maria-23 - Hello Poetry

'How are you?' Every time I open my eyes, the days rearrange. Yesterday feels far away. Am I still the same person? Yet three years ago was only yesterday. Was I me then? Wake. Walk. Walk. Wait… Did I do anything else? Why does the light look different every day? First a fishbowl – blue; then burning magnesium; then… I feel like I live behind bars. But worse. A prison I chose and have no right to regret. Because it’s not a prison but a palace of promises. Potential. Progress. So where are they? The teeth of the trap are closing and I know I’m ensnared by the lie of reward. It’s too late to escape. My clock says I’ve slept but my body disagrees. I feel tired all the time. So, it hardly (Barely? Scarcely?) matters. Matters. Mattress. I have to - need to - must (too), wash my bedsheets. Sheet. Sheep. Shear. I want to tear my hair out. (Should I start again?) Hair. Hear. Did everyone stop talking? Am I going deaf? Deaf. Theft. Is there… is there someone in my room? Or is it just the shadows from that stupid light? Light. Late. Jump awake. Alarm. Alarm. Alarm. Don’t sleep in. In fact, don’t rest at all. You cannot finish your work. That’s it… Wake. Walk. Work. Walk. Wait. Wait until I can turn off that light. Light. Late. Loud. Traffic blending into voices. What language do they speak? I’ve forgotten what any of it means. I hope it’s not important. I smile. Silent. I’m okay.

0

Nov 28, 2025

Nov 28, 2025 at 6:44 PM UTC

On Living: A Case Study (28/11/2025)

'How are you?' Every time I open my eyes, the days rearrange. Yesterday feels far away. Am I still the same person? Yet three years ago was only yesterday. Was I me then? Wake. Walk. Walk. Wait… Did I do anything else? Why does the light look different every day? First a fishbowl – blue; then burning magnesium; then… I feel like I live behind bars. But worse. A prison I chose and have no right to regret. Because it’s not a prison but a palace of promises. Potential. Progress. So where are they? The teeth of the trap are closing and I know I’m ensnared by the lie of reward. It’s too late to escape. My clock says I’ve slept but my body disagrees. I feel tired all the time. So, it hardly (Barely? Scarcely?) matters. Matters. Mattress. I have to - need to - must (too), wash my bedsheets. Sheet. Sheep. Shear. I want to tear my hair out. (Should I start again?) Hair. Hear. Did everyone stop talking? Am I going deaf? Deaf. Theft. Is there… is there someone in my room? Or is it just the shadows from that stupid light? Light. Late. Jump awake. Alarm. Alarm. Alarm. Don’t sleep in. In fact, don’t rest at all. You cannot finish your work. That’s it… Wake. Walk. Work. Walk. Wait. Wait until I can turn off that light. Light. Late. Loud. Traffic blending into voices. What language do they speak? I’ve forgotten what any of it means. I hope it’s not important. I smile. Silent. I’m okay.

50

If I were to start again, I would do everything perfectly. That’s the benefit of hindsight. I’d sleep for exactly eight hours every night. Every day I’d eat three square meals with balanced nutrition. Every week I’d manage my finances and save every penny so that I can buy a three-bedroom house for my perfect family by the time I’m thirty. But first, I’d travel the world: learning every language, exploring nature, absorbing culture and cuisine. After I’ve got my two degrees of course. So, I’d study through my youth to get the perfect grades. But not too much, I still need perfect friends. Maybe I’d go to a party, but I’d never get drunk nor touch a cigarette. I’d always wear the perfect amount of makeup and do my skincare nightly. But of course, I wouldn’t start my skincare too young, that would harm my skin barrier. And don’t worry, I’ll wear sun cream every day. I know I won’t have my parents for long, so I’ll spend time with them. But not too much. I know how important that teenaged distancing phase is. My hair will always be in perfect, tidy curls. ‘A curler’ you say? Oh no, don’t you know what heat does to your hair? I’ll donate to charity every month. Which one? Environment? Mental health? Homelessness? Animal shelters? Humanitarian aid…? The list goes on, I can’t decide who needs me the most. Maybe I’ll just donate to them all. But not too much. I still must save. I’ll never consume too much, or too little. No more than thirty minutes on a screen. 10,000 steps every day and meditation in the morning. Ten years of work experience by the time I graduate high school. I think I should have a dog. I should learn to cook. To garden. To write. To paint. To play chess. To sew my own clothes. I need to be the perfect mother. Wife. Friend. Daughter. I should run a marathon. I should write a book. And maybe win an Oscar, for the acting career I have on the side. I’ll clean my bedsheets every week and use silk pillowcases. What kind of chopping board should I use again? Plastic? Wooden? Metal…? If I could start again, I could try and do everything perfectly. Or I could try just living instead?

