yasmin-z
"I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose,—words in their best order; poetry,—the best words in their best order." Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834) / / More than happy to hear suggestions/ criticisms etc xoxo
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
I'm currently in this complicated situation of trying to figure out who I am and exactly what I want to do with my life.
Yet self love in a world seeking to mould us to a social convention is the greatest hurdle to overcome in the step to figuring out exactly who we are.
Can you remember who you were before you were told who to be?
I endeavour to do this through taking time out and moving away for a while. Indeed I have wanted this for a while.
One must find oneself before expecting to be found.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
I lose count of how many times I am catcalled on my way to the gym
I think that maybe turning around, eating an entire pizza and
never coming back would stop this from happening
I realize it wouldn't
I would still be a woman
"Smile baby,"
I hear as I leave my car
Just 3 hours of sleep to get me to where I am and
I am tired enough to silence a response from my middle finger but
not enough to quit
A guy standing at the bus stop sees my hands wrapped and
tells me that boxing is ****
I wonder how clenched fists
self-protection and
the desire to make it home alive
each night is **** but
I don't ask
When I don't hit the bag hard enough
I remember the force of
his body and
I let my knuckles do the speaking
there is no stopping after the rage is
reborn
A man tells me how lucky I am
to have this figure
ignorant to the fact that hard work is nothing
remotely similar to luck
a string I have been stretching and pulling
that is what my body is
luck,
I think about how he will never have enough of it to touch me
I like the way it feels to
be sore from something willingly
to get up from the ground without a hand helping
these bruises are proof of my attempts
I have been practicing my run
to make up for all of the times
I havent had the guts to
my limbs are reaching forward for
every time they've been held back
I like to say that survival
is a choice made in the aftermath of destruction
the conscious decision to chew through broken glass rather
than swallow it whole
survival is not as simple as I didn't die
it is deciding not to
Hand squeezing wrist,
he told me I'd never be enough for anyone anyway
well today I am enough for
me
I'm working on myself
for myself
building ash into bone into muscle
this is strength learning how to show
this is me learning how to pull through
this is me doing exactly
that
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
she may hurt, but she is not pain.
she may fail, but she is not a failure.
she may be tragic, but she is not tragedy.
*she may feel worthless,
but this, too, will pass.*
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
“He used to love me,
and now
he’s just a stranger
who happens to know
all my secrets.”
By Clementine Von Radics
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
I will regret this in the morning
but I will do it anyway
my impulsivity often overpowers my conscience
yet I am almost always fully aware
of the decisions I make
and their consequences
I am not exactly mentally stable
but I am sane enough
to know right from wrong
yesterday from today
love from lust
although sometimes I mix them up
I have a tendency to lunge at any pair of arms that open for me
my mind and body often disagree
my body saying yes to eager hands
my mind saying no
constantly looking towards my heart
thinking how stupid one must be
to fall repeatedly
get hurt every single time
and still manage to do the same
over
and over
again
I wonder
how many times I will have to hit the ground
in order to learn to stop falling face first?
I often say things
that should be left unsaid
I often do things
that should not be done
sleep in beds unfamiliar
make believe love to strangers
get to know people who will not remember me tomorrow
I am gone as quickly as the hangover
I can be washed off the tongue
just as quickly as the liquor
I often believe I am capable of inciting change
I kiss temporary lips with permanence
hoping that I can train them to stay
I love temporary people with permanence
hoping that I can train them not to leave
and when they do
I claim to have seen it coming
I am incapable of forgetting
a scrapbook memory of skin and heartbeat
of touch and moments
I know not to look directly into eyes
for they can be blinding
and I still
do it anyway
I know of the risks that shouldn't be taken
well aware of their consequences
and I still
take them anyway
you could say
it is my own fault
for the way that things continue to turn out
but I can make no promise of apology
instead
I will live momentarily
**** up intentionally
love recklessly
fall unguarded
break enough times to learn how to put myself back together
crash into concrete enough times to learn how to shift a crooked smile
into something worth seeing
I have been told that a life lived in fear
is hardly a life lived at all
so I intend to live every second
like it is the last one I will have
I will write each night as it happens
narrate my own stories
and hope they turn out okay
I will regret this in the morning
but I will do it anyway.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC