mara-kennet - Hello Poetry

Easter is around the corner. Everything could be pink and blue— Or a Van Dyck painting, Somber, subdued, pulling me through. I gather eggs and paper bunnies, Screaming beneath my breathless strain. Easter is never sunny— It always arrives with rain. Yet Easter hums with promise, A whisper of days to come. It melts the scars and sutures— A pill that numbs what's numb. It fills me with light and trembling, A sway between joy and ache. The future leans in, disassembling The weight I can no longer take.

0

Aug 7, 2025

Aug 7, 2025 at 12:43 AM UTC

mara-kennet

Easter is around the corner

Easter is around the corner. Everything could be pink and blue— Or a Van Dyck painting, Somber, subdued, pulling me through. I gather eggs and paper bunnies, Screaming beneath my breathless strain. Easter is never sunny— It always arrives with rain. Yet Easter hums with promise, A whisper of days to come. It melts the scars and sutures— A pill that numbs what's numb. It fills me with light and trembling, A sway between joy and ache. The future leans in, disassembling The weight I can no longer take.

16

Word is like snowflakes in a snow globe— it swirls, it settles, soft against the ground. The clock resists—time wants to disagree. I rock in a chair that creaks with memory. Words melt like snow, or snowball into more. They hush, they howl, they knock at the door. I chew ice cubes, retreat to the bed, chilled by the thoughts still spinning in my head. Words can **** and snow can too— a quiet beauty mixed with truth. Life feels most vivid in weather’s breath, in storms, in stillness, in the kiss of death.

0

Aug 7, 2025

Aug 7, 2025 at 12:40 AM UTC

mara-kennet

Words

Word is like snowflakes in a snow globe— it swirls, it settles, soft against the ground. The clock resists—time wants to disagree. I rock in a chair that creaks with memory. Words melt like snow, or snowball into more. They hush, they howl, they knock at the door. I chew ice cubes, retreat to the bed, chilled by the thoughts still spinning in my head. Words can **** and snow can too— a quiet beauty mixed with truth. Life feels most vivid in weather’s breath, in storms, in stillness, in the kiss of death.

12

Us— the ones without vision. Not blind, just uninvited. We don’t have a point of view— we orbit around them. Deja vu is all we know. It’s our only map, our only god. We don’t understand. We don’t resist. We just continue. Like robots. Like borrowed thoughts on borrowed time. Until the head meets the pillow like a wall. And still—no dreams, just static. Television is both prayer and poison. It flickers, feeds, forgets us. Most people, poor souls, try to think in reverse— like it’ll bring back whatever it was we lost.

0

Jul 14, 2025

Jul 14, 2025 at 9:38 PM UTC

mara-kennet

whatever we lost

Us— the ones without vision. Not blind, just uninvited. We don’t have a point of view— we orbit around them. Deja vu is all we know. It’s our only map, our only god. We don’t understand. We don’t resist. We just continue. Like robots. Like borrowed thoughts on borrowed time. Until the head meets the pillow like a wall. And still—no dreams, just static. Television is both prayer and poison. It flickers, feeds, forgets us. Most people, poor souls, try to think in reverse— like it’ll bring back whatever it was we lost.

30

It weighs the heart like wet wool— this ache that won’t be wrung out. We try to outpace death, but what a useless art— to dodge the final breath, to forget the final prayer, to sleep through the silence draped in disguise. When your parent dies, something in you unravels. A thread pulled loose from the tapestry of self. It’s as if someone spit into the soul’s well— and the echo never stops falling. A part of you locks away in the hush of unspoken lies. And dragging through the days feels like pulling your own shadow through molasses. When your parent dies, the world doesn’t end— but it forgets how to begin.

0

Jul 14, 2025

Jul 14, 2025 at 3:06 AM UTC

mara-kennet

my parent dies

It weighs the heart like wet wool— this ache that won’t be wrung out. We try to outpace death, but what a useless art— to dodge the final breath, to forget the final prayer, to sleep through the silence draped in disguise. When your parent dies, something in you unravels. A thread pulled loose from the tapestry of self. It’s as if someone spit into the soul’s well— and the echo never stops falling. A part of you locks away in the hush of unspoken lies. And dragging through the days feels like pulling your own shadow through molasses. When your parent dies, the world doesn’t end— but it forgets how to begin.

4

My body turns on me— slowly, without ceremony. So I turn onto it, a truce of skin and ache. Then I turn into my mother. Then my father. I watch my face in the mirror and see their ruins rising. I think of leaving the cities— like the Maya did, just walk out and let the jungle eat my name. I want to be Nefertiti, but the gods are jealous. And hungry. And male. I betray my body and it knows. It bruises back. It creaks in the silence. I wanted to be a god, one of the ones with eyes like fire and spines like gold. But I am, unfortunately, CHELOVEK. Meat and memory. Ash in the mirror. Dreams that ache like old teeth.

0

Jul 14, 2025

Jul 14, 2025 at 3:02 AM UTC

mara-kennet

my body turns on me

My body turns on me— slowly, without ceremony. So I turn onto it, a truce of skin and ache. Then I turn into my mother. Then my father. I watch my face in the mirror and see their ruins rising. I think of leaving the cities— like the Maya did, just walk out and let the jungle eat my name. I want to be Nefertiti, but the gods are jealous. And hungry. And male. I betray my body and it knows. It bruises back. It creaks in the silence. I wanted to be a god, one of the ones with eyes like fire and spines like gold. But I am, unfortunately, CHELOVEK. Meat and memory. Ash in the mirror. Dreams that ache like old teeth.