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Oct 21, 2025

Oct 21, 2025 at 9:10 AM UTC

A Beginner's Guide to the Perfect Life

If I were to start again, I would do everything perfectly. That’s the benefit of hindsight. I’d sleep for exactly eight hours every night. Every day I’d eat three square meals with balanced nutrition. Every week I’d manage my finances and save every penny so that I can buy a three-bedroom house for my perfect family by the time I’m thirty. But first, I’d travel the world: learning every language, exploring nature, absorbing culture and cuisine. After I’ve got my two degrees of course. So, I’d study through my youth to get the perfect grades. But not too much, I still need perfect friends. Maybe I’d go to a party, but I’d never get drunk nor touch a cigarette. I’d always wear the perfect amount of makeup and do my skincare nightly. But of course, I wouldn’t start my skincare too young, that would harm my skin barrier. And don’t worry, I’ll wear sun cream every day. I know I won’t have my parents for long, so I’ll spend time with them. But not too much. I know how important that teenaged distancing phase is. My hair will always be in perfect, tidy curls. ‘A curler’ you say? Oh no, don’t you know what heat does to your hair? I’ll donate to charity every month. Which one? Environment? Mental health? Homelessness? Animal shelters? Humanitarian aid…? The list goes on, I can’t decide who needs me the most. Maybe I’ll just donate to them all. But not too much. I still must save. I’ll never consume too much, or too little. No more than thirty minutes on a screen. 10,000 steps every day and meditation in the morning. Ten years of work experience by the time I graduate high school. I think I should have a dog. I should learn to cook. To garden. To write. To paint. To play chess. To sew my own clothes. I need to be the perfect mother. Wife. Friend. Daughter. I should run a marathon. I should write a book. And maybe win an Oscar, for the acting career I have on the side. I’ll clean my bedsheets every week and use silk pillowcases. What kind of chopping board should I use again? Plastic? Wooden? Metal…? If I could start again, I could try and do everything perfectly. Or I could try just living instead?

37

When the day won’t move and the clocks aren’t tickinG, A lonely hour feels like an iNvitation Into endless Isolation. aTTacking Internal thoughts Into A vengeance against Nobody. Without a minute to spare yet nothinG to do.

0

Sep 25, 2025

Sep 25, 2025 at 4:37 AM UTC

WAITING

When the day won’t move and the clocks aren’t tickinG, A lonely hour feels like an iNvitation Into endless Isolation. aTTacking Internal thoughts Into A vengeance against Nobody. Without a minute to spare yet nothinG to do.

7

There’s a smile on my face, but it’s made of plaster cast. In my hand I hold the burnt remains of paper wishes. I crumple them tightly and wish again for them to vanish. You’d never know the anger in my fist from the smile on my face. I’m standing in the fairground that I dreamed of - a ruined rollercoaster – my other hand holding onto the red balloon I wanted. But there is no balloon. Not of any colour. Instead, my fingers scrabble for a handhold in hope. If I lose grip, it’s over. A promise of a red balloon, but a promise made of matchsticks. I tell myself that matchsticks are stronger than flames but it’s hard to believe even that now. Seven hundred and eighty-five. 7. 8. 5. Promises of red balloons floating from your lips like a streamer or a piece of candyfloss. But there is no balloon. Not of any colour. My hopeless heart can’t help but hope. Those you love will never fail you. But they always do. 7. 8. 5. That’s how many times. My plaster cast smile does not falter. This longing ache, maybe that is love. I walk in silence, keeping tight hold of my red balloon, but there is no balloon. Not of any colour.

0

Sep 6, 2025

Sep 6, 2025 at 7:41 AM UTC

Red Balloon

There’s a smile on my face, but it’s made of plaster cast. In my hand I hold the burnt remains of paper wishes. I crumple them tightly and wish again for them to vanish. You’d never know the anger in my fist from the smile on my face. I’m standing in the fairground that I dreamed of - a ruined rollercoaster – my other hand holding onto the red balloon I wanted. But there is no balloon. Not of any colour. Instead, my fingers scrabble for a handhold in hope. If I lose grip, it’s over. A promise of a red balloon, but a promise made of matchsticks. I tell myself that matchsticks are stronger than flames but it’s hard to believe even that now. Seven hundred and eighty-five. 7. 8. 5. Promises of red balloons floating from your lips like a streamer or a piece of candyfloss. But there is no balloon. Not of any colour. My hopeless heart can’t help but hope. Those you love will never fail you. But they always do. 7. 8. 5. That’s how many times. My plaster cast smile does not falter. This longing ache, maybe that is love. I walk in silence, keeping tight hold of my red balloon, but there is no balloon. Not of any colour.

39

Please, let me stay gentle, do not force me to cry – raging into battle in a voice that isn’t mine. Folding into a wooden mask, day beyond day, you never would guess that I am afraid. Head down through the blizzard, I march as I must, fighting envy and heartbreak, reduced to mere lust. Please, let me stay gentle, or at last you will see, my face for the world is not really me. One day it will splinter, and all that remains, is a pair of dead eyes, carved by years of pain. I don’t think I’m made for this harsh, noisy world, but my quiet pleas for silence have long gone unheard. Please, let me stay gentle, let me sing with the birds, my voice in its softness at last would be heard. With the peace of kindness, we could move through our lives, if only we all were a little more wise. I’m not made for fighting, for the pressure and hate, just forced into the conflict by some perverse fate. Please, let me stay gentle, you’ve said that you care, yet the blizzards continue, and I am still there. It’s crushing my core, having to every day be, someone so completely unlike me. Please, listen to me, no more bathing in blood. Please, let me stay gentle, then I’ll know that I’m loved.

0

Aug 23, 2025

Aug 23, 2025 at 11:34 AM UTC

On Gentleness

Please, let me stay gentle, do not force me to cry – raging into battle in a voice that isn’t mine. Folding into a wooden mask, day beyond day, you never would guess that I am afraid. Head down through the blizzard, I march as I must, fighting envy and heartbreak, reduced to mere lust. Please, let me stay gentle, or at last you will see, my face for the world is not really me. One day it will splinter, and all that remains, is a pair of dead eyes, carved by years of pain. I don’t think I’m made for this harsh, noisy world, but my quiet pleas for silence have long gone unheard. Please, let me stay gentle, let me sing with the birds, my voice in its softness at last would be heard. With the peace of kindness, we could move through our lives, if only we all were a little more wise. I’m not made for fighting, for the pressure and hate, just forced into the conflict by some perverse fate. Please, let me stay gentle, you’ve said that you care, yet the blizzards continue, and I am still there. It’s crushing my core, having to every day be, someone so completely unlike me. Please, listen to me, no more bathing in blood. Please, let me stay gentle, then I’ll know that I’m loved.

37

When the room is empty, and the people have left and you’re waiting, wondering, what will come next? A haven of memories, long phone calls and late-night dances hard work and parades of tears then left with hardly a glance. So many firsts trapped in one room the thoughts and the feeling, stuck in its loom. It’s no longer yours, the decorations pulled down, bare and barren just like when you moved in, might never have left your hometown.

0

Aug 23, 2025

Aug 23, 2025 at 11:04 AM UTC

When the Room is Empty

When the room is empty, and the people have left and you’re waiting, wondering, what will come next? A haven of memories, long phone calls and late-night dances hard work and parades of tears then left with hardly a glance. So many firsts trapped in one room the thoughts and the feeling, stuck in its loom. It’s no longer yours, the decorations pulled down, bare and barren just like when you moved in, might never have left your hometown.

