DivinusSofia - Hello Poetry

This is a poem I’m writing for me And sure, it’d be satisfying if you heard it But even though you’ll never get it I’ll write to ease the burden I know you think that all this time we’ve been healing from each other But in truth, you are healing from your father and your mother True for many, but it wasn’t me who gaslit you, controlled, manipulated Your childhood fears taken out on me, ego projected The world beat you, I’m so sorry You could’ve been great You could’ve changed the world, like fate With the intellectual potential of a hundred beings, the motivation and confidence of none “Fearful and sad most of the time” Diagnosis is a doorway to healing, not excusing abuse A moral compass: pick one And so I’m doing the real healing from the trauma you received As a child years before I ever knew you Forced to carry a burden that curved my spine While you heal from being held accountable for your actions How will you handle it now that you’re conpletely alone? You do not deserve to be in a room with others Until you can learn how to treat them Like a child being punished for what they have done Your consequences served up with a silver spoon given to you by mom and dad I don’t miss you

0

Aug 5, 2021

Aug 5, 2021 at 2:31 AM UTC

Cathartic Poem To That Abusive Ex

This is a poem I’m writing for me And sure, it’d be satisfying if you heard it But even though you’ll never get it I’ll write to ease the burden I know you think that all this time we’ve been healing from each other But in truth, you are healing from your father and your mother True for many, but it wasn’t me who gaslit you, controlled, manipulated Your childhood fears taken out on me, ego projected The world beat you, I’m so sorry You could’ve been great You could’ve changed the world, like fate With the intellectual potential of a hundred beings, the motivation and confidence of none “Fearful and sad most of the time” Diagnosis is a doorway to healing, not excusing abuse A moral compass: pick one And so I’m doing the real healing from the trauma you received As a child years before I ever knew you Forced to carry a burden that curved my spine While you heal from being held accountable for your actions How will you handle it now that you’re conpletely alone? You do not deserve to be in a room with others Until you can learn how to treat them Like a child being punished for what they have done Your consequences served up with a silver spoon given to you by mom and dad I don’t miss you

25

You said you had the song ***** Little Secret" stuck in your head all day. It's been in mine now, too, for two days. It wasn't supposed to be this way. We're friends now. Friends again. Of COURSE I never stopped loving you but it was six years ago I've moved on! I really have though. I'll always love you, but I have moved on. We're friends now! It's just a couple drinks and then you go home. A drink among two friends who used to be in love. We've seen each other over the years since then! It was fiiiine! ... in a bar surrounded by ten of my friends... why wouldn't it be fiiiine!... to have a couple drinks with your ex while his girlfriend is out of town it's INNOCENT. But then you missed the last train and we were both kind of drunk and I'm not sure at what point I found you mostly naked in my bed and I asked you "what color are your eyes?" as I looked into them when you were on top of me between kisses. "Hazel" you said. "I remembered them being blue." "This can't happen again, she can't know, you can't tell her." "I promise I wouldn't do that to you..." I really won't. But. Why did I remember your eyes being blue? While I was looking into them, for a brief moment, maybe I loved you again?

0

Aug 12, 2017

Aug 12, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC

What color are your eyes?

You said you had the song ***** Little Secret" stuck in your head all day. It's been in mine now, too, for two days. It wasn't supposed to be this way. We're friends now. Friends again. Of COURSE I never stopped loving you but it was six years ago I've moved on! I really have though. I'll always love you, but I have moved on. We're friends now! It's just a couple drinks and then you go home. A drink among two friends who used to be in love. We've seen each other over the years since then! It was fiiiine! ... in a bar surrounded by ten of my friends... why wouldn't it be fiiiine!... to have a couple drinks with your ex while his girlfriend is out of town it's INNOCENT. But then you missed the last train and we were both kind of drunk and I'm not sure at what point I found you mostly naked in my bed and I asked you "what color are your eyes?" as I looked into them when you were on top of me between kisses. "Hazel" you said. "I remembered them being blue." "This can't happen again, she can't know, you can't tell her." "I promise I wouldn't do that to you..." I really won't. But. Why did I remember your eyes being blue? While I was looking into them, for a brief moment, maybe I loved you again?

