Nemesis - Hello Poetry

The house is haunted. I swear it by the way the tiles creaked. Her father kept her as a hostage, Imprisoned by her lack of knowledge. I swore I saw their ghosts Cursing at each other through the walls. I missed my reflection in the mirror; She grinned at me from a cup at dinner Cursed by a child’s sadness, She is just like her mother—helpless. What a pretty golden cage, With a garden to tend, to bury her rage. Look at the father's ***** claws. He was captured for seven months. He used to fight at the front Carried it back and brought it home. Look at me, clawing at the walls, Eavesdropping on the ghostly calls. Look at the birdcage's paper bars, With tiny toy soldier guards. Look at their scribbling on the paper, Painting mountains, lakes, and nature Making peace with the haunted house, Writing clips on wings to hide inside.

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Apr 10, 2025

Apr 10, 2025 at 1:38 PM UTC

Nemesis

Where Ghosts Tend Gardens

The house is haunted. I swear it by the way the tiles creaked. Her father kept her as a hostage, Imprisoned by her lack of knowledge. I swore I saw their ghosts Cursing at each other through the walls. I missed my reflection in the mirror; She grinned at me from a cup at dinner Cursed by a child’s sadness, She is just like her mother—helpless. What a pretty golden cage, With a garden to tend, to bury her rage. Look at the father's ***** claws. He was captured for seven months. He used to fight at the front Carried it back and brought it home. Look at me, clawing at the walls, Eavesdropping on the ghostly calls. Look at the birdcage's paper bars, With tiny toy soldier guards. Look at their scribbling on the paper, Painting mountains, lakes, and nature Making peace with the haunted house, Writing clips on wings to hide inside.

24

I can tell a good thing just from one sight As a newborn, I hugged my mother tight And I knew from the first glance at the Sun I was glad I was born in a summer month Could tell from the way you handled light How it lit up your face, how you smiled bright, That I want to bask in it all my life. I would attach wings to my back to fly They melt to a puddle but I feel the shine I will gladly take the fall and die, For knowing the disaster that would come Still, soaring high up and risking it all, is a kind of courage I never owned But who wants to die without feeling scorned? I’d rather bear the burn marks on my skin, Scars, scabs, and tears, than to be soft and clean. A clean corpse dressed in white laying in the grave, without stains on my skin without pain Not the Sun in the sky, not the heat, Just the cold ground and the mites to meet.

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Apr 5, 2025

Apr 5, 2025 at 5:16 PM UTC

Nemesis

Between the Sun and the Grave

I can tell a good thing just from one sight As a newborn, I hugged my mother tight And I knew from the first glance at the Sun I was glad I was born in a summer month Could tell from the way you handled light How it lit up your face, how you smiled bright, That I want to bask in it all my life. I would attach wings to my back to fly They melt to a puddle but I feel the shine I will gladly take the fall and die, For knowing the disaster that would come Still, soaring high up and risking it all, is a kind of courage I never owned But who wants to die without feeling scorned? I’d rather bear the burn marks on my skin, Scars, scabs, and tears, than to be soft and clean. A clean corpse dressed in white laying in the grave, without stains on my skin without pain Not the Sun in the sky, not the heat, Just the cold ground and the mites to meet.

20

Little pond, little pond, In the heart of this town, Two little frogs sitting side by side, We were young, barely five. We played with rocks, sticks Jump ropes, chess, and dominoes All those harmless little things. He brought a stick, and I the stone. He claimed the pond was our kingdom. We were both knights with a cause Defeat everyone who can do harm. The water is muddy; it needs cleansing. See how those green monsters keep splashing? They need to be defeated. He palmed the stone in his tiny hands, Threw the rock as it splashed. The first one missed, the second skipped, The third cracked as it hit. “It is nothing but a frog,” he protested. It was something small, alive, and green, Not something that a boy can **** But how violent can love be? He batters his hands. Why is it in his nature to crash? Look at the frogs; see how they jump But how would they look If they were crushed? If you want to stay, my friend, Wrangle their little necks, Gouge out their eyes, Tear at their insides. Rocks are made To crush, crush, crush Can you feel The rush, rush, rush? Two frogs sitting by the pond, With their hands and legs torn. I shook my head Not made for violent acts, And to do this for his satisfaction Would be self-betraying, Not fitting for innocent beings. Two innocent beings, Sitting side by side Is he worth it, Shedding blood for? When I look at my reflection, She knows she wants more. "Crush them, crush them," you chanted I hesitated back then. Innocent and right, But at home, You had to fight. Later, they buried the hole. The dirt and ground covered them whole. Two little frogs, side by side, Now they sit with heads torn wide. Violence breeds violent acts. Rocks and sticks Can shift from toys And playing children To careless fools. It's right, it's alright. I know you had to fight. Draw your sword and die by it. At home, his fist shaped to hit, And the cycle is just habit. The predator chases the rabbit. And if you ask me again, I might not think twice Two frogs sitting side by side.

