karandorie - Hello Poetry

sometimes I wonder how it would be like, coming to a standstill in the middle of the road back facing the traffic flow I wouldnt even see it coming 15, my parents left me this walking equivalent of insecurity and self loathe and really, nothing good comes out from this.

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Feb 20, 2014

Feb 20, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC

but if you close your eyes it'll be alright

sometimes I wonder how it would be like, coming to a standstill in the middle of the road back facing the traffic flow I wouldnt even see it coming 15, my parents left me this walking equivalent of insecurity and self loathe and really, nothing good comes out from this.

8

you forgot to lock the door after you left you also forgot to unlock the door between us maybe both of us did not know how to love each other or maybe I couldnt love you the way you wanted to or you couldnt love a demanding wreck how she wanted to be that we were two intersecting lines that somehow returned to being parallel there is light cast on the solid concrete walls and nights you dont return you're not supposed to at fifteen I left myself wondering why no one would love me at fifteen I couldnt give myself an answer, no one else could either I smell like cigarettes I didnt smoke and regretted words I didnt say and left love hanging in mid-air when you forgot to lock the door after you walked out of.

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Feb 3, 2014

Feb 3, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC

I dont know what we're left with.

you forgot to lock the door after you left you also forgot to unlock the door between us maybe both of us did not know how to love each other or maybe I couldnt love you the way you wanted to or you couldnt love a demanding wreck how she wanted to be that we were two intersecting lines that somehow returned to being parallel there is light cast on the solid concrete walls and nights you dont return you're not supposed to at fifteen I left myself wondering why no one would love me at fifteen I couldnt give myself an answer, no one else could either I smell like cigarettes I didnt smoke and regretted words I didnt say and left love hanging in mid-air when you forgot to lock the door after you walked out of.

13

There is a calmness after a storm to remind you nothing is permanent; not even the storms that once roared so fiercely, not even the calmness after. There is no calmness when he walked away but there was no storm either, his footsteps werent puddles and he wasnt a rain cloud. The house didnt shake and the furniture didnt rattle the only thing that did, was your frame but there was no calmness because inside you was a hurricane composed of regret and remorse and confusion and longing shook you in every thought you harboured and ached in every breath you took until it was too much to contain and you see the storm in your eyes and hear the thunder in your screams. You wonder what you can do the calm the raging storm what can you do; sixteen is not an adequate age to be handling storms well enough to not leave a mess of an aftermath. But all storms will eventually cease and so will this, and in the silence of the night you are kept awake trying to remember the calmness before the storm, and after it. Outside the wind is howling and it is a beautiful sound; the downpour steady, it keeps you at peace and before the soft cosmic rays of dawn reaches your windowsill on nights like these,you anticipate another storm.

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Dec 26, 2013

Dec 26, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC

A little something about storms

There is a calmness after a storm to remind you nothing is permanent; not even the storms that once roared so fiercely, not even the calmness after. There is no calmness when he walked away but there was no storm either, his footsteps werent puddles and he wasnt a rain cloud. The house didnt shake and the furniture didnt rattle the only thing that did, was your frame but there was no calmness because inside you was a hurricane composed of regret and remorse and confusion and longing shook you in every thought you harboured and ached in every breath you took until it was too much to contain and you see the storm in your eyes and hear the thunder in your screams. You wonder what you can do the calm the raging storm what can you do; sixteen is not an adequate age to be handling storms well enough to not leave a mess of an aftermath. But all storms will eventually cease and so will this, and in the silence of the night you are kept awake trying to remember the calmness before the storm, and after it. Outside the wind is howling and it is a beautiful sound; the downpour steady, it keeps you at peace and before the soft cosmic rays of dawn reaches your windowsill on nights like these,you anticipate another storm.

1

Monday was the languidly curling wisps of steam the cup of tea you didnt drink Tuesday was the pale clouds hovering to the waves roaring trying to keep up with your heart's beating Wednesday was the phone you left uncharged the night before your lover who left before you saw Thursday was the lazy morning the window panes foggy you woke up 10.00am your vision still hazy Friday was sobranie sweetly sickly you try to drown your worries Saturday was the night sky starless you sat beneath it, sleepless Sunday was the low rumbling of the train tracks blue skies turned into black

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Dec 18, 2013

Dec 18, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC

on some days I still think of you

Monday was the languidly curling wisps of steam the cup of tea you didnt drink Tuesday was the pale clouds hovering to the waves roaring trying to keep up with your heart's beating Wednesday was the phone you left uncharged the night before your lover who left before you saw Thursday was the lazy morning the window panes foggy you woke up 10.00am your vision still hazy Friday was sobranie sweetly sickly you try to drown your worries Saturday was the night sky starless you sat beneath it, sleepless Sunday was the low rumbling of the train tracks blue skies turned into black

