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Jun 20 · 144
COLUMBIA
if there is pain
there is hope
but if you are numb
you'll never know
if you can cry
please do
if you want to cry
please do


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
The poem has nothing to do with Yemen, but to update you on that, the situation in Yemen is getting much worse, which is odd and unfortunate to say considering what the situation is already.

A ceasefire between various forces, which began because of the outbreak of Covid-19, has ended, and with its conclusion the country has erupted into violent clashes.

The Houthi rebels are reportedly hiding the severity of the Coronavirus outbreak among their territories, making it more difficult to aid.

And UNICEF is reporting that its $479 million appeal for Yemen is less than 40% funded, and unless it receives $30 million by the end of June, operations concerning WASH - Water, Sanitation, And Hygiene - will have to shut down. "This means UNICEF will not be able to provide fuel to operate water pumping stations, or de-sludge sewage, or maintain crumbling water and sanitation infrastructure", Marixie Mercado, spokesperson for the agency. "It means we will not be able to distribute basic family hygiene kits that include soap, which is so critical for preventing both cholera and COVID in a context where millions don't have access to hand-washing facilities."
.
How can you help? Assimilate, donate, and spread awareness, or ADaSA.

If you go to my Instagram account, @alekthepoet , in my bio there's a link to a Linktree, and the first two boxes will provide you with information on what is going on. The first link will take you to a report by Human Rights Watch, and it details the travesties that make up the crisis. The second link will take you to a report by the Council on Foreign Relations, which goes into detail on the political and military side of what is happening and why.

The other boxes provide multiple reputable organizations that you can donate to, or aid in other ways. As you can tell from the information above, those trying to provide aid need money and resources, and they need them soon, so if there is anything you can donate, or you can ask someone else to donate, please do.

Finally, letting others know lets them do the above. Whether that's just bringing it up in conversations, reposting on various social media sites, or sending the information in a large newsletter, it will all help if you direct them to learn and donate.
.
Am I doing anything else besides the above?

Yes. I will contact various people in the US Congress to get something going there, both in offering more aid and stopping the supplies of weaponry to the Saudi Arabia military. I know it sounds vague to say "get something going", but it's more complex than that and I promise there's more to it and that there's a reason for my vagueness.

I am also putting together a fundraiser, of which the proceeds will go to the organizations above and will include shirts, stickers, and a catchy slogan that can help us in raising awareness. I'm in the logistics phase, so bear with me, and in the meantime donate to the organizations directly because they desperately need it now.

But I hope to have it up and running soon.
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Hopefully the above info helped. And I hope you enjoyed the poem, which is still what I do, though less these days.
Jun 13 · 150
Forgotten
A mother sits on the edge
of a hospital bed with her
baby daughter lying on her lap.

The air throughout the hospital
is suffocating, stifling with the
stench of filth and death.

The walls amplify and echo the
anguish of women and children,
and jets fly somewhere overhead.

But she tries to sing a lullaby
through her parched throat
beneath her grubby niqāb. The skin
and bones that make her frame
cannot sway the child for comfort.

She cannot feed her; even if her
******* could provide sustenance,
the child’s sickness would puke it
back up. She craves to cry for God
to spare her little one, but her
bloodshot, sunken eyes no longer
produce tears. All she can offer is
her lullaby, the same one she sang
to all her children. All that remains
of them and their father are fragments,
scattered throughout dirt and debris,
blown to bits a week ago by a blast
in her village. When the only one left
became sick, she started the trek to
the nearest hospital. The journey
greeted her with dust and unbearable
heat, with the agony of an empty
stomach, with a child in misery and
excreting white diarrhea. And when
she finally reached the hospital, the
doctors could not provide treatment.

The disease had progressed too far,
and they did not have the means to
save her daughter. So she sits on a
hospice bed, surrounded by other
sickly and starving bodies, singing a
lullaby. Soon the child closes her eyes
and stops breathing, a thick white
drool leaking down her cheek. Her
mother wipes it away.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
This poem depicts a bit of the horrific circumstances that are taking place regularly in Yemen. According to the UN, Yemen is suffering the worst humanitarian crisis in the world, with 80% of its citizens requiring humanitarian aid. And it is only getting worse.

