mildlywindy - Hello Poetry

i always feel as if i'm locked outside of some magical paradise where everything is better. happier. easier. maybe the door open if i'd eat less exercise more learn how to talk to people (to let people in) dress better have more money (more friends) be less lazy, boring, useless, dumb ************ i'd love to enter that paradise someday, and feel my problems fall away from me, like taking off a bra after a long day.

0

Jan 6, 2021

Jan 6, 2021 at 2:01 AM UTC

11:59

i always feel as if i'm locked outside of some magical paradise where everything is better. happier. easier. maybe the door open if i'd eat less exercise more learn how to talk to people (to let people in) dress better have more money (more friends) be less lazy, boring, useless, dumb ************ i'd love to enter that paradise someday, and feel my problems fall away from me, like taking off a bra after a long day.

17

Snowflakes landing on skin, melting. Everything I touch disintegrates.

0

Jul 6, 2020

Jul 6, 2020 at 6:29 PM UTC

Touch

Snowflakes landing on skin, melting. Everything I touch disintegrates.

2

Overhead, overhead To look up and muse at a thing with no way to reach it Is this perfection finally perceived? I wonder, Is the natural state of the best things far, distant? Perhaps to break something is to touch it

0

May 15, 2020

May 15, 2020 at 4:55 PM UTC

Overhead

Overhead, overhead To look up and muse at a thing with no way to reach it Is this perfection finally perceived? I wonder, Is the natural state of the best things far, distant? Perhaps to break something is to touch it

8

White bird held close Among snarling alley cats Dreams of freedom Soaring high on fluttering wings Into infinity swathed In blue or black finery Holes poked through to Let the light in You should have let it go Unadulterated by hope This thing without feathers This thing without dreams

0

May 15, 2020

May 15, 2020 at 4:50 PM UTC

White bird held close

White bird held close Among snarling alley cats Dreams of freedom Soaring high on fluttering wings Into infinity swathed In blue or black finery Holes poked through to Let the light in You should have let it go Unadulterated by hope This thing without feathers This thing without dreams

12

her heart thuds, beats against her chest like a caged bird. faintly, she hears some sound, far off, though from where or what she does not know. a voice? laughter? no...it is something else. it grows, as she struggles to make sense of it; her thoughts feel fragmented, muddled, too far away. her heart pounds harder. rhythm...rhyme...repeating... a song. yes, a song. but she does not know it. she shudders as the melody twirls and bounces off the walls of her mind. “yes you do.” who is that, talking to her? echoes on and on and on… melancholy chords… fading away... it all swims in her head. madness.

0

May 5, 2020

May 5, 2020 at 10:37 PM UTC

fading

her heart thuds, beats against her chest like a caged bird. faintly, she hears some sound, far off, though from where or what she does not know. a voice? laughter? no...it is something else. it grows, as she struggles to make sense of it; her thoughts feel fragmented, muddled, too far away. her heart pounds harder. rhythm...rhyme...repeating... a song. yes, a song. but she does not know it. she shudders as the melody twirls and bounces off the walls of her mind. “yes you do.” who is that, talking to her? echoes on and on and on… melancholy chords… fading away... it all swims in her head. madness.

11

Sickness envelopes her as she sips from a glass with no bottom. She is drowning in it. She kicks and flails to keep her head above the waves, yet the depths call to her. They ask her what it might feel like to let go. He is a sailor on a ship in a dark sea full of whispers. He cannot stop, cannot slow down. He puts his hands over his ears, but it is no use. The wind sighs and wonders, will it ever end? She is running. The forest floor scrapes her bare feet. She is wheezing, sweating, staggering, lost. She stumbles, falls. The bruises on her body are bathed in moonlight. The one who chases her moves ever closer and says, this is all you’ll ever be. He stands in front of a mirror in a crowded room. His head is split open down the middle. He is dizzy, shaky. He reaches into his skull and pulls out a fistful of yarn, rainbow colored. He opens his hand and it falls to the floor. He looks up, people are staring. Someone laughs and says, it took you this long to notice? She floats in a porcelain tub filled to the brim with boiling water. Her eyes are empty as she scrubs at her skin, sloughing it off in sheets. The noise echoes off the walls while the steam rises, clouds the room, and hisses: you’ll never be clean again.

0

May 5, 2020

May 5, 2020 at 10:26 PM UTC

fever dreams

Sickness envelopes her as she sips from a glass with no bottom. She is drowning in it. She kicks and flails to keep her head above the waves, yet the depths call to her. They ask her what it might feel like to let go. He is a sailor on a ship in a dark sea full of whispers. He cannot stop, cannot slow down. He puts his hands over his ears, but it is no use. The wind sighs and wonders, will it ever end? She is running. The forest floor scrapes her bare feet. She is wheezing, sweating, staggering, lost. She stumbles, falls. The bruises on her body are bathed in moonlight. The one who chases her moves ever closer and says, this is all you’ll ever be. He stands in front of a mirror in a crowded room. His head is split open down the middle. He is dizzy, shaky. He reaches into his skull and pulls out a fistful of yarn, rainbow colored. He opens his hand and it falls to the floor. He looks up, people are staring. Someone laughs and says, it took you this long to notice? She floats in a porcelain tub filled to the brim with boiling water. Her eyes are empty as she scrubs at her skin, sloughing it off in sheets. The noise echoes off the walls while the steam rises, clouds the room, and hisses: you’ll never be clean again.

6

Moths. One, two, three, twelve. I pause my midnight walk to observe them. They cluster and swarm the street lamp, casting tiny shadows onto the pavement below. I am unsure of what it is that they seek; maybe warmth, or light, or a familiarity to something in nature that they know only through instinct. Or maybe they seek safety in numbers. God knows how many predators they face. A stray cat lurking in the darkness. A nocturnal bird circling high above, waiting to devour the winged pests whole. I shiver at the thought. Brutal, but such is nature. Without food, like the moths, the birds and cats will starve, and populations will dwindle, and so on for the predators that hunt them. Even the greatest beasts rely wholly on this delicate food web. The survival of a great bear can be traced down to the success of a few microbes. Without the littlest and often least impressive participants, there would be no life to speak of at all. It’s fascinating, really— sort of like an intricate and vastly complex game of Jenga. I turn my gaze to the dark, faceless windows in the houses near me and think: maybe the human psyche can be compared. After all, I believe it can be widely agreed upon that human beings are very complex things. What with all our politics, and game shows, and favorite brands of socks. So much goes into creating a person. But at the core of us all, we are just atoms and molecules, strung together in a million little building blocks of DNA that give rise to cells, tissues, and organs. Nearly 100 billion cells make up the human brain. These little things are responsible for how you perceive life. I am able to think these thoughts because of them, and am able to eat, speak, and breathe because of them. All good things; I should thank them sometime. I sit then, feeling a bit woozy. Ah, for these cells can be responsible for bad things as well, can’t they? For instance, a chemical imbalance. A few cells stop doing their jobs and then— boom! The whole system is affected. You stop exercising. You eat and sleep too much, or too little. You withdraw from friends and family. You stop caring about your favorite brand of socks. You begin to drink too much. You may even stand on the edge of a bridge and find that jumping seems appealing. Truly odd, isn’t it? How important the little things in a big system can be. Imagine what would happen if all the bugs in the world decided one day to stop being bugs, and to just drop dead. The chaos it would bring! Test it out for yourself. Gather some friends and set up a game of Jenga, and then slap away all the pieces at the bottom of the tower before you begin. There will be no game to play, no tower at all, for it has nothing to stand on. Really, I think, we are quite delicate creatures living in an equally delicate world. To exist is to be fragile. To become sentient you must realize that you can break, and will. You will live and then die. Presently there is no way around that. You will die because something small inside of you will break, and that break will grow, like a crack in a windshield. Like an unstable tower of blocks. Or maybe if you are a bug, you will just be eaten. Ah, if only the moths could understand my thoughts. Perhaps they would be quite enlightened. I fancy they might say, “Stop with this nonsense, and go have another drink.” But I would retort, “Oh moths! Have you not thought of giving all of this up? This endless game of Jenga? You must grow weary of it!” They do not respond. They continue fluttering about, bouncing off of street lights as they do. So I sigh, and burp, feeling quite unenlightened, and resume my walk.

0

Jul 18, 2019

Jul 18, 2019 at 11:40 PM UTC

Jenga

Moths. One, two, three, twelve. I pause my midnight walk to observe them. They cluster and swarm the street lamp, casting tiny shadows onto the pavement below. I am unsure of what it is that they seek; maybe warmth, or light, or a familiarity to something in nature that they know only through instinct. Or maybe they seek safety in numbers. God knows how many predators they face. A stray cat lurking in the darkness. A nocturnal bird circling high above, waiting to devour the winged pests whole. I shiver at the thought. Brutal, but such is nature. Without food, like the moths, the birds and cats will starve, and populations will dwindle, and so on for the predators that hunt them. Even the greatest beasts rely wholly on this delicate food web. The survival of a great bear can be traced down to the success of a few microbes. Without the littlest and often least impressive participants, there would be no life to speak of at all. It’s fascinating, really— sort of like an intricate and vastly complex game of Jenga. I turn my gaze to the dark, faceless windows in the houses near me and think: maybe the human psyche can be compared. After all, I believe it can be widely agreed upon that human beings are very complex things. What with all our politics, and game shows, and favorite brands of socks. So much goes into creating a person. But at the core of us all, we are just atoms and molecules, strung together in a million little building blocks of DNA that give rise to cells, tissues, and organs. Nearly 100 billion cells make up the human brain. These little things are responsible for how you perceive life. I am able to think these thoughts because of them, and am able to eat, speak, and breathe because of them. All good things; I should thank them sometime. I sit then, feeling a bit woozy. Ah, for these cells can be responsible for bad things as well, can’t they? For instance, a chemical imbalance. A few cells stop doing their jobs and then— boom! The whole system is affected. You stop exercising. You eat and sleep too much, or too little. You withdraw from friends and family. You stop caring about your favorite brand of socks. You begin to drink too much. You may even stand on the edge of a bridge and find that jumping seems appealing. Truly odd, isn’t it? How important the little things in a big system can be. Imagine what would happen if all the bugs in the world decided one day to stop being bugs, and to just drop dead. The chaos it would bring! Test it out for yourself. Gather some friends and set up a game of Jenga, and then slap away all the pieces at the bottom of the tower before you begin. There will be no game to play, no tower at all, for it has nothing to stand on. Really, I think, we are quite delicate creatures living in an equally delicate world. To exist is to be fragile. To become sentient you must realize that you can break, and will. You will live and then die. Presently there is no way around that. You will die because something small inside of you will break, and that break will grow, like a crack in a windshield. Like an unstable tower of blocks. Or maybe if you are a bug, you will just be eaten. Ah, if only the moths could understand my thoughts. Perhaps they would be quite enlightened. I fancy they might say, “Stop with this nonsense, and go have another drink.” But I would retort, “Oh moths! Have you not thought of giving all of this up? This endless game of Jenga? You must grow weary of it!” They do not respond. They continue fluttering about, bouncing off of street lights as they do. So I sigh, and burp, feeling quite unenlightened, and resume my walk.

