izan_almira - Hello Poetry

I don't smile when I'm alone. It's not that I'm not happy. Not at all. But let me explain myself, isn't smiling an act of communication rather than a mirror of the heart? An attempt to disuade questions, an attempt to share a feeling with your neighbor. So why should we smile when there is no receptor?

0

Oct 31, 2025

Oct 31, 2025 at 7:26 AM UTC

unnamed

I don't smile when I'm alone. It's not that I'm not happy. Not at all. But let me explain myself, isn't smiling an act of communication rather than a mirror of the heart? An attempt to disuade questions, an attempt to share a feeling with your neighbor. So why should we smile when there is no receptor?

11

Have you ever been happy? Been so happy it was blinding? Have you ever wanted to die? I am terrified of being low again because maybe the next time I hit the ground it will **** me in and I will never get to see the light again. I am terrified of imagining blades on my wrists. I am terrified of the black sluggishness in my brain. I am terrified of the stitched smiles upon my face. I am terrified of hopelessness and shame. I don’t want to be low ever again. I don’t want to live through that pain ever again. I want to live. I need to want to live. I need to see life as blindingly white. But I see the feeling fade away before my eyes, and I can only reach for it with lanky arms; my fingers gracing the reflection of something that was long ago solid but somehow melted, vaporised, disappeared. And I will be forever too weak to do anything about it but learn to miss a happiness I began to mourn the day it arrived. I can only watch as my reasons to live go away in a hope that my mind will not conjure up a new list, but for the reasons to forever stop this pain.

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Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 6:57 AM UTC

Happiness and fear

Have you ever been happy? Been so happy it was blinding? Have you ever wanted to die? I am terrified of being low again because maybe the next time I hit the ground it will **** me in and I will never get to see the light again. I am terrified of imagining blades on my wrists. I am terrified of the black sluggishness in my brain. I am terrified of the stitched smiles upon my face. I am terrified of hopelessness and shame. I don’t want to be low ever again. I don’t want to live through that pain ever again. I want to live. I need to want to live. I need to see life as blindingly white. But I see the feeling fade away before my eyes, and I can only reach for it with lanky arms; my fingers gracing the reflection of something that was long ago solid but somehow melted, vaporised, disappeared. And I will be forever too weak to do anything about it but learn to miss a happiness I began to mourn the day it arrived. I can only watch as my reasons to live go away in a hope that my mind will not conjure up a new list, but for the reasons to forever stop this pain.

27

If we’re God’s paintings, I want to ask him to stop adding layers to mine; that I have always liked incomplete finishes. That I need no more lights– no more life– Than he can please bring me to an end.

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Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 3:24 AM UTC

Prayer

If we’re God’s paintings, I want to ask him to stop adding layers to mine; that I have always liked incomplete finishes. That I need no more lights– no more life– Than he can please bring me to an end.

11

Sometimes I get startled by my own thoughts, they creep through the walls of my mind haunting like a ghost, physical like a corpse. And I only notice them when it is already too late. When they have already been formed, they already exist, weight. I’ll throw them like stones to a pond and they sink, sink sink until it fills fills fills…

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Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 3:15 AM UTC

Thoughts

Sometimes I get startled by my own thoughts, they creep through the walls of my mind haunting like a ghost, physical like a corpse. And I only notice them when it is already too late. When they have already been formed, they already exist, weight. I’ll throw them like stones to a pond and they sink, sink sink until it fills fills fills…

9

What does desperation look like? It looks like a top two sizes too small, like a jumper on summer, like a self inflicted scar. It looks like an empty bottle of pills laying on the bathroom floor, like a smile too bright, too big, like a phone call at night, like a goodbye. Desperation looks like everyday life.

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Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 3:13 AM UTC

Desperation

What does desperation look like? It looks like a top two sizes too small, like a jumper on summer, like a self inflicted scar. It looks like an empty bottle of pills laying on the bathroom floor, like a smile too bright, too big, like a phone call at night, like a goodbye. Desperation looks like everyday life.

10

The hall boozed with excitement. The first exam of your GCSE— it was a subject you could barely pass. And so you sat, while everyone else laughed, cried or revised, you closed your eyes. Your left hand on your right one’s wrist. Adding pressure to it as if to stop the bloodflow. More and more until someday a blade would no longer terrify your brain. Training yourself for the moment you died.

