OUR ORIGINAL POETRY: Share It Here

With new eyes

I wonder, when I am reborn
who or what I will become
And what will happen after my death
will this world remember me

Or will I simply be forgotten
another spec of dust in the wind
I hope someone will remember the person I was
not my failures, nor my sins
Or the person that I could have been

When I am born again with new eyes
what will be the first thing I see
Will my innocence not be tested
or will it be despair that still lasted

Should I prepare myself for the next life
or simply live out this one in peace
Shall I ever discover a truth so pure
before my inevitable decease?

The struggle of a day

i wake up

my eyes are heavy but i feel okay

the darkness of my room

it comforts me like nobody else will

for a second i feel good

i feel okay

i feel like me

i feel like i could smile

then my fear sets in

sinking deep into the depths of my mind

hurting me

and pushing me down

there goes my good day.

and by night

im scared again

This is incredible. I am existential 24/7 so this got to me. You're really talented, keep on keepin on <3

They sailed across a great big sea,
to found themselves a colony
They soon grew tired of monarchy.
Revolution brought a new country.
with the phrase, "land of the free."
and governed by democracy.
Soon the powerful Illuminati
rothschilds and others more shadowy
began to smell the opportunity
to commit the grandest of larcenies
The federal reserve then came to be
and usurped the power of treasury
to print up their own currency
to lend Uncle Sam for a fee
Where does it all, go what's all it for?
why have we become the almighty Fed's whore?
The answer is, to pay for the war
The threat of terror we mustn't ignore
Now the war on terror goes on without end.
Soon know one is sure who is foe or friend.
Upon the presumption of the need to defend,
From the Fed we borrow again
Who pays for the loans and the Fed's hefty fees?
If you haven't been told, it's you and me.
The taxes you pay to the new monarchy
Yet you still believe you're free.
The moment you trade away own your liberty
For the provision of a sense of security
You implicitly accept rule by plutocracy.
Indentured servitude is still slavery.

What happened to the land of the free?

Tragedy

It's been a month now

Since I finished therapy.

I went away from that counselling room full of hope.

But now a month and a day later.

I am screaming in my pillow.

Weeping.

Recalling all the tragedy once more.

In therapy, my counsellor told me that one of the big causes of depression

is the lack of opportunity to let someone grieve properly of their losses.

She warns me that it will take time, sometimes most of my life after counselling

I should allow myself to cry whenever the memory arises.

And it was a healthy does of healing during therapy.

But I feel so abnormal and wrong

a month later

without no counsellor and group therapy to talk to.

I'm trying my best to work with what I've learned during the sessions.

But sometimes I cant help but think of the past

How everything unravelled.

How if i didn't do this or that, I won't be screaming on my pillow.

I sometimes wonder what I was born for.

When I was five years old.

During my preschool graduation

I told the whole auditorium that i dreamed of becoming a painter.

But deep down I wasn't even sure. I sounded confident. Like I believed it. But I wasn't sure it was literally painter that I wanted.

But I stuck with it...and kept drawing all my life since.

But I never won any contests,

never got any special mentorships.

At the age of 9 I got rejected from applying to this exclusive Art School in the Philippines that was almost "Juliard" in American terms.

I didn't accomplish anything with this goal.

At best, the only thing I won was a "best in character design" for a soda pop that was sponsoring a comic seminar,

and the prize was never given to me.

I got nothing

and I lost more when I got abused in college.

So what is art now for me?

Why do I even pursue something that clearly never gave me good memories.

I'm honestly...just mediocre.

But a lot of people complain about potential,

how a lot of people tried to step in and manipulate me into "greatness"

that I don't see.

I'm starting to think...I don't want this anymore.

What's the message

the point

of art

if in the end, you need to pay bills, or to put food on your plate,

or have toothpaste and shampoo for your hair

that you cant afford

because life sucked out all inspiration from you.

This poem was inspired by a rough mixture of anxiety/dissociation/PTSD:

"

I feel something inside my chest, like a firework about to burst

My thoughts fly away at the blink of an eye and time is a concept unknown to me

In the alleys of my brain, I am in the clutches of a nightmare from the night before

Am I breathing? Too fast or too slow?

My eyes are pricked with unspilled tears and my nose is on fire

Hills and valleys cover my forehead with worry

And lips are dripping red with anxiety

Above water but I still cannot see or hear

I scream but no one can hear me

Why cant they hear me?

Where has everyone gone?"

I hope you guys liked it.

This is a prose poem roughly translated from Russian, so the rhythm doesn't really feel right, but whatever, I couldn't fix that.

It's a pretty emotional one, so if you're easily triggered be warned...and sorry about the length.

Two ruptured tendons later,
they say:
"We'll test you for Ehlers-Danlos,
you're hypermobile
and Ashkenazi".