29

I’m reading the lines of the star-crossed pair, But the words are tangled, they cry in despair Their feelings are fog, not fire or flame— Yet somehow, I know I’ve felt the same. We’ve all been Romeo once in our lives, Dreaming of love with wide-open eyes. We’ve all been Juliet, young and bright, Leaping for love in the dead of night. But now the waves have all pulled back, And I am walking a stormy track. No compass, no song, no spark, no sun— The passion is drained, the dreaming done. I flip through pages of Napoleon’s war, And Lavoisier’s laws I can’t ignore. Who cares for a kiss in Verona’s air? Not me—not now—not anywhere. Old lovers die in their final scene, And I die with them in between. Again and again, I play the part— A ghost with a silent, broken heart.

0

Jul 14, 2025

Jul 14, 2025 at 2:57 AM UTC

mara-kennet

Romeo and Juliet

I’m reading the lines of the star-crossed pair, But the words are tangled, they cry in despair Their feelings are fog, not fire or flame— Yet somehow, I know I’ve felt the same. We’ve all been Romeo once in our lives, Dreaming of love with wide-open eyes. We’ve all been Juliet, young and bright, Leaping for love in the dead of night. But now the waves have all pulled back, And I am walking a stormy track. No compass, no song, no spark, no sun— The passion is drained, the dreaming done. I flip through pages of Napoleon’s war, And Lavoisier’s laws I can’t ignore. Who cares for a kiss in Verona’s air? Not me—not now—not anywhere. Old lovers die in their final scene, And I die with them in between. Again and again, I play the part— A ghost with a silent, broken heart.

20

my body turns on me I turn onto my body I turn into my mother I turn into my father I am about to abandon the cities Like ancient Maya did in ad I want to become Nefertiti but the gods are jealous and greedy. I am betraying my body and it betrays me back I want to be an ancient god but unfortunately I am CHELOVEK

0

Mar 24, 2025

Mar 24, 2025 at 2:59 PM UTC

mara-kennet

Untitled

my body turns on me I turn onto my body I turn into my mother I turn into my father I am about to abandon the cities Like ancient Maya did in ad I want to become Nefertiti but the gods are jealous and greedy. I am betraying my body and it betrays me back I want to be an ancient god but unfortunately I am CHELOVEK

13

Easter is around the corner Everything could be pink and blue. Or it could be like Van **** painting Which gives me the blues. I am gathering eggs and bunnies, I am screaming from pain. Easter is never sunny. It always calls for rain. Easter gives me a sense of the future, It fills me with hope, makes me sway. It dissolves old scars and sutures. Like a pill it takes pain away.

0

Jan 13, 2025

Jan 13, 2025 at 4:27 PM UTC

mara-kennet

Easter

Easter is around the corner Everything could be pink and blue. Or it could be like Van **** painting Which gives me the blues. I am gathering eggs and bunnies, I am screaming from pain. Easter is never sunny. It always calls for rain. Easter gives me a sense of the future, It fills me with hope, makes me sway. It dissolves old scars and sutures. Like a pill it takes pain away.

12

Hemingway gave me Paris its streets, odors, and shops. my despair, do not crush the crops do not knock on the doors of the parish we will be cursed by the priest. You go west while I walk East There's a harmonica playing somewhere like a tune of my Homeland's scream, the same alcoholic is drinking around the corner-- everything resembles a dream everything brings you closer to me, yet everything makes you distant There is no money, which means there is no need There is no money, there is no **** Montmartre has its atmosphere. Even a tower reminds a sphere We are alive we are looking for sightseeing One guy looks French but has a black eye One guy looks happy but he has been sinning A warm scarf around a bare neck, And fedora on a shaky head who said that it is worse in a foreign country? Who said Paris is far? Hemingway, you and I are related-- yet we are a century apart I buy pictures and books I catch curses and looks This holiday is always with me We belong to each other. My Paris--I'm yours--you're mine You are a familiar lover. You live, you hurt, you are confused... Hemingway gave me Paris…. But it seems used...

0

Feb 8, 2024

Feb 8, 2024 at 11:32 PM UTC

mara-kennet

Hemingway gave me Paris

Hemingway gave me Paris its streets, odors, and shops. my despair, do not crush the crops do not knock on the doors of the parish we will be cursed by the priest. You go west while I walk East There's a harmonica playing somewhere like a tune of my Homeland's scream, the same alcoholic is drinking around the corner-- everything resembles a dream everything brings you closer to me, yet everything makes you distant There is no money, which means there is no need There is no money, there is no **** Montmartre has its atmosphere. Even a tower reminds a sphere We are alive we are looking for sightseeing One guy looks French but has a black eye One guy looks happy but he has been sinning A warm scarf around a bare neck, And fedora on a shaky head who said that it is worse in a foreign country? Who said Paris is far? Hemingway, you and I are related-- yet we are a century apart I buy pictures and books I catch curses and looks This holiday is always with me We belong to each other. My Paris--I'm yours--you're mine You are a familiar lover. You live, you hurt, you are confused... Hemingway gave me Paris…. But it seems used...

34

My dad writes about villages, hamlets, and hay What else can he write about? The light of the day? My father wears linen suits my father pursues his poetry style. His stye in the eye his pie in the sky but why, father, why? No one is looking for questions and answers are blind I keep reading my Hamlet And I fall behind.

0

Dec 27, 2023

Dec 27, 2023 at 8:23 PM UTC

mara-kennet

my dad

My dad writes about villages, hamlets, and hay What else can he write about? The light of the day? My father wears linen suits my father pursues his poetry style. His stye in the eye his pie in the sky but why, father, why? No one is looking for questions and answers are blind I keep reading my Hamlet And I fall behind.

12