egghead - Hello Poetry

In my great tale my predestined coming-of-age Innocuous, bittersweet glad To have made it this far alive, I hope my heroine is mostly the same. I think I am in one of those years less about changing More about remembering. Returning to the belly that didn’t question Whether it was full or hungry. a return to self-regulation and boundaries that quaked ferociously—screams. That baby—knows how to say no. I don’t think I’m changing. I think I’m remembering things we are untaught we learn again and I sadly believe this is a cyclical thing But today I’m remembering. My coming-of-age 20 returns to two. I write my script in a font that fits and fight the urge to ask my mother’s opinion. I surely will come of age again. Around 32 Again at 45 Heaven forbid I should reach 59. And every year before or after that. 20 returns to two. Remembering histories in vibrant pink Futures, navy blue.

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Jan 5, 2021

Jan 5, 2021 at 10:48 PM UTC

egghead

Coming of Age

In my great tale my predestined coming-of-age Innocuous, bittersweet glad To have made it this far alive, I hope my heroine is mostly the same. I think I am in one of those years less about changing More about remembering. Returning to the belly that didn’t question Whether it was full or hungry. a return to self-regulation and boundaries that quaked ferociously—screams. That baby—knows how to say no. I don’t think I’m changing. I think I’m remembering things we are untaught we learn again and I sadly believe this is a cyclical thing But today I’m remembering. My coming-of-age 20 returns to two. I write my script in a font that fits and fight the urge to ask my mother’s opinion. I surely will come of age again. Around 32 Again at 45 Heaven forbid I should reach 59. And every year before or after that. 20 returns to two. Remembering histories in vibrant pink Futures, navy blue.

32

I believe in the hand of God the way, for many years I believed in myself which sounds promising to those who think they know me. but I concede, I don't believe in god at all. And those who know me best often wish that were not the truth. And I wish I could believe oh, the poetry I could reap. Spinning divine lies falling through time empty promises and walking fine lines. I've been asked to apologize so many times. for my sake they say but I wouldn't have it that way. God's way. my kindness is not a trade for the life I could have after my dying days The truth is, I'm twenty and whether it's today or 80 years from now I'm ready for my darkest eternal sleep and even at the pearly gates if such a place exists before someone else's god I will not repent believing in goodness for my own sake and if oblivion is the price I pay for turning my cheek I will laugh and revel in being right all along. Those who know me well, have to concede that goodness isn't merely a facet of indoctrinated celestial belief and pray for me to be accepted anyway even when I turn m cheek.

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Dec 11, 2020

Dec 11, 2020 at 9:53 AM UTC

egghead

celestial

I believe in the hand of God the way, for many years I believed in myself which sounds promising to those who think they know me. but I concede, I don't believe in god at all. And those who know me best often wish that were not the truth. And I wish I could believe oh, the poetry I could reap. Spinning divine lies falling through time empty promises and walking fine lines. I've been asked to apologize so many times. for my sake they say but I wouldn't have it that way. God's way. my kindness is not a trade for the life I could have after my dying days The truth is, I'm twenty and whether it's today or 80 years from now I'm ready for my darkest eternal sleep and even at the pearly gates if such a place exists before someone else's god I will not repent believing in goodness for my own sake and if oblivion is the price I pay for turning my cheek I will laugh and revel in being right all along. Those who know me well, have to concede that goodness isn't merely a facet of indoctrinated celestial belief and pray for me to be accepted anyway even when I turn m cheek.

36

she wanted to be his escape someplace he could get lost someplace with no direction or destination someplace too dark to see where all speech is touch but she offered him too much so he never wanted to leave and thus it was that she had to break him

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egghead

Oct 8, 2020

Oct 8, 2020 at 8:33 AM UTC

john-destalo

it is never simple

she wanted to be his escape someplace he could get lost someplace with no direction or destination someplace too dark to see where all speech is touch but she offered him too much so he never wanted to leave and thus it was that she had to break him

18

We play with minds but the mind plays us don't use it enough only when convenient or when it's too late when we've been suckered bamboozled into thinking too much about nothing The only reason you are here is to be composted Recycled into something that will in all hopes last forever...

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egghead

Oct 8, 2020

Oct 8, 2020 at 8:30 AM UTC

ladyofire

The Mind is an Engine

We play with minds but the mind plays us don't use it enough only when convenient or when it's too late when we've been suckered bamboozled into thinking too much about nothing The only reason you are here is to be composted Recycled into something that will in all hopes last forever...

12

There are always waiting spectors as morning’s penumbra ripples where chants of the mind play to an audience of one. They shape the mist as dawn expands and connects each breath. The weight of darkness lifts to the edges of ether, emptying the private hole of self. Slowly, the hours open to the hovering light, the soft burn of the sun. Like an instant between seasons, the clot of darkness dissolves. There on the edges of wakefulness, unexpected color breaks open silence, dispersing the night’s assembly of ghosts.

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egghead

Oct 8, 2020

Oct 8, 2020 at 8:29 AM UTC

lutindog

Daybreak

There are always waiting spectors as morning’s penumbra ripples where chants of the mind play to an audience of one. They shape the mist as dawn expands and connects each breath. The weight of darkness lifts to the edges of ether, emptying the private hole of self. Slowly, the hours open to the hovering light, the soft burn of the sun. Like an instant between seasons, the clot of darkness dissolves. There on the edges of wakefulness, unexpected color breaks open silence, dispersing the night’s assembly of ghosts.

18

I keep waiting to write the poem that changes everything. That twists my whole perception of the world and its perception of me too. Is it obtuse to think that I have words worth reading thoughts worth seeing printed in ink and published on page after page? Is it stupid of me to think I could quit everything else love nothing else and be one of those sad artists who dies alone in a room so inspired by my own complexities, that I don't need a view? What is that like? To be so sure and passionate that everything else is static to know or at least feel like nothing is more beautiful or delicate than that art... To never be abandoned again or fail or is it always failure? And wouldn't I like to fail? Just for a minute and take it all back if the taste is too bitter. I keep waiting to write the poem that changes everything. The poem that changes me. That makes me brave or better softer or stronger I don't care which. I want to be that fluid, translucent being whose tears are written into her skin whose desires stream out like songs. But I can't write that poem. And if I change anything, the one thing would change everything and I am scared to leave this girl whose skin is so thin and whose heart is open to bleed out with nothing more than a never-used, sharp pen if I never write that poem.

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Oct 7, 2020

Oct 7, 2020 at 4:18 PM UTC

egghead

writing the poem

I keep waiting to write the poem that changes everything. That twists my whole perception of the world and its perception of me too. Is it obtuse to think that I have words worth reading thoughts worth seeing printed in ink and published on page after page? Is it stupid of me to think I could quit everything else love nothing else and be one of those sad artists who dies alone in a room so inspired by my own complexities, that I don't need a view? What is that like? To be so sure and passionate that everything else is static to know or at least feel like nothing is more beautiful or delicate than that art... To never be abandoned again or fail or is it always failure? And wouldn't I like to fail? Just for a minute and take it all back if the taste is too bitter. I keep waiting to write the poem that changes everything. The poem that changes me. That makes me brave or better softer or stronger I don't care which. I want to be that fluid, translucent being whose tears are written into her skin whose desires stream out like songs. But I can't write that poem. And if I change anything, the one thing would change everything and I am scared to leave this girl whose skin is so thin and whose heart is open to bleed out with nothing more than a never-used, sharp pen if I never write that poem.

51