The Saudi-led intervention in Yemen, backed by rich allies such as the United States and the United Kingdom, is committing war crimes. They are targeting innocent civilians with missiles (including some that many countries have banned the use of), and though this includes destroying hospitals and schools, it also includes peaceful villages and the encampments of 3 million displaced persons, unrelated to the Civil War that is being waged. They are targeting infrastructure (for example, gas stations and bridges) that make basic functioning arduous, if not impossible. And they are using a blockade to deny the passage of food and aid into the country. This blockade has perpetuated one of the worst cholera outbreaks ever (which is the “illness” the baby in this poem has). And it has left 20 million people facing food insecurity, with half of them being acutely food insecure. (Some are comparing this deliberate military tactic of famine to The Holodomor, the Ukranian Genocide of 1932-33).

And on top of facing starvation, succumbing to disease, or getting blown to pieces, they are also facing Covid-19 drastically limited resource, which is spreading at an alarming rate.

I titled this poem Forgotten because multiple sources that I’ve read about this crisis point out how the situation in Yemen is being largely ignored. And this ignorance will lead to the unfortunate end of millions of innocent people.

I don’t want that to happen.

In order for us to aid the Yemeni people, the conflict that is occurring needs to end. This can happen a number of ways. I will focus my part in what I can do to get the US Government (where I live) to stop supplying arms to the Saudi-led intervention. I have little influence in the political sphere, and if there’s anyone reading this who could throw a more powerful swing at it, please do. But I will let my readers know if there’s anything they can help me with, such as signing a letter/petition.

But we cannot rely on the conflict resolving when it is such a complex situation with interweaving influences and leaders who are committing or are complicit in atrocities. As such, the other thing we need to do is offer as much aid as we can. In the bio of my Instagram account, @alekthepoet,  there’s a link to multiple non-profits trying to help, and each link takes you to a page that offers more information on Yemen’s situation. Please donate what you can. I cannot offer much, and yet I scrounged up some money and will donate what I can as well (I am donating to Save The Children). Each website also offers more ways in which you can help, so if you have the time please look into that and see if there’s more you can do.

Please do what you can to help the Yemen people. They don’t deserve to be forgotten by us. Please share this information and post to make sure it doesn’t happen.
May 30 · 208
Camping
I miss the trip we took.

We didn’t mind feeling lost while we drove
through the forest, and we sang aloud
the entire way until we arrived at the
site. We pitched the tent, and then spent
the afternoon eating s’mores smothered
in whipped cream, sharing ghost
stories, and watching the lake’s current
come in and out. And when it came time
to hide away, we huddled into my red
sleeping bag, chatting about whatever
came to mind. That’s what I miss the most,
laying with you, discovering how your
mind moves. Or how mentioning we
smelled like s’mores made you go from
a giggle into a hearty laugh.

Then a lengthy gaze turned to a yearning
silence. I miss you running your warm palm
down my chest. Flesh on flesh became our
flesh, breath on breath became our breath.
By the time you fell asleep you had engulfed
me into your small, dying flame, and
embraced me into the furthest depths you
would ever let anyone reach. I remember
wishing it would never end.

But I also remember lying there, still awake,
my body almost shaking from all that was
surging through my nerves and veins,
feeling more nervous than satisfied. And
soon, once the weeks of bliss had gone by,
you realized I was letting you down. You
didn’t seem distraught, or rejected;
you were disappointed.

Now, I will not chastise myself for having
old wounds still healing. I will not be
ashamed for still having armor, for having
to try to surrender, for regarding the body
and heart of the person you fell for with
disgust. But I don’t want to indulge in my
progress or lack thereof, because for you
it’s true, I let you down. You saw me
covered, and you saw me ****, but you
never saw me naked, exposed, vulnerable
and raw. I wouldn’t let you.

