lisenastja - Hello Poetry

White had always been there Since you were born But today I saw it in places where shouldn’t be We don’t have autumn here, but I can still watch time change From your chestnut brown Turned silver grey Bright wide puppy eyes Hooded underneath your age You walk differently now Waddling tiredly towards the sunset where you can hear Your years catching up Into faded weeping winter

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Mar 27, 2022

Mar 27, 2022 at 3:06 AM UTC

Today I Saw a Strand of White Hair on My Dog

White had always been there Since you were born But today I saw it in places where shouldn’t be We don’t have autumn here, but I can still watch time change From your chestnut brown Turned silver grey Bright wide puppy eyes Hooded underneath your age You walk differently now Waddling tiredly towards the sunset where you can hear Your years catching up Into faded weeping winter

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The roaches come out every 5 am when everyone sleeps But I see them When I’m up at dawn They crawl one by one On the microwave the bruised wooden table Sometimes it creeps into me In one ear, out the other It echoes my father’s laughter My mom’s denial of said laughter I hear its critter noises And I shout ****** ****** Yet they all still sleep Soundly at the comfort of politeness and tolerance No one believes The crazy daughter When she screams help

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Mar 25, 2022

Mar 25, 2022 at 10:34 AM UTC

The roaches come out

The roaches come out every 5 am when everyone sleeps But I see them When I’m up at dawn They crawl one by one On the microwave the bruised wooden table Sometimes it creeps into me In one ear, out the other It echoes my father’s laughter My mom’s denial of said laughter I hear its critter noises And I shout ****** ****** Yet they all still sleep Soundly at the comfort of politeness and tolerance No one believes The crazy daughter When she screams help

19

“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks “Their name’s Bea,” I reply “I support that,” they hesitate “You are so brave.” they add I never saw their lips as a political statement Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat while a friend is puking by the side of the road Was some kind of revolution How romantic is it That our story will be etched Not in some Neruda poetry book But a professor’s first textbook Or a college student’s 2 am essay When I said I was in love You thought it meant I was hungry Not for touch or for pleasure But for justice and freedom I didn’t know that When I run my fingers down her neck It would be tied to a long Twitter thread I never saw my love as a battleground A metaphysical exploration of sexuality What’s Marxist about the way their eyes disappear when they smile? What’s so intersectional about Our entanglement at the back seat Or our hands holding in front I never thought I would be so brave At my most fragile state So political In my most dumbstruck ways So woke When I’m asleep in her embrace

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May 5, 2021

May 5, 2021 at 6:54 PM UTC

Love & Politics

“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks “Their name’s Bea,” I reply “I support that,” they hesitate “You are so brave.” they add I never saw their lips as a political statement Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat while a friend is puking by the side of the road Was some kind of revolution How romantic is it That our story will be etched Not in some Neruda poetry book But a professor’s first textbook Or a college student’s 2 am essay When I said I was in love You thought it meant I was hungry Not for touch or for pleasure But for justice and freedom I didn’t know that When I run my fingers down her neck It would be tied to a long Twitter thread I never saw my love as a battleground A metaphysical exploration of sexuality What’s Marxist about the way their eyes disappear when they smile? What’s so intersectional about Our entanglement at the back seat Or our hands holding in front I never thought I would be so brave At my most fragile state So political In my most dumbstruck ways So woke When I’m asleep in her embrace

33

My whole life I had scoffed at boys gifting girls flowers The expensive ones, the kind they saved up for I thought it was incredibly immature to pay for pretty dead things When the world is in the process of destruction And the economy is constantly in inflation It could’ve paid for a lot of things— A nice meal or even AirPods It was until I got a girl of my own Smiling like she’s the sun Walking around and tugging me along I suddenly had the urge to get her a 50-dollar bouquet Or those fancy ones in a box shipped from Dubai Or a giant teddy bear—Yes! A giant teddy bear to fill a corner of her room on top of her pile of trash Suddenly she deserves pretty dead things Hold onto them as they slowly wilt I want her to walk around owning a piece of Earth It could’ve been an animal or a plant Shiny gems or a worm But she deserves the brightest crop among the weeds The purplest shade nature can make The pinkest rose The yellowest sunflower I’m not even one to write a poem either But somehow I now belong in the stupid group of hopeless romantics plucking pretty things from Earth Despite inflation and pragmatism I guess it says a lot about us humans Sentimental *****

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Feb 18, 2020

Feb 18, 2020 at 4:05 AM UTC

The day I believed in flowers

My whole life I had scoffed at boys gifting girls flowers The expensive ones, the kind they saved up for I thought it was incredibly immature to pay for pretty dead things When the world is in the process of destruction And the economy is constantly in inflation It could’ve paid for a lot of things— A nice meal or even AirPods It was until I got a girl of my own Smiling like she’s the sun Walking around and tugging me along I suddenly had the urge to get her a 50-dollar bouquet Or those fancy ones in a box shipped from Dubai Or a giant teddy bear—Yes! A giant teddy bear to fill a corner of her room on top of her pile of trash Suddenly she deserves pretty dead things Hold onto them as they slowly wilt I want her to walk around owning a piece of Earth It could’ve been an animal or a plant Shiny gems or a worm But she deserves the brightest crop among the weeds The purplest shade nature can make The pinkest rose The yellowest sunflower I’m not even one to write a poem either But somehow I now belong in the stupid group of hopeless romantics plucking pretty things from Earth Despite inflation and pragmatism I guess it says a lot about us humans Sentimental *****

29

I am no longer the woman I despised before I have let my lover be watch her spend days and nights wandering like a wild animal in a vast field I pace back and forth around the cage I have locked myself in while she, being the carefree creature she is, have travelled far and wild and I told myself let the lover be let her hair be swayed by the wind let her tiptoe on the grass as I watch her in careful fascination and she watches me back admiring me like a dusty, discolored painting in a museum “There’s something delicate about her,” she says. for in the confined nature of my soul I have lived a thousand lives I have seen people come and go watched them like they were fire dancing in the wind reached out to touch them and pulled back right away because the woman I no longer am would touch the flame and keep it for the cold of the night now I dance around my self-made cage and I let my lover run free.

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Sep 25, 2018

Sep 25, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC

Untitled

I am no longer the woman I despised before I have let my lover be watch her spend days and nights wandering like a wild animal in a vast field I pace back and forth around the cage I have locked myself in while she, being the carefree creature she is, have travelled far and wild and I told myself let the lover be let her hair be swayed by the wind let her tiptoe on the grass as I watch her in careful fascination and she watches me back admiring me like a dusty, discolored painting in a museum “There’s something delicate about her,” she says. for in the confined nature of my soul I have lived a thousand lives I have seen people come and go watched them like they were fire dancing in the wind reached out to touch them and pulled back right away because the woman I no longer am would touch the flame and keep it for the cold of the night now I dance around my self-made cage and I let my lover run free.

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