1

The first time I saw him, I was just barely 16 years old. The types of boys I went for at just barely 16 years old were soft, and feminine, with bangs in their face they'd flip back to look cute. At just barely 16 years old, he was a man. A 19 year old man with a beard. A man with a beard who smoked cigarettes. A man with a beard who smoked cigarettes, marijuana, and drank alcohol. His shirts had holes in them and his jeans were frayed at the bottom. He was the exact opposite of my type. Truly, I thought he was gross. At just barely 16 years old, a man with a beard who smoked cigarettes, marijuana, and drank alcohol was terrifying, and intimidating, and the exact opposite of my type, and of course I fell madly in love with him. I don't believe in one true love. Disney movies tried to convince me that I should and do, but, something always bothered me about the idea. I don't believe in one true love, but I believe in soulmates. I don't believe in one true love, but I believe in love, and I believe that one of the biggest tragedies human beings inflict upon themselves is preventing themselves from being with someone they love. So then why? So then why am I doing exactly that? I still see him the way I saw him the first time I saw him. Except... less gross. I see you. I still see you. I see that you're sick, and I see that you're suffering. And I see that I am the reason that you're suffering, and I see that you're making me suffer in return. At least, I see that that's how you see it. So, now I'm suffering without you because I'm choosing to, because I keep getting told that I'm better off without you, even though better is a feeling and I don't… FEEL... better, and I know that you're better off without me.

0

Jul 10, 2017

Jul 10, 2017 at 4:39 AM UTC

When autism and borderline personality disorder collide - a Neil Hilborn inspired poem

The first time I saw him, I was just barely 16 years old. The types of boys I went for at just barely 16 years old were soft, and feminine, with bangs in their face they'd flip back to look cute. At just barely 16 years old, he was a man. A 19 year old man with a beard. A man with a beard who smoked cigarettes. A man with a beard who smoked cigarettes, marijuana, and drank alcohol. His shirts had holes in them and his jeans were frayed at the bottom. He was the exact opposite of my type. Truly, I thought he was gross. At just barely 16 years old, a man with a beard who smoked cigarettes, marijuana, and drank alcohol was terrifying, and intimidating, and the exact opposite of my type, and of course I fell madly in love with him. I don't believe in one true love. Disney movies tried to convince me that I should and do, but, something always bothered me about the idea. I don't believe in one true love, but I believe in soulmates. I don't believe in one true love, but I believe in love, and I believe that one of the biggest tragedies human beings inflict upon themselves is preventing themselves from being with someone they love. So then why? So then why am I doing exactly that? I still see him the way I saw him the first time I saw him. Except... less gross. I see you. I still see you. I see that you're sick, and I see that you're suffering. And I see that I am the reason that you're suffering, and I see that you're making me suffer in return. At least, I see that that's how you see it. So, now I'm suffering without you because I'm choosing to, because I keep getting told that I'm better off without you, even though better is a feeling and I don't… FEEL... better, and I know that you're better off without me.

1

What does it say about humankind that it defines happiness in a rectangular paper with a number and this symbol on it: $ ? And there is no escape for those who don't define as such. If your definition is anything but $, €, £, ¥, and so on, you, apparently, are not allowed to eat, drink, have a shelter reproduce wear clothes Have a voice...

0

Apr 2, 2015

Apr 2, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC

Day 1 of Poetry Month - $$

What does it say about humankind that it defines happiness in a rectangular paper with a number and this symbol on it: $ ? And there is no escape for those who don't define as such. If your definition is anything but $, €, £, ¥, and so on, you, apparently, are not allowed to eat, drink, have a shelter reproduce wear clothes Have a voice...

5

He looked into my eyes, deeply, and seldomly blinking. His body was trembling, as if the very earth herself quaked within his veins. He was breathing heavily; the intake shallow, the output, shallower still. His skin was damp from the nerves, of course, not the heat. For it had barely begun. He reached for my hand and held it tightly and a part of me, for but a moment, enjoyed the fact that he needed me. He clung to me with his face pressed against my chest occasionally emitting a quiet moan. Eventually, I felt his wet warmth soak into my shirt. It hurt me, but I didn't make him move. I stayed still and held him until the panic attack was over, until the wet tears dried. This is how I defined my love; how I make love. Acceptance, compassion, guidance, and a friend.

0

Jan 21, 2015

Jan 21, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC

There is More Than One Way to Make Love

He looked into my eyes, deeply, and seldomly blinking. His body was trembling, as if the very earth herself quaked within his veins. He was breathing heavily; the intake shallow, the output, shallower still. His skin was damp from the nerves, of course, not the heat. For it had barely begun. He reached for my hand and held it tightly and a part of me, for but a moment, enjoyed the fact that he needed me. He clung to me with his face pressed against my chest occasionally emitting a quiet moan. Eventually, I felt his wet warmth soak into my shirt. It hurt me, but I didn't make him move. I stayed still and held him until the panic attack was over, until the wet tears dried. This is how I defined my love; how I make love. Acceptance, compassion, guidance, and a friend.