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Apr 5, 2025

Apr 5, 2025 at 12:20 PM UTC

Nemesis

The Things We Did With Stones

Little pond, little pond, In the heart of this town, Two little frogs sitting side by side, We were young, barely five. We played with rocks, sticks Jump ropes, chess, and dominoes All those harmless little things. He brought a stick, and I the stone. He claimed the pond was our kingdom. We were both knights with a cause Defeat everyone who can do harm. The water is muddy; it needs cleansing. See how those green monsters keep splashing? They need to be defeated. He palmed the stone in his tiny hands, Threw the rock as it splashed. The first one missed, the second skipped, The third cracked as it hit. “It is nothing but a frog,” he protested. It was something small, alive, and green, Not something that a boy can **** But how violent can love be? He batters his hands. Why is it in his nature to crash? Look at the frogs; see how they jump But how would they look If they were crushed? If you want to stay, my friend, Wrangle their little necks, Gouge out their eyes, Tear at their insides. Rocks are made To crush, crush, crush Can you feel The rush, rush, rush? Two frogs sitting by the pond, With their hands and legs torn. I shook my head Not made for violent acts, And to do this for his satisfaction Would be self-betraying, Not fitting for innocent beings. Two innocent beings, Sitting side by side Is he worth it, Shedding blood for? When I look at my reflection, She knows she wants more. "Crush them, crush them," you chanted I hesitated back then. Innocent and right, But at home, You had to fight. Later, they buried the hole. The dirt and ground covered them whole. Two little frogs, side by side, Now they sit with heads torn wide. Violence breeds violent acts. Rocks and sticks Can shift from toys And playing children To careless fools. It's right, it's alright. I know you had to fight. Draw your sword and die by it. At home, his fist shaped to hit, And the cycle is just habit. The predator chases the rabbit. And if you ask me again, I might not think twice Two frogs sitting side by side.

71

Can I be as beautiful as the Mona Lisa? Draped in blue like Margarita Teresa? My features soft and kind A nature so mature and polite Can I have a man who paints Relaxed and focused before the flames, With hands stained by strokes of time With a passion for hues and rhymes? He will paint me slow and detailed- Mouthless, faceless, truly changed He spends hours perfecting my ears He never talks when he concentrates. With every stroke, he paints hues purple, red, and a touch of blue He invents new colors, studies the anatomy Counts the bones inside the knee He learns the composition. bends me into a new position. A new art form now Realistic, still unrecognized. For while I am sitting in my chair He selects shades for my hair I am now framed and proud Worthy of being fawned about When his masterpiece is complete Mourns then moves to new conceits Hung in the Louvre—by my neck, pale and still A brushstroke by his graceful will You will know me by my mystery smile. Find recognition of me in his style I can be viewed now through his lens More of an art and less a self.

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Apr 2, 2025

Apr 2, 2025 at 5:28 AM UTC

Nemesis

The Portrait of...

Can I be as beautiful as the Mona Lisa? Draped in blue like Margarita Teresa? My features soft and kind A nature so mature and polite Can I have a man who paints Relaxed and focused before the flames, With hands stained by strokes of time With a passion for hues and rhymes? He will paint me slow and detailed- Mouthless, faceless, truly changed He spends hours perfecting my ears He never talks when he concentrates. With every stroke, he paints hues purple, red, and a touch of blue He invents new colors, studies the anatomy Counts the bones inside the knee He learns the composition. bends me into a new position. A new art form now Realistic, still unrecognized. For while I am sitting in my chair He selects shades for my hair I am now framed and proud Worthy of being fawned about When his masterpiece is complete Mourns then moves to new conceits Hung in the Louvre—by my neck, pale and still A brushstroke by his graceful will You will know me by my mystery smile. Find recognition of me in his style I can be viewed now through his lens More of an art and less a self.

