oliviiacai - Hello Poetry

The air clings to my skin, as if I could reach up and wring it out like a wet towel. The steady drone of mosquitos, flashes of flitting bodies in my periphery remind me of my negligence, Because I can't really blame them for being attracted to standing water. They're only trying to reproduce, to give their offspring a chance at experiencing the world. A place where their eggs won't be washed away downstream We regard them as vermin, but really, we all burn down to the same things. A gnawing hunger for survival, a bit of charred carbon. Maybe stardust, if you believe in that. A condensation of refracted nebulae. After all, the infestation is your own fault. When your water has nowhere to drain, can you fault it for stagnating? When a mother's wings tire, can you fault her for coming to rest? Why let the water still if you don't welcome mosquitos? I almost toe the line of sympathy before snuffing it out with one swift motion, Ending the thought in a spatter of old blood, A torn wing smeared across the back of my calf.

0

Nov 10, 2022

Nov 10, 2022 at 1:30 PM UTC

pest

The air clings to my skin, as if I could reach up and wring it out like a wet towel. The steady drone of mosquitos, flashes of flitting bodies in my periphery remind me of my negligence, Because I can't really blame them for being attracted to standing water. They're only trying to reproduce, to give their offspring a chance at experiencing the world. A place where their eggs won't be washed away downstream We regard them as vermin, but really, we all burn down to the same things. A gnawing hunger for survival, a bit of charred carbon. Maybe stardust, if you believe in that. A condensation of refracted nebulae. After all, the infestation is your own fault. When your water has nowhere to drain, can you fault it for stagnating? When a mother's wings tire, can you fault her for coming to rest? Why let the water still if you don't welcome mosquitos? I almost toe the line of sympathy before snuffing it out with one swift motion, Ending the thought in a spatter of old blood, A torn wing smeared across the back of my calf.

19

this is a poem of who i am the big picture stellar grand scheme of things cobwebs cling to abandoned ideas the constant unending stream of things incessant foot-tapping, under-eye bags stress tearing frayed holes in the seam of things pinched fat between fingers, bared teeth of the scale the lowered self-esteem of things growing up being told that one day i'd be great the glaring spotlight beam of things a starry-eyed girl with a life to live: when i close my eyes i dream of things.

0

Apr 19, 2022

Apr 19, 2022 at 8:01 PM UTC

of things

this is a poem of who i am the big picture stellar grand scheme of things cobwebs cling to abandoned ideas the constant unending stream of things incessant foot-tapping, under-eye bags stress tearing frayed holes in the seam of things pinched fat between fingers, bared teeth of the scale the lowered self-esteem of things growing up being told that one day i'd be great the glaring spotlight beam of things a starry-eyed girl with a life to live: when i close my eyes i dream of things.

12

lets pour one out for the kids who never quite grew into the “mature for your age”’s and “pleasure to have in class”’s, glowing futures hanging from bony frames like a shirt a few sizes too big the kids with molten gold praise spilling from their skin, beautiful and searingly painful, how icarus must have felt when the wax ran in rivulets down his back and the sea opened up to swallow him whole. the world isn’t so kind to these cookie dough kids whose edges dont quite fill out the cutters designed for them who have no one to blame but themselves and no one to turn to either. where do you go when you’re suffocated by the shadow of places you could’ve gone?

0

Mar 8, 2022

Mar 8, 2022 at 10:44 PM UTC

candlewick

lets pour one out for the kids who never quite grew into the “mature for your age”’s and “pleasure to have in class”’s, glowing futures hanging from bony frames like a shirt a few sizes too big the kids with molten gold praise spilling from their skin, beautiful and searingly painful, how icarus must have felt when the wax ran in rivulets down his back and the sea opened up to swallow him whole. the world isn’t so kind to these cookie dough kids whose edges dont quite fill out the cutters designed for them who have no one to blame but themselves and no one to turn to either. where do you go when you’re suffocated by the shadow of places you could’ve gone?

21

i held you like a rope with no slack, searing my palms as you pulled away and i held on tight and when i finally let go i wondered why the love hurt more than the leave

0

Dec 9, 2021

Dec 9, 2021 at 12:56 AM UTC

taut

i held you like a rope with no slack, searing my palms as you pulled away and i held on tight and when i finally let go i wondered why the love hurt more than the leave

4

“it is often,” he said, “that the poets speak of war-soaked glory and the sickening scent of blood and metal, that the only stories worth being told are ones of immense courage and the crimson victory of causing the death of another. seldom do you hear magnificent tales of the gardener, hands callused from wielding not a sword but the handle of a shovel, exhausted from the humble act of creating life rather than taking it. and that, i think, is a great shame.”

0

Mar 23, 2021

Mar 23, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC

blood and dirt

“it is often,” he said, “that the poets speak of war-soaked glory and the sickening scent of blood and metal, that the only stories worth being told are ones of immense courage and the crimson victory of causing the death of another. seldom do you hear magnificent tales of the gardener, hands callused from wielding not a sword but the handle of a shovel, exhausted from the humble act of creating life rather than taking it. and that, i think, is a great shame.”

1

i poured my love into his heart it overflowed spilling out onto the floor wasted his was full of love from another leaving mine empty

0

Mar 15, 2021

Mar 15, 2021 at 2:13 PM UTC

never mine to love

i poured my love into his heart it overflowed spilling out onto the floor wasted his was full of love from another leaving mine empty

6

sometimes you fall and it’s exhilarating and new and it feels like you’re falling out of a plane but sometimes you fall and it’s safe and familiar and it feels like you’re falling into place

0

Mar 15, 2021

Mar 15, 2021 at 2:14 AM UTC

sphinx

sometimes you fall and it’s exhilarating and new and it feels like you’re falling out of a plane but sometimes you fall and it’s safe and familiar and it feels like you’re falling into place

2

dancing circles around thoughts too raw to approach without the shield of a metaphor, as if comparing pain to the tide or the birth and death of stars will somehow soothe the sting.

0

Jan 5, 2021

Jan 5, 2021 at 5:45 PM UTC

Why do poets rely on comparison?

dancing circles around thoughts too raw to approach without the shield of a metaphor, as if comparing pain to the tide or the birth and death of stars will somehow soothe the sting.

2

the words died before they could leave my lips but their corpses dance on my tongue

0

Jan 5, 2021

Jan 5, 2021 at 5:44 PM UTC

regret

the words died before they could leave my lips but their corpses dance on my tongue

2

sometimes i look at the crude mass of jumbled words that spill from my fingers and i weep because i can't write good poetry. sometimes i read, read, and reread until my eyes bleed and i finally concede that i cant write good poetry. sometimes i want to scream and shriek since i sacrifice so much simply to sow words on paper like seeds in a field, yet i can't write, good poetry. sometimes i give up. but i've always been told that the best authors hide the most suffering, and I look back at my poetry and smile. because if i can't write good poetry at least it means i'm doing alright.

0

May 21, 2019

May 21, 2019 at 1:32 AM UTC

a guide to writing good poems

sometimes i look at the crude mass of jumbled words that spill from my fingers and i weep because i can't write good poetry. sometimes i read, read, and reread until my eyes bleed and i finally concede that i cant write good poetry. sometimes i want to scream and shriek since i sacrifice so much simply to sow words on paper like seeds in a field, yet i can't write, good poetry. sometimes i give up. but i've always been told that the best authors hide the most suffering, and I look back at my poetry and smile. because if i can't write good poetry at least it means i'm doing alright.

9