14

Im boarding a metro in a city you've been to, two seasons before, venturing a street that you've walked back in summer trying to see what you saw, like that unusual statue you were so fond of. I did find it, I think, that it looks better in your photos. Im looking out from the window of a small teahouse I came across, wedged inside a small alley. I wonder if you've ever found this little place-you'd probably fall in love with it more than I do. I guess a city looks offbeat in changing seasons, like the way you'd always be able to tell twins apart, but how they tend to be so similar in so many ways. Im here trying to adjust my scarf and it is not easy to think how you were snacking on your third ice cream and complaining how tropical the weather here was. You are eccentric about the places you go, in a foreign city with nothing but a map and hand signs to rely on, telling me about that one little shop on a street with a name I've never heard of, In a city with more metro lines than my fingers could possibly count, with such longing to return to that I, wondered what caused you to be such attached to a place where no one could understand you, that people walked in a different pace and spoke in a different tongue, that rain there didnt fall as often as it did here, back where you were telling me about unfamiliar cities. I am, constantly thinking, more about the cities you've told me about, and less about you. It wasnt until I got lost in the same city the same way you did that I realised I loved the way you portrayed places more than the actual place itself because two seasons later, I find myself looking for the ghost of you in a city I've never been to.

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Nov 25, 2013

Nov 25, 2013 at 7:04 AM UTC

I found myself looking for the ghost of you in a city I've never been to

Im boarding a metro in a city you've been to, two seasons before, venturing a street that you've walked back in summer trying to see what you saw, like that unusual statue you were so fond of. I did find it, I think, that it looks better in your photos. Im looking out from the window of a small teahouse I came across, wedged inside a small alley. I wonder if you've ever found this little place-you'd probably fall in love with it more than I do. I guess a city looks offbeat in changing seasons, like the way you'd always be able to tell twins apart, but how they tend to be so similar in so many ways. Im here trying to adjust my scarf and it is not easy to think how you were snacking on your third ice cream and complaining how tropical the weather here was. You are eccentric about the places you go, in a foreign city with nothing but a map and hand signs to rely on, telling me about that one little shop on a street with a name I've never heard of, In a city with more metro lines than my fingers could possibly count, with such longing to return to that I, wondered what caused you to be such attached to a place where no one could understand you, that people walked in a different pace and spoke in a different tongue, that rain there didnt fall as often as it did here, back where you were telling me about unfamiliar cities. I am, constantly thinking, more about the cities you've told me about, and less about you. It wasnt until I got lost in the same city the same way you did that I realised I loved the way you portrayed places more than the actual place itself because two seasons later, I find myself looking for the ghost of you in a city I've never been to.

1

I. I know you do not want to be known as the teary-eyed girl with an upside down smile always your arms covered like unhappy things resided beneath the bright coloured sleeves like these vibrant distractions could hide the secrets you feared so that would come to light someday and your sorrow so heavy they slowed your footsteps, making your thoughts an overweight baggage you have been forced to drag along, so suffocating you'd wake up with a tear streaked face while the faint ticking of the clock tells you that you are nowhere near dawn the house has long fallen asleep but you, why are you awake what kept you from sleeping is the silence too overwhelming to bear or your thoughts too deafening to ignore the house has long fallen asleep but you, you dont know whether to laugh or to cry II. Mother never told you about things that were more dangerous than knives, that there were things that burned you more than stoves and matches, things that do not have sharp edges, like doe eyed boys with a laugh like the sound leaves you'd find at the pavement being rustled by the occasional breeze in June, both the breeze and his voice on top of your list of the unexpected. Mother never told you that the greater danger were the things that do not hold an absolute form, like the way your doe eyed boy kissed you, for the very first time one summer night in June. He held you so tightly. And every kiss never felt the same, and you loved every one of them nevertheless. He left eventually. And you were left with a mess of feelings and a pile of broken heart pieces you tried so hard to piece back into one but the fractured pieces didnt seem to fit back in properly. Those were the things that kept you up for nights, the things school never prepared you for. But I want you to know you are more than the girl with sad eyes standing in the corner of a washed up family photograph, and I know you will love again, you would fall to pieces and drink yourself senseless and scream at the stars, but I know you will love again.

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Nov 16, 2013

Nov 16, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC

Things I should have said, to you

I. I know you do not want to be known as the teary-eyed girl with an upside down smile always your arms covered like unhappy things resided beneath the bright coloured sleeves like these vibrant distractions could hide the secrets you feared so that would come to light someday and your sorrow so heavy they slowed your footsteps, making your thoughts an overweight baggage you have been forced to drag along, so suffocating you'd wake up with a tear streaked face while the faint ticking of the clock tells you that you are nowhere near dawn the house has long fallen asleep but you, why are you awake what kept you from sleeping is the silence too overwhelming to bear or your thoughts too deafening to ignore the house has long fallen asleep but you, you dont know whether to laugh or to cry II. Mother never told you about things that were more dangerous than knives, that there were things that burned you more than stoves and matches, things that do not have sharp edges, like doe eyed boys with a laugh like the sound leaves you'd find at the pavement being rustled by the occasional breeze in June, both the breeze and his voice on top of your list of the unexpected. Mother never told you that the greater danger were the things that do not hold an absolute form, like the way your doe eyed boy kissed you, for the very first time one summer night in June. He held you so tightly. And every kiss never felt the same, and you loved every one of them nevertheless. He left eventually. And you were left with a mess of feelings and a pile of broken heart pieces you tried so hard to piece back into one but the fractured pieces didnt seem to fit back in properly. Those were the things that kept you up for nights, the things school never prepared you for. But I want you to know you are more than the girl with sad eyes standing in the corner of a washed up family photograph, and I know you will love again, you would fall to pieces and drink yourself senseless and scream at the stars, but I know you will love again.