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Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 3:12 AM UTC

Memories

The hall boozed with excitement. The first exam of your GCSE— it was a subject you could barely pass. And so you sat, while everyone else laughed, cried or revised, you closed your eyes. Your left hand on your right one’s wrist. Adding pressure to it as if to stop the bloodflow. More and more until someday a blade would no longer terrify your brain. Training yourself for the moment you died.

12

I look in the mirror: my ribs shape my frame, like lines that never go away. They cage my heart, turn it small. A week sick. ***** Smell of decaying flesh. No food for a week. Only the necessary water to live. I couldn’t breathe. Now it has sculpted my frame, made it fragile and small. I put a shirt on; hide it, push it away.

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Aug 9, 2025

Aug 9, 2025 at 9:10 AM UTC

Weight lost

I look in the mirror: my ribs shape my frame, like lines that never go away. They cage my heart, turn it small. A week sick. ***** Smell of decaying flesh. No food for a week. Only the necessary water to live. I couldn’t breathe. Now it has sculpted my frame, made it fragile and small. I put a shirt on; hide it, push it away.

15

Cleaning up my room. Open a wardrobe that’s been closed for too long. As old sketchbooks stack on the floor, my hand reaches to touch a sharp blade and a knife makes old memories bloom. Everything feels red as words leave my throat, the music on my headphones far away, my body lost somewhere a few years ago. A kid stealing a knife from the kitchen, keeping it hidden and close out of instinct, like the cat that stops eating when he feels death’s approach. No scars fill my arms now, but sometimes their texture reminds me of that time, where I was a push away from falling into an addiction that spills blood out of your system like pain went with it and leaves marks on it that no words can take away.

0

Aug 9, 2025

Aug 9, 2025 at 8:50 AM UTC

Knife

Cleaning up my room. Open a wardrobe that’s been closed for too long. As old sketchbooks stack on the floor, my hand reaches to touch a sharp blade and a knife makes old memories bloom. Everything feels red as words leave my throat, the music on my headphones far away, my body lost somewhere a few years ago. A kid stealing a knife from the kitchen, keeping it hidden and close out of instinct, like the cat that stops eating when he feels death’s approach. No scars fill my arms now, but sometimes their texture reminds me of that time, where I was a push away from falling into an addiction that spills blood out of your system like pain went with it and leaves marks on it that no words can take away.

16

There is a spider in the corner of my room, and I’m deathly scared of spiders. But I won’t **** her, because aren’t spiders deathly afraid of humans too? They should. We ****** them, choke them, torture them to death. We scream and break their eardrums at the mere sight of them, we insult them. I would. If I was a spider, I’d be deathly scared of humans. But no spiders **** humans and all humans **** spiders. (Still, spiders are the monsters in every tale) Why do we try to make everything we’re afraid of disappear?, instead of learning to cope with the fear. There is a spider in the corner of my room, and I’m deathly scared of spiders, but I won’t **** her. She didn’t choose to be born that way.

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Jul 25, 2025

Jul 25, 2025 at 4:30 PM UTC

This poem is not about spiders

There is a spider in the corner of my room, and I’m deathly scared of spiders. But I won’t **** her, because aren’t spiders deathly afraid of humans too? They should. We ****** them, choke them, torture them to death. We scream and break their eardrums at the mere sight of them, we insult them. I would. If I was a spider, I’d be deathly scared of humans. But no spiders **** humans and all humans **** spiders. (Still, spiders are the monsters in every tale) Why do we try to make everything we’re afraid of disappear?, instead of learning to cope with the fear. There is a spider in the corner of my room, and I’m deathly scared of spiders, but I won’t **** her. She didn’t choose to be born that way.

20

I also know why the caged bird sings. He does so because the bars were forged in hatred, and the whole world has turned into a simple room, as when your eyesight only reaches the horizon, and you can’t walk past it anymore, you forget there was anything ahead of it. The caged bird sings because he thinks he chirps the truth, yet they are lies, propaganda repeated from who first captured him. The caged bird sings because blindly repeating what he once heard like a mindless parrot gives him a fake sense of freedom, even when his only prison is his own mind.

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Jul 19, 2025

Jul 19, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC

I also know why the caged bird sings

I also know why the caged bird sings. He does so because the bars were forged in hatred, and the whole world has turned into a simple room, as when your eyesight only reaches the horizon, and you can’t walk past it anymore, you forget there was anything ahead of it. The caged bird sings because he thinks he chirps the truth, yet they are lies, propaganda repeated from who first captured him. The caged bird sings because blindly repeating what he once heard like a mindless parrot gives him a fake sense of freedom, even when his only prison is his own mind.

12