33

Ever since I was a child, I counted all the ways we could die falling through ice, an earthquake, Even the weather seems to panic. Somewhere in the world, right now, A fish is struggling to get by. But it dies by the hand of a man. who thinks death is a pastime. We die small deaths every time Like scissors in hair, shedding of skin when I knew all the ways he would leave Once, just once in my life, I want to feel delicate. Not like the hole in the drywall. shaped like a fist. Once, I want to shred the list. that contains all the ways we could miss Just once, I do not want to be sharp. like a cutting knife, like a blade Even in death, there is rebirth flies, mites, beetles, feeding on someone’s deathbed. From just one conversation, I could smell the rot the body left untouched for a month, Is it wrong to say? That ever since I was a child I lived with ghosts in my house. And I was never soft in my life. just bones and flesh with a brain filled with living death.

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Mar 31, 2025

Mar 31, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC

Nemesis

I saw all the ways we could Die

Ever since I was a child, I counted all the ways we could die falling through ice, an earthquake, Even the weather seems to panic. Somewhere in the world, right now, A fish is struggling to get by. But it dies by the hand of a man. who thinks death is a pastime. We die small deaths every time Like scissors in hair, shedding of skin when I knew all the ways he would leave Once, just once in my life, I want to feel delicate. Not like the hole in the drywall. shaped like a fist. Once, I want to shred the list. that contains all the ways we could miss Just once, I do not want to be sharp. like a cutting knife, like a blade Even in death, there is rebirth flies, mites, beetles, feeding on someone’s deathbed. From just one conversation, I could smell the rot the body left untouched for a month, Is it wrong to say? That ever since I was a child I lived with ghosts in my house. And I was never soft in my life. just bones and flesh with a brain filled with living death.

31

I think about how my body makes it impossible for me to love. The truth is, I am shapeless—like a dropped clay *** shattered, with pieces lodged inside my bones. He called me a liar, but here I am, telling another truth: You cannot plant flowers in something that cannot hold. I convinced my mind, with all its force, that the Lord took apart your bones and sculpted something flawless, more beautiful than angels, brighter than the morning sun. And you are too high. too pure, to shine on something so lowly. The truth is, darling, You made me feel unworthy. But I am sure she is a vase full of flowers— worth more than sunshine that fades in two hours. And I will crawl back into my dark cave, convincing myself that light is something I no longer crave.

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Mar 31, 2025

Mar 31, 2025 at 4:04 PM UTC

Nemesis

Vase full of Flowers

I think about how my body makes it impossible for me to love. The truth is, I am shapeless—like a dropped clay *** shattered, with pieces lodged inside my bones. He called me a liar, but here I am, telling another truth: You cannot plant flowers in something that cannot hold. I convinced my mind, with all its force, that the Lord took apart your bones and sculpted something flawless, more beautiful than angels, brighter than the morning sun. And you are too high. too pure, to shine on something so lowly. The truth is, darling, You made me feel unworthy. But I am sure she is a vase full of flowers— worth more than sunshine that fades in two hours. And I will crawl back into my dark cave, convincing myself that light is something I no longer crave.

21

His hands seemed almost bizarre on the fork. How can something so large handle something so small? Did my mother's hand fit into his at all? I wondered as he chewed up the dead pork. "It does not taste right." He says as he takes another bite. The blood is foaming from his open mouth. "It is half-cooked and still fresh; the animal still tries. to outrun his flesh. It is hard to bite and dry." He tries to say as he swallows, even as it rots He keeps just eating more. Then he slams the fork. chants curses that would put a priest inside the morgue I listen to him call God as I ponder about loving In the black and white pictures, it existed. where my mother's eyes still smiled where her movements were not rehearsed where she didn't have to keep the glass half full so it wouldn't burst I see her in my reflection: a sad-eyed girl. with a table filled with savory and sweet But Mother, do we share this quiet rage when we eat? You wish you could replace his head on the plate? Mother, are you a good actress? Do you keep knives under your dress? Does your mind create images? Where you pay off all the witnesses. "Will you ever feed me something other than your tears?" He shouts as he slams his fists. and his hands make sounds as loud as war bombs We learned when to be quiet. when to soak up all the silence But, Mother, in your mind, is he still the head of the table? Or just a head on the plate?