19

07:00 there was knocking on my door and a quiet voice asking for me to let in when I finally got to open the door there was no trace of anyone not my sister who never knocked so softly always two quick knocks not my father who bangs on the door as if I've stolen something from him and now he wants it back no, no one was at the door nor the corridor nor the winding stairs that resembled the shriveled oak tree we admired so. (she turned a hundred last year) no, my only visitor was the sunlight creeping her way in softly, silently through the square glass windows I admit I am not a morning person (wrong. I am not a waking up at 07:00 person) if my ghosts are trying to wake me up, its 07:00, too early.

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Nov 14, 2013

Nov 14, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC

07:00am

07:00 there was knocking on my door and a quiet voice asking for me to let in when I finally got to open the door there was no trace of anyone not my sister who never knocked so softly always two quick knocks not my father who bangs on the door as if I've stolen something from him and now he wants it back no, no one was at the door nor the corridor nor the winding stairs that resembled the shriveled oak tree we admired so. (she turned a hundred last year) no, my only visitor was the sunlight creeping her way in softly, silently through the square glass windows I admit I am not a morning person (wrong. I am not a waking up at 07:00 person) if my ghosts are trying to wake me up, its 07:00, too early.

25

we own teacups of porcelain that make up a couple her always filled with coffee mine with tea this was what became our morning routine to spend time until the cups are emptied we talk about irrelevant things matters and thoughts that do not have acquaintance with consequence how it'd be possible to raise goldfishes in ***** bottle we kept for remembrance or how many cookies could the porcelain beauty we held so dearly possibly contain sometimes we waste a good morning watching wisps of steam rise and vanish like the way people seem to get out of sight after bidding goodbyes after a certain distance they'd be nothing more than a sihlouette and after time slowly they get out of mind one day you'd realize that no longer can you conjure their sihlouettes in memory nor can you remember the way they walked away were they off in a hurry or their footsteps heavy as the heart the carried that very winter morning when snow didnt fall like predicted by the weatherman the night before (and that was when you realised the weight of goodbyes) these are the thoughts that occupy my mind when I wash our cups and notice (everytime) stain rings around the innerside of the cups three quarters full of coffee and half a cup of tea we'd store the cups after hers always facing left they would sit silently never a word of complain as such nice mannered tableware, cups are. they'd wait silently for every next morning to be filled, coffee and tea. I always thought of her as a hot chocolate person until one morning I saw sunlight caught in the dark lazy curls of her hair until how the dark coloured liquid resembled the colour in her eyes and came to a silent agreement with myself how she suited coffee on lazy mornings the way coffee suited her when she tipped her cup ever so slightly and sipped like she'd found peace in mind now I smile when she asks why I stopped telling her teacups are meant for tea (that there are no absolutes in the things we do) there are mornings she would wake to find me already awake and silently staring at the rain pelted windows legs crossed at the foot of the bed and singing singing softly in russian I'd end always at Дорогая and asks if she wants coffee.

0

Nov 13, 2013

Nov 13, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC

Our coffee stained mornings

we own teacups of porcelain that make up a couple her always filled with coffee mine with tea this was what became our morning routine to spend time until the cups are emptied we talk about irrelevant things matters and thoughts that do not have acquaintance with consequence how it'd be possible to raise goldfishes in ***** bottle we kept for remembrance or how many cookies could the porcelain beauty we held so dearly possibly contain sometimes we waste a good morning watching wisps of steam rise and vanish like the way people seem to get out of sight after bidding goodbyes after a certain distance they'd be nothing more than a sihlouette and after time slowly they get out of mind one day you'd realize that no longer can you conjure their sihlouettes in memory nor can you remember the way they walked away were they off in a hurry or their footsteps heavy as the heart the carried that very winter morning when snow didnt fall like predicted by the weatherman the night before (and that was when you realised the weight of goodbyes) these are the thoughts that occupy my mind when I wash our cups and notice (everytime) stain rings around the innerside of the cups three quarters full of coffee and half a cup of tea we'd store the cups after hers always facing left they would sit silently never a word of complain as such nice mannered tableware, cups are. they'd wait silently for every next morning to be filled, coffee and tea. I always thought of her as a hot chocolate person until one morning I saw sunlight caught in the dark lazy curls of her hair until how the dark coloured liquid resembled the colour in her eyes and came to a silent agreement with myself how she suited coffee on lazy mornings the way coffee suited her when she tipped her cup ever so slightly and sipped like she'd found peace in mind now I smile when she asks why I stopped telling her teacups are meant for tea (that there are no absolutes in the things we do) there are mornings she would wake to find me already awake and silently staring at the rain pelted windows legs crossed at the foot of the bed and singing singing softly in russian I'd end always at Дорогая and asks if she wants coffee.

53