8

Your life has been a series of misfortunes, mostly attributed to the people you have met. Today I asked you what sorts of people you would have met instead, if you’d had a choice. You said you’d like reliability and stability. You are neither of these things. “Hypocrite,” I thought. I’m sure you expect those things of me. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you expect me to disappoint you like everyone else. I wish I could tell you that I’d be different. But I won’t. I’ve already tried to be many times. I’ve taken who I am and changed it, tweaked it, molded and sculpted it to fit your design. It never worked. If anything, it made you dislike me more— as if you could sense my attempted deceit. I’ve learned, over time, that I will never be what you want me to be.

0

Sep 20, 2018

Sep 20, 2018 at 4:06 AM UTC

Hypocrite

Your life has been a series of misfortunes, mostly attributed to the people you have met. Today I asked you what sorts of people you would have met instead, if you’d had a choice. You said you’d like reliability and stability. You are neither of these things. “Hypocrite,” I thought. I’m sure you expect those things of me. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you expect me to disappoint you like everyone else. I wish I could tell you that I’d be different. But I won’t. I’ve already tried to be many times. I’ve taken who I am and changed it, tweaked it, molded and sculpted it to fit your design. It never worked. If anything, it made you dislike me more— as if you could sense my attempted deceit. I’ve learned, over time, that I will never be what you want me to be.

9

Grabbed my clothes, packed a bag, and threw away your empty promises. In my haste, I left my dearest possession. The pieces of it, anyways. Whatever, you can keep it. There’s nothing in it that you haven’t already taken from me. Don’t try to return it. You’ll never see me again.

0

Sep 18, 2018

Sep 18, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC

I left you.

Grabbed my clothes, packed a bag, and threw away your empty promises. In my haste, I left my dearest possession. The pieces of it, anyways. Whatever, you can keep it. There’s nothing in it that you haven’t already taken from me. Don’t try to return it. You’ll never see me again.

3

Or, well, what was on the other side of it. For a long time I couldn’t see you. I could never run fast enough to catch up. Sometimes I would sit on the side of the road, rest. Contemplate what it would be like to finally reach you. I would dream about it as I slept among the thorns. It was easy enough to pretend that they were you. - Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of you— way out there, mingling with the waves of the hills, like a mirage— vague, dimly seen at first. It makes me happy. - I wasn’t quick enough. Too slow, always. You must have grown inpatient with me. I miss you. The distance craves your touch. I wonder what that feels like… I call out to you. Every night, I swear. Cars come and go, but their shadows never look as good as yours did. I’m still running. I don’t know why. I have no destination. Did I ever? - I look for your face in the windows. How I imagine it, anyways. - Smoke out a window. Melancholy chords, fading away. Impermanence. An apparition— seen and gone.

0

Sep 18, 2018

Sep 18, 2018 at 4:30 AM UTC

Loving you was like loving the horizon.

Or, well, what was on the other side of it. For a long time I couldn’t see you. I could never run fast enough to catch up. Sometimes I would sit on the side of the road, rest. Contemplate what it would be like to finally reach you. I would dream about it as I slept among the thorns. It was easy enough to pretend that they were you. - Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of you— way out there, mingling with the waves of the hills, like a mirage— vague, dimly seen at first. It makes me happy. - I wasn’t quick enough. Too slow, always. You must have grown inpatient with me. I miss you. The distance craves your touch. I wonder what that feels like… I call out to you. Every night, I swear. Cars come and go, but their shadows never look as good as yours did. I’m still running. I don’t know why. I have no destination. Did I ever? - I look for your face in the windows. How I imagine it, anyways. - Smoke out a window. Melancholy chords, fading away. Impermanence. An apparition— seen and gone.

21