1

I know it's better this way but that doesn't mean I won't miss... Your breakfasts in bed You teaching me how to skateboard (by the way I ****** a lot but I wasn't as bad as I made myself seem. I just liked you holding my hand) Singing with you (when you thought I actually sounded good) Our long talks deep into the night when the sun was coming up. Being your big spoon and cuddling you like I was the guy. The way your eyelashes looked ridiculously long when wet. That little wink before walking out of a room. Your super comfy clothes. Watching movies... On the floor. The way you screamed like Hank Hill when you saw a spider. Tickling you, even though it made you hate me. The way you're so passionate about the things you love. The fact that your eyes match the sky. Waking up beside you. The way you never knew I knew you always turned around to make sure I got on the bus but I always saw you. I know it's better this way, but never experiencing any of these things ever again doesn't feel better.

0

Mar 7, 2014

Mar 7, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC

Better this way.

I know it's better this way but that doesn't mean I won't miss... Your breakfasts in bed You teaching me how to skateboard (by the way I ****** a lot but I wasn't as bad as I made myself seem. I just liked you holding my hand) Singing with you (when you thought I actually sounded good) Our long talks deep into the night when the sun was coming up. Being your big spoon and cuddling you like I was the guy. The way your eyelashes looked ridiculously long when wet. That little wink before walking out of a room. Your super comfy clothes. Watching movies... On the floor. The way you screamed like Hank Hill when you saw a spider. Tickling you, even though it made you hate me. The way you're so passionate about the things you love. The fact that your eyes match the sky. Waking up beside you. The way you never knew I knew you always turned around to make sure I got on the bus but I always saw you. I know it's better this way, but never experiencing any of these things ever again doesn't feel better.

17

-After not writing poetry for several months, ones' writing would tend to be emotional, but I seem to be approaching that in the next step. The notion that I would be pent up with emotion seems to have me surpassed. One would assume I'd cry and thrash but quite right in fact that I'm closer to feeling numb. And yes, I guess, a little dumb. When a husband beats his wife, no one in the world could possibly deny that abuse. Why, two black eyes is quite sufficient proof. But there's no shiners you can see from pain that's deep inside... Your psyche, your mind. You can't see therefore it's not hurt, not abuse and no one has been wronged. Love, care, sorriness and guilt are more than words, they're emotions, so why is it that when people claim they love, they take for granted, claim they care, they still act selfish, apologize, yet reoffend, and do it over and over again?

0

Oct 20, 2013

Oct 20, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC

The Hypocrisy of Emotion

-After not writing poetry for several months, ones' writing would tend to be emotional, but I seem to be approaching that in the next step. The notion that I would be pent up with emotion seems to have me surpassed. One would assume I'd cry and thrash but quite right in fact that I'm closer to feeling numb. And yes, I guess, a little dumb. When a husband beats his wife, no one in the world could possibly deny that abuse. Why, two black eyes is quite sufficient proof. But there's no shiners you can see from pain that's deep inside... Your psyche, your mind. You can't see therefore it's not hurt, not abuse and no one has been wronged. Love, care, sorriness and guilt are more than words, they're emotions, so why is it that when people claim they love, they take for granted, claim they care, they still act selfish, apologize, yet reoffend, and do it over and over again?

1

I know that I will never wake up one morning and find you beside me in my bed. I know that I never have - it's not like you were once there and now you're gone; you just never were. I know that who I am is the reason you don't see the same beauty in me that I see in you. I know that you look more at what I am than what I've become. I know that you also look at what I'm not.

0

Jun 28, 2013

Jun 28, 2013 at 4:21 AM UTC

But What Do I Know?

I know that I will never wake up one morning and find you beside me in my bed. I know that I never have - it's not like you were once there and now you're gone; you just never were. I know that who I am is the reason you don't see the same beauty in me that I see in you. I know that you look more at what I am than what I've become. I know that you also look at what I'm not.

5

Roses are multi-coloured, violets are violet, this poem is literal, I have Asperger's. :)

0

Jun 17, 2013

Jun 17, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC

Literally.

Roses are multi-coloured, violets are violet, this poem is literal, I have Asperger's. :)

2

She knew also how strange she measured time. Time and space, and lack of space, and the comfort in a rhyme. There was pre life, post and purgatory, not much, though, in between. Pre life floating synonymous to living, post life, really feeling things. Now floating synonymous to friendship, love to lashing out. Lies in bed with floating while it jealously pouts. In the future lives to come, open eyes, the greeting. Life to living, past to pain, killing soldiers in between and then so much to gain.

0

Mar 4, 2013

Mar 4, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC

All my lives.

She knew also how strange she measured time. Time and space, and lack of space, and the comfort in a rhyme. There was pre life, post and purgatory, not much, though, in between. Pre life floating synonymous to living, post life, really feeling things. Now floating synonymous to friendship, love to lashing out. Lies in bed with floating while it jealously pouts. In the future lives to come, open eyes, the greeting. Life to living, past to pain, killing soldiers in between and then so much to gain.

1