OUR ORIGINAL POETRY: Share It Here

@scarletLyricist

Spare and moving . . .

@scarletLyricist

This poem speaks to me...anxiety; lack of sleep- a troubled soul; bad luck or obstacles being internalized as "I'm no good" I feel guilt and shame predominates in this poem. You are worthy, smart and I'm sure very talented. I like your poem.

- My 2nd addition, I write a lot -

I wrote this after the attacks on Paris.

And just like that, your heart beats a little faster.

Your breathing becomes a little crisper.

Your memories become a little fonder.

You feel more. You think more.

You love more, and you hang on a little tighter.

We are all one race.

@scarletLyricist

YES

@scarletLyricist

Yes!

Screaming.

it was screaming in my brain

not a soft whistle

but a scream

the kind you hear on tv

when someone is being crushed to pieces

and it tells me im dying

or that im going to

my body numbs out

i can feel my breathing

i shake rapidly

and my eyes cant seem to adjust

sleep with have to wait i assume.

@Ifyouloveme that is beautiful.

@DancingMasha thank you c:

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?

@Cheeney

Wherever you are, whoever you are -- you will be special, important, memorable.

@Annie Thank you Annie <3

@Cheeney that was beautifully thought provoking! Sometimes I wonder about this pure truth and at other times, I think I don't really want to know. But there is no denying that we leave our own unique footprints in this universe <3

@heartfulMusic18 Thank you so much! Indeed, I think we all leave our footprints on the universe, I'm a big advocate of the butterfly effect. These ponderings come to me usually at night (or in the shower, contemplating life) and I felt like I needed to put them into words.

@Cheeney

Like a tune once played
Like a winter's first snowflake
You work your magic
Never for once to discern
Your own butterfly effect

@heartfulMusic18

:( now I need an edit for the 'a' in the second line - please ignore it!

@heartfulMusic18 That's so lovely! Beautifully written

@Cheeney :') thank you

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

@Ifyouloveme,

Beautifully expressed. BEAUTIFUL.

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.

@ubiquituous, Wow, this has power.

(I wish I were more awake to say some eloquent praise. But this is -- WOW.)

@Annie thank you!!!!!

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

The one

What do you behold, sweet morning world?
will I feel the warmth of the sun if I step outside
and contemplate the distance between me and it
or will rain strike my tempered skin
waterdrops running from my hair to my cheeks
cloudening my vision and aptly clearing my mind

Who will you condemn, sweet morning world?
and who will you extend your blessing to
are they familiar with one another, friends even
or shall their paths never cross in this life
not once noticing their unfortunate connection
gazing past the tall grass as they step forth into the unknown

Where will you lead, sweet morning world?
will you have changed come nightfall
should you glance upon a mirror, will you see
a replica of yourself softly staring back
or will you not recognize the one behind the glass
shall you nod in silent acceptance or turn the other way

When will you come, sweet morning world?
will you disperse this all-embracing darkness
and strike down fears for the coming of no new day
spreading noble happiness throughout the minds of many
or do you reckon you won't bother with the questions
of a lone man not wise enough to answer his own

My Heart or My Mind
which one should I believe?

My mind kept on telling me:
You're a grown up
You're strong and mighty
You've been looking after yourself

But my heart kept on nudging me:
There's something not right
And I didn't know what should I do
Should I flood you with my questions?

Which one should I believe?
My heart or my mind

Heroes. Heroes are the spark of hope in the vast world of darkness that is reality. Heroes are the ones that fight, and win. The winners are granted hope. The winners are granted freedom from the darkness. They are granted a sort of happiness.

But there would be no heroes without villains. Heroes fight the villains, and win. That is what makes them heroes. Without villains, there would be no heroes. Without heroes there would be no hope. Therefore, without villains there would be no hope.

Winners are granted hope, but the losers are granted fear and hopelessness. When the heroes lose, their hope is taken away. And the spark in the world flickers and dies.

What happens to the losers? They get lost. They fall into complete darkness. But there are some that stand back up. But they usually get pushed back down. Those who keep fighting are heroes in themselves. But no one will ever see them as that.

But heroes can be fatal. Heroes, while they grant hope, also makes curiosity. Others try to be heroes too, and when they cant… They become losers. They fall into darkness, because of the heroes. So heroes are also villains.

Heroes are also villains, and villains are also heroes. But heroes will always be seen as heroes, and villains as villains. No matter what they do to stop that. Because even if a villain becomes a hero, nobody sees them for that. Or if a hero becomes a villain.

Winners are losers in a way, and some losers are heroes. Everyone loses something in their life, but not everyone wins. Some losers are not heroes at all. Some have lost it all, without winning anything.