And I’m certain for you it was like expecting
a call that won’t come. And when the phone
finally rings you are not there to answer.
You gave up long ago. And I’m still
not even willing to call.
May 19 · 87
Open Mic Night
She’s trying to fly with
crippled wings and join
her dreams together with
guitar strings and when
she sings she sings her
songs of how she tries
to get along with the long
harsh road she’s been
wandering on as she tries
to fly with crippled wings
and join her dreams together
with guitar strings

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
I was inspired to write this poem after "This Town Is Killing Me" by Caitlyn Smith kept replaying in my head. Make sure to check it out!

And if you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones.
May 9 · 145
Daze
are you coming
better days
?
better days
better days
are you coming
better days
are you coming
?

lick the sky
say goodbye
and be proud
of yourself
that you even tried

are you coming
better days
?
better days
better days
are you coming
better days
?
I am waiting

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
May 2 · 357
Smoke
Downtown’s sodium orange
penetrates the snow fog around us,
and the xenon sign outside this club
stains your teeth an electric blue.

There are bloodshot eyes behind puffs
of smoke as you **** on a cigarette.

Our feet ***** the salt and butts
under the slush as snow coats our
coats and your short, curly hair.

Your lips lap the tip for mere seconds
at a time, never leaving your lungs
full for long. I watch your chest rise
and fall with each burning breath
and imagine that coat curling away
and falling like ash. But I don’t smoke
and loathe the smell that lingers
betwixt my fingers.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Did you know most streetlights are high pressured sodium lamps?

And yes, even with all my self-destructive behavior like binge eating, physical self-injury/self-harm, and several suicide attempts, I don't actually smoke. I tried a bit, and though I never minded the taste or smell in my mouth, I could never stand the smell it left on my fingers. So no more, except for the countless times I'm with friends in smoking areas inhaling 2nd hand.

I've mostly stopped drinking too ("mostly" because I'm still willing to sip to test taste), but that's a whole other story to turn into a lust filled poem 😄

If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works.
May 2 · 80
Facsimile
We finish digging our graves, dug
to what we consider three feet, but
we don’t worry about measurements.

These deaths are negligible.

Coated in dirt and sweat and heaving,
we gaze at each other. We both nod,
toss our shovels aside and walk over
to our bodies. He grabs his by the wrist
and drags it across the grass. I hoist
mine into my arms and shuffle over.

They’re both dumped into the graves,
and we fill both the holes. He walks to
his car without hesitation. I pause a
moment to glare at my grave, but I don’t
offer a eulogy or prayer, only standing
there in silence. I catch up to him, throw
my shovel in the trunk, and we drive off.

He drops me at my home, and I go inside
to find my wife watching TV. My wife? I
blink, trying to focus. Yes, she is my wife.
She says “Hey honey”, and I respond with
a low “Hey”, but she doesn’t look over,
does not notice the mess. I ***** up the
stairs, counting the steps, and start a shower.

As the water warms, the mirror reveals
someone familiar. No, not familiar, this is
me. I get under the warm stream, letting it
clean away what is left of me.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
My palms in my pockets jingle
the keys to my cave as I make
my way to wherever I’m going.
My legs propel me, and my feet
dodge cast-off gum and dog dung.

And on my head rests a fishbowl.

An extra load on my skull,
but I don’t mind. I rather
like this bowl. It gives me
a barrier, and though thin,
the glass has yet to crack.

I hear my voice resound,
bouncing around the tiny
space, and I smell my breath,
minty fresh and foggy, and
through the fog the world and
its creatures are phantoms.

When I’m addressed, it’s like
floating in frigid freshwater
as they call for me from
the sheet of ice above.
They suspect I’ve lost
my soul in the fishbowl,
yet as year after year
goes by, I feel just fine.

I am an astronaut taking
a space walk, drifting around
and watching the universe
unfold under a sheet of glass.

And when I close my eyes,
I am in a womb, or a coffin,
and I often can’t tell the
difference, nor find much
of a reason to tell.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
If you want to hear me read this poem aloud, check out my Instagram @alekthepoet !
Apr 24 · 137
Ants
He has sensitive teeth, yet 
he sips frigid liquids for 
the same reason he goes out 
of his way to stamp on ants.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
On one hand, this obviously has a deeper meaning, but on the other hand, what an idiotic ****!
Apr 18 · 180
Dogged
It can be amusing
to lose one’s mind.

You don’t catch at first
how it slipped out the backdoor.
But you notice something
is missing, and after a minute
you realize it’s at it again.

You go to the backdoor, chuckling,
and out the screen,
just before you see it
dash around the corner,
you call out,
“Hey *******!
I’ve found you before
and I’ll find you again!”

But then it’s gone,
and for at least awhile
it hides, with you left to seek.

Left with too many empty bottles.
Too many memories.
Too many guilty thoughts.
Too many fantasies.
And far too many sleeping pills,
with not enough sleep.

---
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones.

Also, if you want pictures of my cute dog Tymba, check this poem on Instagram! (@alekthepoet)
It pretends to be one of us, but it’s not quite human.

It masquerades as a person, wearing skin that
mimics our flesh, with joints designed to rotate and
glide like ours. It listens to the changing cadences
and tones of our voices, measures our temperatures
and respiration and blinking rates, and then reacts.
And when it behaves, it does so on accumulated
data, learned and converted into best practices.

But it does not have fantasies. It fills its shoes
with synthetic muscle and steel but never wears
another’s. It does not look at birds and wishes
to fly, nor looks to the moon in hopes of someday
making the lengthy trek to wander the gray crust.

It pretends to be one of us, but it’s not quite human.

Not yet.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Mar 27 · 103
Dust To Dust
When you take the soil,
do you grab a handful,
or just a bit?

Is your nose sluggish,
or has it been days since
you’ve cried and you
smell the petrichor?

Do you listen to the priest
offering prayers? Or do you
turn hollow and hear only
your heartbeat?

Do you mutter a message,
grant your final send-off?
When you let go, do you
unfurl your hand and let it
drop like a heavy weight
leaving your open palm?
Does it seep between your
fingers and out of your hand?

Or are you swift, silent, eager
to advance the procession?
Do you toss it, as if sending
a ship off to sea?

Do you believe the carcass
beneath that pine lid cherishes
your gesture? Or do you do this
for yourself, for solidarity with
those with you? Do you think
there’s a difference?

When you take the soil,
do you grab a handful,
or just a bit?


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Feb 21 · 167
Scorched
I left your letters in tatters,
but do not distress.
Your every word
burned my eyes,
like a bedroom wall
too close to candlelight.
They will survive,
a life living on
well after your demise.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones.
Jan 31 · 168
My Own Tale
Don’t you dare tell me
I cannot love him.
He’ll love me back and
he will be mine.

Fingers at ready
on my old bookshelf,
waiting for the right
words to appear.
Waiting forever,
dust has now settled.
Maybe I should just
write my own tale.

It is not easy
when you’ve been lonely.
It is not simple
when there’s a loss.

Imprint on my ring
finger is still there.
I rub it often
so it will fade.
It has been too long
and I must move on.
This new passion is
warm to the touch.

Don’t you dare tell me
I cannot love him.
He’ll walk away and
I will stay true.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Jan 15 · 231
Nostalgia
I wander through the city,
skipping every crack.


It never feels as real,
hearing it from your lips.

When you write it,
I’m elated.
It’s warm honey daubing
crusty sourdough
as I sip a cup of joe
and gaze out the window
at the ocean mist
under a toasty sunset.

Yet, when I listen to you speak,
hear your tone
as I gaze into your eyes,
the glow just isn’t there.

I want to believe
you have just lost it,
but I really can’t remember.


I stop to scrape gum off my sole.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones.
Jan 11 · 178
Fruit
Apple or tangerine?

Apple or tangerine?

What should I eat this morning?

Is it important?

Will the wrong choice destroy my day?

Is there a way to tell the difference?

Is there a wrong choice?

Or am I wasting my precious
time casting doubts?

Or is this the path of purpose,
to see one’s choices as if they
matter in the details that make the
fibres and stitching of the grand scheme?

Have I figured it out?

Or is that my ego craving importance?

What if there’s-


Crap, I have to go.

Guess I’ll have the banana.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones.
Jan 7 · 195
My Name
I need you to call my name.

