quintheowl - Hello Poetry

the Romantic in me says: "Maybe in the next life," the Logic in me says: "Why not this one?" the Pessimist in me says: "I am everything that has ever happened to me." the Optimist in me says: "I can't wait to see who I become next!" the Dreamer in me says: "Happily Ever After." the Realist in me says: "To Be Determined." the Quitter in me says: "Please, God, can we go back?" the Survivor in me says: "Onward."

0

Aug 7, 2025

Aug 7, 2025 at 8:24 PM UTC

why not?

the Romantic in me says: "Maybe in the next life," the Logic in me says: "Why not this one?" the Pessimist in me says: "I am everything that has ever happened to me." the Optimist in me says: "I can't wait to see who I become next!" the Dreamer in me says: "Happily Ever After." the Realist in me says: "To Be Determined." the Quitter in me says: "Please, God, can we go back?" the Survivor in me says: "Onward."

16

there's too many fingerprints. too many smears of blood and sweat and spit. too many bruises, marks and scars i can no longer name. i am now fragments, built in the shape of a person. too much debris, and not enough woman.

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 8:39 PM UTC

damaged goods

there's too many fingerprints. too many smears of blood and sweat and spit. too many bruises, marks and scars i can no longer name. i am now fragments, built in the shape of a person. too much debris, and not enough woman.

8

and i haven't figured out how to fill it. i will look for you everywhere i go, just as i hope i never see you again.

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 8:36 PM UTC

there's a you-shaped hole in my heart

and i haven't figured out how to fill it. i will look for you everywhere i go, just as i hope i never see you again.

4

Do we create to destroy or destroy to create? (Does it matter? Does it matter? We bleed and burn for art and music and poetry.) And in between these trying times, we learn to love, and love to live. Does it matter? Does it matter? (The answer is... ...yes.)

0

Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 5:13 AM UTC

The Answer Is...

Do we create to destroy or destroy to create? (Does it matter? Does it matter? We bleed and burn for art and music and poetry.) And in between these trying times, we learn to love, and love to live. Does it matter? Does it matter? (The answer is... ...yes.)

9

I woke up to find a lipstick print on my bathroom mirror. I wondered which color, which shade, which shape, would leave such an imprint. I wondered whose aunt, whose sister, whose mother, would leave such a gift. However way it ended up there, I’ll say this for sure: when I kissed the mirror, in return, my print wasn’t a match. (Whoever you are, I love you.)

0

Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 5:12 AM UTC

Guardian Angel

I woke up to find a lipstick print on my bathroom mirror. I wondered which color, which shade, which shape, would leave such an imprint. I wondered whose aunt, whose sister, whose mother, would leave such a gift. However way it ended up there, I’ll say this for sure: when I kissed the mirror, in return, my print wasn’t a match. (Whoever you are, I love you.)

13

sometimes, stories outlive their storytellers - and that's okay. it's a circle of creation. it is, then, a true testament of time, when such stories blossom and grow without the atmosphere of conception. history in the making, or, rather, the thought that is a constant of the Human Condition: history repeats itself.

0

Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 5:06 AM UTC

thesis

sometimes, stories outlive their storytellers - and that's okay. it's a circle of creation. it is, then, a true testament of time, when such stories blossom and grow without the atmosphere of conception. history in the making, or, rather, the thought that is a constant of the Human Condition: history repeats itself.

4

i'd like to think that death is like love. "to love is to rest," they say. "to die is to sleep," is what i hope for. i've been alive a long time. pain has dulled to an optimistic distillation. but then there are those nights. alone, aching with love i cannot share. alone and abandoned to thoughts of "otherwise" or "elsewhere." alone. alone. alone. and afraid. (i've been dead a long time. the pain never really goes away.)

0

Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 5:04 AM UTC

death is seldom painless

i'd like to think that death is like love. "to love is to rest," they say. "to die is to sleep," is what i hope for. i've been alive a long time. pain has dulled to an optimistic distillation. but then there are those nights. alone, aching with love i cannot share. alone and abandoned to thoughts of "otherwise" or "elsewhere." alone. alone. alone. and afraid. (i've been dead a long time. the pain never really goes away.)

8

i never made it off the bridge, but my body ached like it did. and because my brain was too waterlogged with the river i failed to drown in, i was sent to the school nurse the next day. she took one look at the bags under my eyes, at my cracked fingertips still bitten from the cold. my lungs burned as i watched her call my father. i'd only ever seen the man cry once before: when he tore down the door to his crumbling childhood home - tears only reserved for goodbye situations. later, he sat me down under the glow-in-the-dark stars we pasted together on my ceiling when i was ten. he had just turned forty-three, yet his hair was whitening faster than it was supposed to. "nothing's unfixable as long as we're alive," he told me, a plea. and i believed him. i believed him. i believed him. (neither of us knew it... ...but he was already talking to a corpse.)

0

Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 5:01 AM UTC

i tried to **** myself in high school

i never made it off the bridge, but my body ached like it did. and because my brain was too waterlogged with the river i failed to drown in, i was sent to the school nurse the next day. she took one look at the bags under my eyes, at my cracked fingertips still bitten from the cold. my lungs burned as i watched her call my father. i'd only ever seen the man cry once before: when he tore down the door to his crumbling childhood home - tears only reserved for goodbye situations. later, he sat me down under the glow-in-the-dark stars we pasted together on my ceiling when i was ten. he had just turned forty-three, yet his hair was whitening faster than it was supposed to. "nothing's unfixable as long as we're alive," he told me, a plea. and i believed him. i believed him. i believed him. (neither of us knew it... ...but he was already talking to a corpse.)

9

we went for a drive, once, in late spring. i told my mother i was seeing a friend. you told your pops you were seeing a girl. i parked behind our local grocery store three minutes before six-thirty. you pulled up beside me three minutes after seven. you kept your hand on my thigh, and when i laced my fingers in yours, you didn't let go. you told me you had a spot, but we couldn't find it - even in the summer sunlight. so we parked by a mountain and climbed in your backseat, instead. beforehand, you took off my shoes - side by side, like a habit. during, you pushed my hair from my face - carefully, like i was glass. afterward, you cradled my head to your chest, and i watched you pluck threads from the cloth ceiling of your Buick. "this means nothing. this means nothing. this means not a single, ******* thing." you didn't say goodbye when you dropped me off. (but you did kiss me, soft and slow. and you looked me dead in the eyes, a frown on your brow, and said, "please. text me when you get home.")

0

Jan 30, 2025

Jan 30, 2025 at 8:52 PM UTC

backseat needles

we went for a drive, once, in late spring. i told my mother i was seeing a friend. you told your pops you were seeing a girl. i parked behind our local grocery store three minutes before six-thirty. you pulled up beside me three minutes after seven. you kept your hand on my thigh, and when i laced my fingers in yours, you didn't let go. you told me you had a spot, but we couldn't find it - even in the summer sunlight. so we parked by a mountain and climbed in your backseat, instead. beforehand, you took off my shoes - side by side, like a habit. during, you pushed my hair from my face - carefully, like i was glass. afterward, you cradled my head to your chest, and i watched you pluck threads from the cloth ceiling of your Buick. "this means nothing. this means nothing. this means not a single, ******* thing." you didn't say goodbye when you dropped me off. (but you did kiss me, soft and slow. and you looked me dead in the eyes, a frown on your brow, and said, "please. text me when you get home.")

11

is deciding that your sadness will no longer speak for you.

0

Sep 19, 2020

Sep 19, 2020 at 6:51 PM UTC

growth

is deciding that your sadness will no longer speak for you.

4