Of Faith and Friendship

Remembering my lifes first chapters,

I have nothing but bunch of fears, twisted faith, and undying insecurities.

Marking my being as their territory,

All carved so achingly deep within me.

A flicker of hope caressed my soul, I was then in my first row.

The peer threw me and my young heart to insanity,

Wounded my trust, broke a little faith so I break free.

It drawn to me that hope was just temporary.

Morning came as I woke up, breathing in a new life in a new light.

I raised my head for the first time, devoured the sky then heaved a sigh.

Trying to put a smile, I boldly walked through the midst.

There I saw another peer; maybe… just maybe different from before.

I remember taking a wobbly step forward. Stopped, then doubted.

Paranoia struck my whole system all of a sudden.

Lurking What ifs filled inside my head.

Calming down a little as they whispered, Dont be scared.

They took my hands and I felt fine,

They blissfully sang a song, that made me sing along.

Feeling so absurdly familiar with the laughs, chatters and their warmth,

It was like, finally Im not alone… finally I found my home.

Can you see Him? they asked, pointing above.

As I looked up, tears began filling my eyes.

The ray of light was smiling in my direction.

I can feel my wounds closing, leaving me no scars.

Giggles came next and I felt light embraces,

Then together they said,

We know, my friend, what once there in you… for He Himself healed us too.

Trust in Him fully and youll see…

He will never let you down for He loves you so purely.

Her III

When I'm alone,

I can't breathe,

But when I see you

It's like i'm given new lungs.

The world explodes in color,

my eyes become light,

the stars shine brighter,

everything is changes

You saved me from drowning,

from my fears,

from him,

from myself.

And you don't even know,

you can't see how beautiful you are

when you fingers fly across the keys,

or when you giggle over my boring stories.

I love you

And still you don't know,

I love you

A Cry of Surrender

Take me back to oblivion
Wipe the smog off my heart
Let me be free of these burdens
Help me be innocent and kind.

Tell me everything I need to know
Share the pain of Your wounds
I am human with a darkened soul
But Your grace is what I

Choosing Life Today

Abundantly joyful

Blessed to be alive. I

Can

Time slowed down where the sun sauntered just under the tree line.

The lazily glazed orange of all that the twilight touches

Came drifting in through my window to settle inbetween my piano keys

As if it were gently playing out is glowing setting.

No thoughts existed between the dappled golds

Stretching through my room.

A mild, Autumn quiver of leaves was the only motion in the

Suspended sunshine.

I was held in a motionless breath that reminded me of how much I enjoy this time of the day.

I remembered that although I love the rain with its quiet greys and delicate flittering,

The sunshine of twilight is always breathtaking.

i breathe.

each inhale is a noose around my neck

damning me to an eternal life's worth

of stupid descisions; i do not care

that i am failing art when my cousin

is beaten by her husband, or that i

have failed math honors when all i wake

to is the repetitive sound of bikes

shredding tires louder than i can scream.

my counsellor tells me i cannot keep

this up. i know, sir. I know that sleepless

nights have begun to take their toll; i can

not breath, sir. I cannot tell the difference

between life and dreams, sir. I can only

hope for death, sir. He calls my parents and

they are more disappointed than scared to

lose me. I want to die, sir. Please let me.

A message for the gods

Misery weeps a song of woe
whilst the moon's light touches the earth
its drops shine a bright reflecting silver
shattering as they hit the floor beneath

A wolf's cry fills the nightsky ever so desperately
balance shakes and falls as the hunter becomes the prey
the howling fades away with a sense of remorse
and I am left to ponder the fate of that lone wolf

Make haste, I tell myself, you don't have the time
the beast shall have to make his way without me
mayhaps I will say a prayer for it when morning comes
I must hurry now, for the gods won't hear my prayer from the grave

My fingers close tightly around the tilt of my steel sword
I hold the blade in front of me, a slight tremble of the hand
the sword slips and the metal clatters on the stone floor
the song of fallen metal disheartens me, for it forebodes certain death

A sharp pain moves through my body and losing my self control I scream out in anguish
this is not my time, not now, I say, mostly to myself, I am not done living
I rise and wipe the sweat of my brow, panting heavily and looking up to the sky
the gods shall have me another time, I pledge as I move forward without once glancing back

Hiding the hurt, hiding the pain
Hiding the tears that fall like rain.
Saying I'm fine, when I'm anything but,
This ache in my soul rips at my gut.
My skin is on fire, I burn from within.
The calm on my face is an ongoing sin.
The world must stay out, I've built up a wall.
My fragile lie will collapse should it ever fall.
Loneliness consumes me, it eats away the years
Until my life is swallowed by unending fears.
Waiting for someone to see I wear a mask
And care enough to remove it, is that too much to ask?