I want to hear it escape your throat.

You know my name. It is the one
that sounds like the stabbing of
steel shovels into sodden soil.

It is the one you addressed
on all those notes and letters.

Say it. Say it now.
Cry my name.

You will say it, even if
it spills from your teeth
and stains your ******* skin.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
You're ******* right

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Jan 6 · 145
The Banshee
land of hills and fog,
moss covered forest and a
cottage in the dark



Please, oh please, lamenting weep,
please, don’t take my baby from me.
Within the woods and through the trees,
on the hills, I’m on my knees.
Please don’t take my baby from me.


Frigid sweat runs down her forehead
and she whimpers from her shivering chest.
Tried my best to sing her to sleep
but there is blood in these lullabies.

Her coughs are like shattered glass from her throat,
and her painful wails in these walls echo.
And though I wish this was all a dream,
I heard from the woods the old rallying cry.

I lie on the bed and clutch my child
and pray her soul keeps clear of the wild.
I bridle my tears so her armour’s not weak,
though in my heart it’s becoming a lie.

Please, I beg you, don’t take her away,
she was only just born the other day.
Let her step on the stones, let her be free,
let her remain, keep her alive.


Please, oh please, lamenting weep,
please, don’t take my baby from me.
Within the woods and through the trees,
on the hills, I’m on my knees.
Please don’t take my baby from me.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
The harbinger of death

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Jan 3 · 321
Raised
not the man you used to be
and we do not know why
everything is suffocating
strangled by the lies

in the end it all felt wrong
like it was born to burn
scarring all your little ones with
nothing left to learn

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones.
Dec 2019 · 357
Fear
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
I’ve never felt so tranquil
while so numb.

It’s like leaving while
staying still, a calm
pulse in nothing,
music without a sound,
*** without a body.

It’s an erasure of strides
in snow and slush,
a dissolving act,
the cackle of a
wholesome child.

Pure and imperfect.

Today,
I am drifting downstream,
riding the cherry blossoms.

And I’m not stopping this time,
I’m not checking out,
waking up or falling asleep.

The stars will kiss me and I
will drink their light.

I am no longer afraid.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
For those celebrating today, rock on! But you may not be in the same spirit. New Year’s Eve might leave you wanting and feeling empty. You’ll enjoy the party and lift the toast, but someone close may notice how sad your eyes are when you let your guard down. Something about this transitional holiday hurts deep in your gut, similar to your birthday. All I will say is that you’re not alone; I am just like you. And I’m lifting my toast to you, hoping you find a lesson in your struggle, maybe something about understanding yourself better. And I hope that by tomorrow you’re looking neither ahead nor behind but being right now.

If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones.
Dec 2019 · 234
Another Reason
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
Please, do not ask me
if I am okay.
I do not want to
add that lie to all
the reasons I had
to die.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones.
Dec 2019 · 400
Spar
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
I keep hearing the question, 
“would you speak to a friend like that?” 
No, I would not. 

But

friend? What friend? Were we supposed 
to be friends? I would never befriend 
someone like this. Who suffocates me. 

Who’s so toxic I’ve caught ***** in my 
throat, eroding my will to breathe. Who 
wields a heavy fist and punishes with 
violence. Who lights silences with flames. 

No, you are not my friend.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones,
Dec 2019 · 815
Best Intentions
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
She wraps the presents with cheap paper
on the desk against the wall, lit by dim
Christmas lights. All the unwrapped toys
are in the pink plastic basket at her feet,
and she stacks the finished ones at the
foot of the bed.

I’m propped up on the pillows, touching
myself and stroking my chest as I watch
her work, charmed by how her bones
and muscles move beneath her skin. She
turns around with a finished gift and
sets it down. Her eyes meet mine and she
simpers, biting  her lower lip, then turns
and picks up another toy.

I leave the bed, careful not to knock
anything off, and walk up behind her.
She keeps working on the present as I
pet her shoulders and brush my fingers
along her back. I press my body against
hers, wrapping my arms around her
waist and planting kisses on her neck.

She stops working and places her hands
on mine, tilting her head back and
letting her hair drape my shoulder. I
move my hand down her stomach and
across her hair, and I rub her. She huffs
and brings my other hand to her *******,
beckoning me to caress her. I circle
tighter, faster, harder, and she moans
and reaches her hand back to caress me.

I nibble at her ear, and she lets out a
heavy moan, and I whisper in her ear

“You are a wonderful mother.”

Her breathing slows, and she nudges
my  hand from her. “Don’t say that” she
whispers. We stand there, frozen, before
she continues working on the present.
I stay there behind her, realising my
best intentions were a mistake.

“I’ll just go then.” I put my clothes back
on and remove the trash bag from the
bin to take with me to make sure her
husband doesn’t find my condoms.
“Merry Christmas.” I close the bedroom
door and leave her home, careful not
to wake her kids.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Merry Christmas... I think...

If you liked this piece, check out my profile for older works, and follow me so you don't miss out on any new ones!
Dec 2019 · 123
The Hollow Trees
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
the sheep keep
from freezing by 
huddling near 
the hollow trees 

the trees so hollow 
they howl at the moon 
as wind passes through

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 2019 · 98
The Old Road
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
Once again, I follow The Old Road.

It’s a way paved and trodden long
ago by steps as disillusioned as
mine, and as blinded by the milky
fog filling lungs like frigid smoke.

When we’re lost, we believe it’s the
swollen feet and crooked spine and
chattering teeth and the burning mind
that are our ailments.

But time is our disease, ill spent and
driven off and engulfed while expecting
something different, something more,
for promises not made.

All the while death sings its ageless
lullaby louder and louder until the
only promise ever kept thrusts 
the dusty sting. 

But I won’t learn. I refuse to
pay attention. 

Once again, I follow The Old Road.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
I often write my poems while listening to songs on repeat, and the two I had playing during this one was "Oh Death" by Noah Gundersen and "In The Woods Somewhere" by Hozier. Check them out!

And I tagged this poem as time management because, as great as actual practicable techniques and tactics and strategies are, sometimes you just need to be inspired to stop hanging on in quiet desperation (despite it being the English way).
Dec 2019 · 259
Spilt
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
The sun settles into morning, 
and I'm waking up from another
restless night. Another night
spent with you hanging from
every dream and every breath.

But I am free. I have been
liberated. Last night I ripped
my heart out of my breast
and devoured it in front of you.

And you let me.

You let me harm myself
without letting it hurt you. 

Thank you.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 2019 · 112
Lips
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
You drink milk
when all that’s served
is water and wine.

You ****** the throbbing
pulse of the night
with your contriving lips.

You dip into the
honey and you
bedizen your seat.

You leave a trail of blood
to lead you back to
where you are from.

You wink and
the world relents.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 2019 · 189
Extinguish
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
I light a candle, and
watch as it dances with
its own shadow to the
rhythm of the breeze.

It reminds me of the
night that we danced.

I blow out the candle
and sit in the dark.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 2019 · 111
Eternal - *Trigger Warning*
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
Tried drowning in some water
One near where I was raised
Hoping that the bottom
Would take my life

But partway through the mercy
The pain was far too great
And I thought of all
The finer ways to die

Kicked and clawed at the abyss
Desperate for the surface
Begging for the heavens
For air to breathe

At some point all I wanted
Was to ******* end this
Yet after all this time
Death hasn't come for me

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
For the crisis hotline: 1–800–273–8255 ; they are also available for online chat

When one tries to take their life enough times, suicide becomes part of one's identity.

It is an odd reality for those who have attempted more than once (with some circumstantial exceptions). It's a reality that is very hard to relate to others.

It makes talking about suicide easier, yet reaching out for help so much harder. When it's a common theme in your thoughts, discussing it, beyond the black-and-white ideals and lack of humour normal people are used to, isn't as heart-wrenching.

Yet, when we're at our lowest, it's not a shock to us. We're used to it, far too used to it. We're not just thinking "I don't want this pain anymore", or "I don't deserve to live". What's also ingrained in us is a more violent "I ought to die", and "Someone needs to **** me". Our thoughts have escalated beyond a moment of extreme self-pity or grief and has become a perpetual affair of severe self-hatred and shame, a thought proccess that feels instinctual and automatic. And when that's where one's at, when one's death seems like something that should happen, reaching out for help seems unlikely.

I'm likely not going to make waves in suicide prevention. But I can at least make some of you aware that multiple suicide attempters are not in the same mindset as others. They may need help that's different than the norm.

I am sharing this because I know what it's like. I have four attempts under my belt. I know what it's like to feel you shouldn't be alive, like you're already dead but still somehow walking around. Like you started drowning a long time ago and just haven't stopped. And I rarely reach out. This last Tuesday I didn't reach out, and I was right on the edge, ready to step off. I instead wrote this poem, and then this small essay. The vulnerability I needed to be this honest fueled whatever resiliance I had. And, I guess I just beared it until the agony of my triggering, trauma filled thoughts passed.

I'm still alive, obviously, for the hundredth time, but some others aren't. And that's why I'm sharing this.
Dec 2019 · 140
Plaything
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
The study of destruction
Reveals a hidden chart
Of unbridled desires
And ***** rotten hearts
Was I your little plaything?
Was I your little toy?
Did you just take advantage
Of my playing coy?

The impulse of the carnal
It was warming up my blood
The pinnacle of pleasure
Until I fell in love
Now I must escape this
And scrape away the dirt
Let go of all my craving
To keep from getting hurt

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Not done intentionally, but this poem seems to go with my other poem, "Lighter". A continuation... or maybe the opposite perspective? What do you think?
Nov 2019 · 226
Sheets
Alek Mielnikow Nov 2019
The pens I went
to bed with left
streaks of ink
on my sheets and
pillowcases. We
soiled these
sheets with
unleashed intimacy,
with authenticity,
with validation,
with imagination
and creativity.

And when we
finished, when we
had jotted thoughts
as clear as we
could, we drifted
off to sleep. When
I woke from my
dreams, I would look
at the product of
this conception,
full of pride.

Then I’d look down
and see the blots
across my body,
my bed, my sheets,
and chuckle at the
mess it takes to
create these darlings.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
If you're curious, the pens and sheets I use are BIC Atlantis® Exact Retractable Ball Pens on TOPS Docket Gold Writing Pads.
Nov 2019 · 307
The Poet's Freeze
Alek Mielnikow Nov 2019
We write prose in
the dead-cold Winter air,
where the old works we
cared for are frozen.

We buried their poets
in the dirt, along with
their bones, beneath
sleet headstones
of inscriptions meant
for the passerby.

Soon Spring’s rain shall
wash the prayers away, and
her warmth will deliver us
from poetry to life.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Nov 2019 · 157
As It Once Had
Alek Mielnikow Nov 2019
I lay the stem and foot of the wineglass
next to the two Jennies of Morus Muskat
on the windowsill above the sink. One
is empty, the other has a glass left.

I sweep sprinkles of glass onto the blotched
paper towels in the trash, then put the
bin and the dustpan and hand brush away
beneath the sink. I glance out the window,
leaning open-armed against the counter,
and watch the tall grass dance to the breeze.

The setting sun brushes the blades and the
backyard and the dirt path, the porch resting in
a shadow. I leave the sink and grab a glass
from a cabinet and return. I pour the
rest of the Muskat, getting every drop.

I place the bottle on the sill and freeze.

She is standing on the porch in her
Santorini blue dress, the back stained in
crimson from the small crater in the back
of her head. The mush within her skull has
rot, fragments of flesh caught in her dark hair.

I clench my eyes, hoping she disappears,
but when I reopen she is still there.