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Mar 31, 2025

Mar 31, 2025 at 2:24 PM UTC

Nemesis

Head of the Table

His hands seemed almost bizarre on the fork. How can something so large handle something so small? Did my mother's hand fit into his at all? I wondered as he chewed up the dead pork. "It does not taste right." He says as he takes another bite. The blood is foaming from his open mouth. "It is half-cooked and still fresh; the animal still tries. to outrun his flesh. It is hard to bite and dry." He tries to say as he swallows, even as it rots He keeps just eating more. Then he slams the fork. chants curses that would put a priest inside the morgue I listen to him call God as I ponder about loving In the black and white pictures, it existed. where my mother's eyes still smiled where her movements were not rehearsed where she didn't have to keep the glass half full so it wouldn't burst I see her in my reflection: a sad-eyed girl. with a table filled with savory and sweet But Mother, do we share this quiet rage when we eat? You wish you could replace his head on the plate? Mother, are you a good actress? Do you keep knives under your dress? Does your mind create images? Where you pay off all the witnesses. "Will you ever feed me something other than your tears?" He shouts as he slams his fists. and his hands make sounds as loud as war bombs We learned when to be quiet. when to soak up all the silence But, Mother, in your mind, is he still the head of the table? Or just a head on the plate?

32

I never understood my mother. She used to rest with a book in her hands. She read novels about tragedies and stolen lands. Skin-to-skin with my father Why does she read books about fights and wars? At her feet lived a real-life Hoplite man. Already thinking about his phalanx plan. How to conquer or claim forbidden lands He never understood my mother. Why bother with peaceful streams? When in battle, steel swords gleam. Crimson blood and gunshot dreams Me on my couch with my Greek tragedies At my heels rests my warrior, Achilles. In his mind, he builds monasteries. While I read about the conquered seas I feel like my mother understood the thunder. Whenever he had a moment with my father, Maybe he had a glimpse of peace. While he looked up at my mother's face

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Mar 31, 2025

Mar 31, 2025 at 1:41 PM UTC

Nemesis

Greek Tragedies

I never understood my mother. She used to rest with a book in her hands. She read novels about tragedies and stolen lands. Skin-to-skin with my father Why does she read books about fights and wars? At her feet lived a real-life Hoplite man. Already thinking about his phalanx plan. How to conquer or claim forbidden lands He never understood my mother. Why bother with peaceful streams? When in battle, steel swords gleam. Crimson blood and gunshot dreams Me on my couch with my Greek tragedies At my heels rests my warrior, Achilles. In his mind, he builds monasteries. While I read about the conquered seas I feel like my mother understood the thunder. Whenever he had a moment with my father, Maybe he had a glimpse of peace. While he looked up at my mother's face

20

My heart beats faster when I see you. It also does that when I’m scared, too. And instead of pleasant butterflies I feel like you are stabbing my insides. Loving you comes in destructive waves. Like a flood that drowns, our graves Maybe you’re not worthy of pure love. At trial, they judge you from above. Hear a whisper: "You’re not ready yet." More pain, you still haven’t paid your debt. Want to scream "I’m not just bad timing." Imbalances are all there is to lightning. Like a raging fire can’t stop the ash A speeding accident can’t stop the crash. And a hurricane is just the weather. like the freezing cold in December. When an earthquake occurs, it's just a slip. I'm not at fault; I’m drawn to your lips. Fresh blood will be my ink when I rhyme. And the thought of you will fade with time. The cheerful laugh you faked when you hoped to die Just thoughts on this page already dry Poetry makes, "I’ll never love you." Sound like honey and red wine; it's true.

