My past is ugly, my anger is ugly, and I cannot be ugly to my love.

I can be ugly here.

07.29

Introduction ♱

This is a last resort.

I do not enjoy writing about myself; I may even hate it. My livelihood revolves around documenting the latest advancements in medicine and synthetic biology. Passions and aspirations were left behind long ago for a career and the promise of stability. As I set aside my desire to write my truths and quench my thirst, I defy the odds laid out by those before me.

It’s fucking exhausting.

Even in days past, I never wrote about myself. Instead, I immersed myself in the characters I read about or watched in the countless pieces of media I had the time to consume. I fell in love with their struggles, perhaps projecting myself onto them. I clung to these characters so tightly, devoting myself to these fictional beings, only to be disappointed by the reality beyond the page.

Sometimes I feel I am not meant for the real world.

Now, I am grown. Independence found me early, carrying me far and gifting me with early successes that impressed those who still had others to rely on. They don't understand the circumstances; I would be the same as them if given the opportunity. Desperately, I would cling to what they consider normal, let it nurture me, and bask in a newfound dependence. In an attempt to taste reliance, I took a lover—one who grew up properly loved and appreciated. This didn't do much for me; it only exposed the gaps left in my development from a lack of care. Strangely enough, it was humiliating.

Love is humiliating.

And though it is humiliating, it is stable. My relationship screams stability. Perhaps I am the most unstable piece in the puzzle of my love; I am the root of most of our quarrels. This is not my intent. This petulance and rage are not something to be proud of. Memories of the past fade into sunken emotions that surface at the slightest hint of criticism. Though unprovoked, these bursts of emotion are so powerful that even I am surprised. So, I suppose this is an attempt to confront these feelings, to reflect enough to quiet the nagging thoughts and let the past rest.

To those reading, I offer a warm welcome. May you find solidarity in these stupid and meaningless ramblings that I promise you I will never act on.

Hawaii.

While listening to “wayamaya” by lana del rey (lizzy grant) made me feel all good about summer. Here in my hometown is hot as fuck. And I’m dying from the heat; summer is hot and floral. Not floral as in “full of flowers” but the atmosphere of it. Like, singing country songs while running through the fields full of green and flowers, with the sun shining and hitting on my head; but I put a hat over my head and a pair of sunglasses, happy with what I have. My mother has brought me up this way: free and young. She says that we can be 80years old and still feel young and free. In fact, she had taught me to keep living through everything, either hard or easy. She has taught me to be easygoing, thoughtless and free; the most important part is to live the carpe diem or nocte diem. So, to live the present day; the “me” of today. Is it possible to be you when you want to be you? Yes.

So can I be free and easygoing, today? Of course.

The point is: be happy with what you have. You have little money, no worries. Live the little things you have around you. It’s not hard you know? I am writing this while being me. It’s summer and it’s hot as hell, but I keep on running through these fields of words; unknown words. Like me.

I might know who I am and how I am, but you don’t. Am I running now through your mind?

Oh yes I am.

I might be crazy but what I say is true.

Us, poets, have the right to control readers’ thoughts. We have a unique talent; dancing to elvis presley’s harmonies and putting words in a sheet paper. We are all set to follow the command of our creativity, which allows us to put words together and to bring the imagination of something impossible into your eyes.

And that’s why we are poets. We are big wave surfers living in the Wayamaya bay.

Temps de l'amour

Every now and then I think of your eyes. Brown. Light brown more specifically. A beautiful brown. I was infatuated with them.

Adoring you made me religious. I listened to Lacrimosa everyday to purify my mind. Only God knows what I thought. And I hope he never says to anyone about my despicable and vile thoughts.

When I'd see you by the street, I would never call you. I would never stop you. You had already started your journey. How dare I interrupt the holy course of such devoted man? It was the determination in your eyes that made me hesitate and stop. And perhaps that's why I'm devastated.

You in my dreams is the only thing that has remained to me. But I'm certain that even this little element will disappear .

When pain has crossed the limit

It turns into a heavy stone

It sinks into soft skin

Continuing past flesh and bone

Until it finds it's way

To your feather light soul

And there it stays

heavy and cold

I think this is a tragedy? Sober in its irony My poor frightened phone with its ever-beating heart and failed and failing touchscreen

still gives me notifications and as I work here on my computer my terminally ill phone pings

A message telling me

my new phone has arrived and is in the mailroom

I want you to be comfortable showing me the whole you

the real you

even if it doesn't look all that pretty

even if there are things you wouldn't have shown me when we first met

I want you to be real.

a poem

[Alt description: Three pictures of mountains and moon with a night sky. Together, the words on the three pictures form the short poem "What is it like? / Having a whole sky that is your favorite color?"]