16

If I were a painter, I’d paint you a thousand portraits. Then you’d witness my regard, stretched right out on the canvas. If I were a pianist, I’d put my fingers to the keys, and ease a soft sweet melody, that sounded like your name. If I were a poet, my pen would scratch the paper. My affection would be clear to you, the words so full of feeling. But I’m afraid I’m not a poet. Nor a pianist, nor a painter. So, you’ll have to take my best attempts, and know they’re done with care. I may not be a painter. Nor a pianist, nor a poet. But I think that I can live with that, all I want to be is yours.

0

Jul 12, 2025

Jul 12, 2025 at 10:26 AM UTC

If I Were a Painter

If I were a painter, I’d paint you a thousand portraits. Then you’d witness my regard, stretched right out on the canvas. If I were a pianist, I’d put my fingers to the keys, and ease a soft sweet melody, that sounded like your name. If I were a poet, my pen would scratch the paper. My affection would be clear to you, the words so full of feeling. But I’m afraid I’m not a poet. Nor a pianist, nor a painter. So, you’ll have to take my best attempts, and know they’re done with care. I may not be a painter. Nor a pianist, nor a poet. But I think that I can live with that, all I want to be is yours.

20

there are ghosts in the kitchen. a delicate crust of parties once held there. late night conversations and delirium. a crumb of a pudding salted by tears. remnants of a dinner seasoned by laughter. yes, there are ghosts in the kitchen confused why you’re leaving. they didn’t notice that the party was over.

0

Jul 11, 2025

Jul 11, 2025 at 6:11 PM UTC

We Lived Here

there are ghosts in the kitchen. a delicate crust of parties once held there. late night conversations and delirium. a crumb of a pudding salted by tears. remnants of a dinner seasoned by laughter. yes, there are ghosts in the kitchen confused why you’re leaving. they didn’t notice that the party was over.

14

slinking along murmuring words whether or not they are heard a crack in the land a wound not healed gushing through the forests and fields flowing loosely from the mouth from east to west or north to south leaves will float rocks sink low glimmering with a moonlit glow elegant paths with the softest of bends and harsh rocky banks through endless landscapes it wends a cooling dip in summer drought and freezes over when the snow comes out a home for fish and fairies alike hungry, it swallows all things day and night there’s nothing quite like it we need not pretend and only at the sea does the river end.

0

Jun 23, 2025

Jun 23, 2025 at 5:51 PM UTC

Ode to Rivers

slinking along murmuring words whether or not they are heard a crack in the land a wound not healed gushing through the forests and fields flowing loosely from the mouth from east to west or north to south leaves will float rocks sink low glimmering with a moonlit glow elegant paths with the softest of bends and harsh rocky banks through endless landscapes it wends a cooling dip in summer drought and freezes over when the snow comes out a home for fish and fairies alike hungry, it swallows all things day and night there’s nothing quite like it we need not pretend and only at the sea does the river end.

32

Golden globes form hollow hearts, acting as a lantern in part. A tailored dress, and ruffled gown, make walkers heads, look down. Parading past the riverbank, for children’s smiles, we have them to thank. They return, year on year, standing tall and firm, without a fear. The petals stiff, yet soft as silk, hundreds on hillsides, flowing like milk. Gleaming in the morning sun, and boldly still, as the day goes on. But all good things must come to an end, the petals wither and the stalks bend. They fold down and return to the earth, until next Spring, when the daffodils rebirth.

0

Jun 13, 2025

Jun 13, 2025 at 9:40 AM UTC

The Flowers' Lantern

Golden globes form hollow hearts, acting as a lantern in part. A tailored dress, and ruffled gown, make walkers heads, look down. Parading past the riverbank, for children’s smiles, we have them to thank. They return, year on year, standing tall and firm, without a fear. The petals stiff, yet soft as silk, hundreds on hillsides, flowing like milk. Gleaming in the morning sun, and boldly still, as the day goes on. But all good things must come to an end, the petals wither and the stalks bend. They fold down and return to the earth, until next Spring, when the daffodils rebirth.

16