0

Mar 31, 2025

Mar 31, 2025 at 12:19 PM UTC

Nemesis

Natural Disaster

My heart beats faster when I see you. It also does that when I’m scared, too. And instead of pleasant butterflies I feel like you are stabbing my insides. Loving you comes in destructive waves. Like a flood that drowns, our graves Maybe you’re not worthy of pure love. At trial, they judge you from above. Hear a whisper: "You’re not ready yet." More pain, you still haven’t paid your debt. Want to scream "I’m not just bad timing." Imbalances are all there is to lightning. Like a raging fire can’t stop the ash A speeding accident can’t stop the crash. And a hurricane is just the weather. like the freezing cold in December. When an earthquake occurs, it's just a slip. I'm not at fault; I’m drawn to your lips. Fresh blood will be my ink when I rhyme. And the thought of you will fade with time. The cheerful laugh you faked when you hoped to die Just thoughts on this page already dry Poetry makes, "I’ll never love you." Sound like honey and red wine; it's true.

24

She is a sculptor, carefully molding And just as precisely, she is folding. Digs through the earth in search of sapphire eyes Rips the wheat for hair, just like she desires. When it finally speaks, the voice is weak. "Breathe life in me; feelings are what I seek." Oh, how perfect her strangest creation! Broken fragments of imagination. "You’re my blank page, I can fill with stories." "The low whisper to hush all my worries" First, she teaches it to dance, then how to Sing, shows the color of the sky is blue. Secondly, she shows the earth and the dead. Rotting in the ground below, blood is red. Also, color of love: never worry. Learn to appreciate all the beauty. On the third day, it longs to be free now. Searching the dark, it was shown for a way out. It screams, "I don’t belong to anyone." "I am free as birds that fly toward dawn." "I made you, showed you the world; stay faithful. There’s no breaking free; don’t be ungrateful." Now it sneaks out at night through the back door. Freedom and chains are falling to the floor. She is like flowing rivers, tracing maps. can even travel seven continents sculpts her own path with wood and bleeding hands knows that there are harmless and harmful plants She wants to stick her hand in them to feel. thinks it would be nice after it to heal Still now the blood drops, the footsteps grow strong. She is forced back into her hole by bond. For a sculptor loves its creation dearly. just wants to tweak and work on it daily Shall the potter be regarded as the clay too? In her road for discovery, did she grow? Can she let go of what she created? Or clip its wings and lock all the cages? My dear sculptor, let it go; let her roam. She might just be the future's next grindstone. As God, doubtful of her own creation What if what her hand makes can conquer nations? Does it not deserve to sculpt just as she? To shake like earthquakes, scream like a banshee. Let her go, let her go, it echoes now. She stands back, no longer a sculptor but a guide. The chisel drops from her shaking hand. as the marble moves and bows her head.

0

Mar 31, 2025

Mar 31, 2025 at 10:38 AM UTC

Nemesis

The Sculptor

She is a sculptor, carefully molding And just as precisely, she is folding. Digs through the earth in search of sapphire eyes Rips the wheat for hair, just like she desires. When it finally speaks, the voice is weak. "Breathe life in me; feelings are what I seek." Oh, how perfect her strangest creation! Broken fragments of imagination. "You’re my blank page, I can fill with stories." "The low whisper to hush all my worries" First, she teaches it to dance, then how to Sing, shows the color of the sky is blue. Secondly, she shows the earth and the dead. Rotting in the ground below, blood is red. Also, color of love: never worry. Learn to appreciate all the beauty. On the third day, it longs to be free now. Searching the dark, it was shown for a way out. It screams, "I don’t belong to anyone." "I am free as birds that fly toward dawn." "I made you, showed you the world; stay faithful. There’s no breaking free; don’t be ungrateful." Now it sneaks out at night through the back door. Freedom and chains are falling to the floor. She is like flowing rivers, tracing maps. can even travel seven continents sculpts her own path with wood and bleeding hands knows that there are harmless and harmful plants She wants to stick her hand in them to feel. thinks it would be nice after it to heal Still now the blood drops, the footsteps grow strong. She is forced back into her hole by bond. For a sculptor loves its creation dearly. just wants to tweak and work on it daily Shall the potter be regarded as the clay too? In her road for discovery, did she grow? Can she let go of what she created? Or clip its wings and lock all the cages? My dear sculptor, let it go; let her roam. She might just be the future's next grindstone. As God, doubtful of her own creation What if what her hand makes can conquer nations? Does it not deserve to sculpt just as she? To shake like earthquakes, scream like a banshee. Let her go, let her go, it echoes now. She stands back, no longer a sculptor but a guide. The chisel drops from her shaking hand. as the marble moves and bows her head.

48