After

After.

After. After it all. After the rough filling. The bruising of your softest tissues. The marks. The taking of more than your body. After one more orgasm than you believed possible. After you are left breathless and limp. Spent. After all that, still... the tiniest of smiles.

In order to talk with the dead

Poem by Jorge Teillier

Growing up in this world is strange.

As people get older,

friends become the family they choose,

and family-by-birth?

well, it starts to come second to everything.

It grows apart.

It becomes stranger.

Strangers, whom we aren't responsible for,

whom we don't wish to understand,

whos presence start to make us feel embarrassed.

And relatives, oh, the biggest villains of us GenZs.

They make our lives miserable, they lower our self esteem, they gossip a LOT!

Really? Hmmm,

Well, were they the villains when they clapped for you while you had two left feet?

Were they the worst, when they gave you gift money as blessing every time they saw you?

Were they the gossipers when they spread smallest of your success in whole wide world?

Yeah, growing up here is strange,

Where Strangers become family ,

And family...

It becomes too much to handle...

-mauli

Some people get too agitated and irritated when there loved ones try to correct them or teach them something. People who care for them try to give them their time and help them ,huh, what can someone do when a person doesn't know they need help.

These people repeatedly get their blood boiling and think they know everything. And at last , people who care about them, stop caring. They stop . And that is when you know that you aren't even worth someone's time and word and patience.

You lose some precious people while they lose nothing .

Everyone needs their dark space,

a safe place,

in a dark room, under the blanket or

in them closed eyes.

Where they can hide away from the world,

just for a moment,

think the whole goddamn universe

and just be...

Their eyes stare close,

parallel into each other.

These mirrors of their souls,

create some infinite reflections,

Gazing deep inside, they see

their histories unwind ,

while their hearts intertwine.

They collapse in each other,

as if two black holes collide,

ending light, ceasing dark,

rebuilding space , creating their time.

Buried was a universe inside, now is

a spark that's theirs to be,

forever and ever...

-mauli

The Sun again

Whenever I am deprived of hope,

blinded by the daylight run;

are the times I lost my way,

I throw my head back and look at the sun ,

which fills the glitter in my eyes again.

At times dark ,when I used to brood,

with the moon at the edge of the nightfall ;

and hope too far away to be found.

I think of the dawn that's sure to come , with my sun rising up to spread the light around...

(19.5.2020)

The Sun

Days are brutal,

Nights are cold.

I'm about to rest my,

hope ashore .

But one day,

it hit my mind ,

that the Sun never failed to show.

It gave me strength .

I feel the heat again .

Now, I am ready, to bear the pain,

bigger than what, I ever bore .

( 19.5.2020)

"The Wish I'll Wish every time I Wish"

I ask for so much every time ,

from you ,my lord.

But now I want to wish a wish ,

that I wish you can afford .

It's to keep ,

the sky above me blue always ,

the world around my world green,

and the night filled with stars always. 

Don't let the man-made black ,

ruin my night's hue,

or ruin my far horizon ,

or ever lessen my view.

The devil shan't reign the land of yours ,

never shall the tranquil eyes fade .

Make us strong to hold the world ,

strong against the we made. 

May we make the air as clear ,

air as clear a heart I seek ,

hope, for everyone who has been hurt 

and has been living in bleak .

Give us the strength to revive ,

the land we used to thrive upon, 

the magic liquid that flowed through rivers ,

the sunlight we have been worshiping for long .

Keep the birds singing on trees ,

and the trees held strong always. 

Don't give us enough, to darken 

the blue that fills our sky always ...  

True 💫

“there is nothing more powerful than realizing that your wholeness is not defined by anything but you. people may add onto the beautiful pieces that already exist within you, but nothing they do could ever complete you. the keys to your acceptance have always belonged to you.”

— iambrillyant

I could cast all my forgivenesses into the air and watch them take flight, dispersing wherever they belong, wherever they are needed, but they are already flowing — freely.

Open-arm-surrender to the vast sky,

I am a confession

                                     relinquished,

vibrant in the coursing of my inner circuitry, heart’s sanctum, a sanctuary cleansed

in lachrymose penance.

                     This weaving of sounds              and silence, this staccato of gears and engines,                    and bird call solace, balsamic,                              all folds

                             into balance.

© Anna S. 2022

🤍🤍🤍

i.

minutes stretching into hours of blue with the warmth of Summer like a glove, I walked my shadow, phantom light through the gloom, found old paths and laid new ones.

ii.

black keys and white in translation, years aloft on the breeze, these notes, information, I’ve been saying, life is in you.

iii.

the past fading into flow, says, i waited here for you.

I love it when literature touches me, when it reaches my bones. It doesn't matter if it's in a pleasurable way or a horrifying way, either way it's satisfying.

"I had no idea then how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality." ~J.K. Rowling, Harvard Commencement Address 2008

A classic! Afterall what are we, except inconsequential nobodies in this vast stretch of universe? 🤍 Emily Dickinson Supremacy 🤍

Another masterpiece by the legend- Emily Dickinson... 🤍🤍🤍

The unique persona of Emily Dickinson has made her poetry immortal. The elegance with which she has often defined or reflected Death, never ceased to capture the readers' admiration.

🤍🤍🤍

A Quiet Sin

You sway me to the rhythm of the orchestra as your hands move in such a calculated way that I cannot help but to wonder what is that you are planning. ‘Let’s find the music of our souls’, you whisper in my ear, dipping your head to me so that no one can overhear and make a scandal out of us. I shiver. How can I not when you look so handsome and the way your hands are so very careful but do not stop exploring in a way that can be denied as nothing more of a foreign waltz? Your eyes hypnotize, your lips beg for a kiss and all of you makes me want to sin.

- Ely C. Winters.

faded memory

There is something to be said about the way in which a memory fades - like ink in water, rippling until it is no longer there.

It fades with the finality of a written ending, in way it leaves no room for further discussion; it simply vanishes.

And like ink in water, it is hard to catch before it leaves completely. It simply stains other memories, giving a gray veil

that wasn't there before. But its echo - that noise it made while it lived, forever remains in your brain.

~ Ely C. Winters.

GIRL

When I was sixteen, studying for an exam in the school library, I met a girl.

Not any old girl.

It was obvious that she wanted to be a man but it was obvious that she was not quite ready to admit it and she clung to her female pronouns the same way a fictional knight clung to his pig-iron shield against the fiery breath of a dragon.

This was a girl who had seen life in ways, with certain hardships, I could never imagine.

A girl with brown mousy hair that was hastily chopped to her chin and above her pastily white bare shoulders as if she had cut it with a pair of garden shears, dark eyes reminded me of the mud that dripped off the bumper of the right side of my mum's car from when she drove through the murky countryside visit to my grandma's house, wrinkled lips that were pulled so far back by her tight skin that I could see where her cheekbones arched and how much her sallow cheeks had been sucked in as if there was a vacuum residing under her skin.

I had never met anyone quite like her before.

There was a dwindling fire in her brown eyes, lined by sore red scratches where it was obvious she had itched away the hay fever that made her heavily pierced nose sweat and run with snot.

I was tired that day. I knew that I wouldn't be able to sit through the exam without my head drooping towards the table like a weeping willow and my eyes dying to slip shut.

She could tell that I was struggling, so she grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me awake.

Mind, I'm perfectly sure she was sober.

I was worried that I was going to fail the exam and that my mother would punish me if I didn't do well. This girl wasn't buying an ounce of my unnecessary panic.

She looked deep into my soul and whispered, slurring her words like a drunk man, "There's no room in life for other people's bullshit."

Such crude words of wisdom from such a wise young person.

After all, it was those very same crude words that changed my life and gave me the courage to take the reins of my own life.

Girl, if you’re out there, and you recognise yourself within my words, thanks for being a tough bitch and giving me the harsh truth.

BEE KINGSLEY

LIPS

I could kiss your lips all day, if you let me.

I don't know how you do it. How is it that your lips are the last things that I dream of before I drift off to sleep?

I want no place in heaven if you were my greatest sin. Because the way your lips are flawlessly pressed against my neck, oh my goodness, even just thinking about it, it's a type of paradise I'll never be able to forget. Amazingly, you chose to kiss, over my pulse, over my flushed skin, rather than tearing my throat out with your pristine white teeth and leaving me for dead.

Numerous could claim your kiss is one of the devil, because how is it you have the lips of a sinner but the heart of an angelic saint?

My jaw just so happens to be the perfect shape for your hands when you cup it when you kiss me. I love the taste of your flavoured lip balm and the way your lips effortlessly fit over mine. Your nose occasionally bumps against the skeleton of my glasses and you chuckle when you knock them askew. Your tongue has taken me to places in my mind I have not yet had an opportunity to explore.

Your lips are all I can ponder. They are driving me insane. What spell have you put me under? My love, I demand to know.

BEE KINGSLEY