I'm a dancer, you know.
Hyperextended knees are what we do
for a living,
no, one of the things I don't have
is Ehlers-Danlos;
the other is a mother.
They stare; it's a moment of insanity.
Denial, perhaps?
No, they can't understand the two of us.

Ima!

You were a weapon against me.
Your memory made me stretch to the point of breaking,
and further,
I wanted to be worthy.
My dead, soloist mother should be proud
of my beautiful arches.
Hey! I have the best arches in all St. Petersburg!
My feet are works of art,
unlike Fonteyn's disgusting, flat arches
my feet are springs.

Ima!

Your memory merged with my idols,
I was nothing but a child;
your face, your body, was it you or Plisetskaya?
I wanted to hate you and I wanted to love you,
yet all I felt was admiration and fear.
You made me dance on broken toes
to teach me a lesson on pain.
Oh, I know, I know pain.
All the years I lied when asked about you.
I told them stories of your death.
Never did I admit that you took your own life.

Ima!

I was that little bravura girl.
The feistiest Kitri variation
was all mine.
I poured rage, hate and a speck of despair
in everything I did.
I invested my joints, my tendons
into a crazy game I couldn't win.
I fought against you, for you, every day.
In a sense, I still do.

Ima!

You, coward!
Your life robbed me of my childhood,
your death gave me a future.
Your existence was the source my misery,
your disappearance the source of my excellence.
I wash my hands from your memory,
I never knew that Rivka, she never existed.

Ima, dearest, I forgive you my misery
but I can't forgive you yours.

Halfhearted

I look up at you

like you're the sun, only

eight or nine centimeters taller than

me. You say

hello, and you

become the moon;

still shiny and beautiful

but man has landed on the moon.

You look down at me,

and you're making a joke.

Completely inappropriate,

the kind of thing I

tell my father to stay off of

the Urban Dictionary because of.

It startles a laugh out of me,

I snort, unattractively as possible,

and return with an even

more inappropriate joke.

I like the sound of your laughter,

not deep and throaty,

but dry and sharp and

contrasting terribly to my own.

You're so pretty.

Not even in a feminine way.

You have gorgeous cheekbones and

cute hair (that I'd like to run my hands through) and

you say you'd like to be taller.

I stomp my foot.

You're already at least a head

taller than I am.

You're also at the end of your growth,

probably. (17, 18, 19)

Too old for me.

You tell me you like

older women.

I laugh, and try to

set you up with my friend.

21 years old,

flowing brown hair and

wit sharper than a razor blade to

your throat.

My own wit is

more of a bludgeon.

(You are smitten.)

I send you a picture of

A 15 year old,

My own age,

Bronzer-matured face.

You ask who she is

If she lives near you.

I snort and call you a creep

"She's only 15," I say

"You're 15," you reply.

"So?" I ask, and you

do not reply.

I do not think I could date you,

nor do I think

that I should.

I find that you are

a bit of a misogynist,

unintentionally.

I find that you

can be racist, joking

about BBCs while I

tell you the latest story

on the news.

But these things are fixable,

these things I can

educate you about but

I do not think I should.

Because if I did,

my heels could not stay below

my head and I my head would

be so far over my heels that

I could become an Olympic gymnast.

Maybe it is better for you

to stay the sun,

out of reach but

intoxicating.

As Beautiful As You

Do you remember, dear?

Remember when I said, "you do more than you know,

with a look, a caress, or a subtle hello."?

It all had to do with the way that you acted.

The shine in your eyes, and how we reacted.

It was as if we were experiments in chemistry,

with an explosive reaction to as stable as can be.

The aftermath of our reaction had made us so cohesive,

it never crossed our minds that we'd be shattered to pieces.

But I can't disengage my eyes your face.

No one will need you more, my heart is your place.

You're still more lovely as Venus, as sweet as Aphrodite,

and you crept into my heart like benevolent ivy.

As much as I've hurt you, you try to remain in stasis.

If I'm lost in the desert, you're my seeking oasis.

Still I find, even though we're dispersed,

If wishes could be granted, you'd be my first.

I keep searching for words, but I can't pretend

they don't always fall short. Not a single contends

to encompass the wonderful person you are

who's lustre is rivaled by not even one star.

After every stroke I've written, I've found this to be true.

I'll never write a poem as beautiful as you.

- J.S

In my cold dark no one is permitted
no ingress nor egress
I'm told it takes heroic thoughts
just to be human
there's barely room here for this I that's often referred to
but never penetrated
those that know I keep far away
marvelling at spotless floors
I'm bored of anyway
Moving shiftfully like the wind that carries leaves among other nameless things
Invisible to even itself
I sit with the thoughts of God in hopes of heroism
laughing at the self I don't need anymore
the emptiness
the vacuums so alive with light we'll never know
tomorrow is blinding with possibilities I'll never live
but I could if I would stop crying