I take a deep breath, letting the knots
escape my bones. I gulp down the glass and
walk out onto the porch. She doesn’t breathe
or sway, a statue peering into the
blades. Her lips are closed, her green eyes
unblinking and settled, mascara rivers
melted into her cheeks. Her expression feels
like the calm of the broken and numbed, of
those who have surrendered the fight. I say
hello, again. She looks at me, her eyes
unwavering. She glides over and skims
her cold fingertips across my throat and
down my arm as she leaves the porch, down the
dirt path to the edge of the grass. She turns
around and looks to me, and I follow
the path to her. As I stroll through the mist,
blue in the twilight, my heart pounds, though my
mind is clear and set only on her. I
reach her, and my breath has become shallow
as she stares into my eyes. She kisses me,
and it feels the same as it once had, but
I taste metal and am overwhelmed by
the smell of nitrocellulose. She turns
and steps into the field. I get a glimpse
at the hole, and see the decomposition
and the maggots that have burrowed, writhing
in the putrid flesh. She turns around, her
eyes closed, and she reaches her hand towards me.

I reach my hand out, but stop halfway. She
senses my falter and puts her hand down.

She opens her eyes, looking at me in
disappointment that I would not let her
lead me. She disappears, leaving behind
an emptiness only she could fill. I
remain paralyzed, my senses dulling,
my heart slowing. As always, I turn
around and follow the dirt path through the
clear morning air and rays of sunrise.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
*For those curious, "nitrocellulose" is the main ingredient in modern day gunpowder*

Feel free to follow me on Instagram, Facebook, my blog, or anywhere else you find me on the Google (just make sure it's not the DJ named Alek the Poet, who is, as far as I know, not actually a poet but is, in fact, a DJ).
Nov 2019 · 282
Conjoined
Alek Mielnikow Nov 2019
When we are breathing,
we share in our breath.

People are self-seeking,
and unless we play with
pragmatics, we can’t help it.
Yet we are helpless in
how bounteous we are.

When we are breathing,
we share in our breath,
and when we die,
we share in our death.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Alek Mielnikow Nov 2019
She left home with a flower in
her hair and her pink, light up
sneakers on her feet. She slouches
in the backseat. Her stare's fixed
on the splattered insect gliding
above the hills and barns and trees,
flying as fast as the freeway.

Her mother is behind the wheel.
The radio's on loud enough to
block the nasty thoughts.

And she is sobbing.
Oct 2019 · 454
Pluck
Alek Mielnikow Oct 2019
I pluck their wings,
like the tiny little
things they are, and
watch them squirm
for freedom as they
try so hard to fly.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Happy Halloween!
Aug 2019 · 148
Saudade
Alek Mielnikow Aug 2019
Moonlight peers through window blinds,
thin, fluorescent strips streaking the beige
walls and tea green sheets. Her dew-eyed
gaze lies on the baby blue bib,
imprinted with a small white bird,
next to her on the bed. Beside
the bib is a wristband from
Carnation Hospital, and an
open, small, wooden box.

She reaches for the bib and
caresses the soft cotton,
shadowing the bird and the seams.
She takes a glance at the wristband,
but clenches her eyes. She grips the
bib and holds it to her cheek and
sits this way until she melts into
the dark.

The streaks drift.

Coming to from her trance, she lays
the bib into the box, then tosses
the wristband in before shutting
the top. She carries the box to
the closet and buries it beneath
a bundle of unkempt, *****
clothes. She closes the door and prays
to the blessed ****** Mary.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Saudade - A word in European and Brazilian Portuguese defined by a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one cares for and/or loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return.
Aug 2019 · 1.3k
The Cycle
Alek Mielnikow Aug 2019

                            corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out                              



-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Aug 2019 · 495
Born Human
Alek Mielnikow Aug 2019
Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.

A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an ******-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.

And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.

A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Though the content of this poem was developed within the dark confines of my mind, it was in part inspired by, i_weigh, Sam Smith, and Marie Southard Ospina. As someone with rather extreme, played-a-small-part-in-my-four-suicide-attempts level of body image issues, I'm hoping I can go from the shameful young man to the validated old man by the time I'm dead… I mean, not the young stud doing pullups, I can't do those. I've done an 1000lb leg press, but pullups? You crazy?! But enjoying that dessert wine and a book? That I can dig.
Aug 2019 · 80
Senses
Alek Mielnikow Aug 2019
I want you; I want your everything.

I want to gobble your pain in my embrace
until your tears and snot soak up my shirt.
To dance to your laughter that resonates
in my skull, and your clever whispers
leaving my ears ringing for days.
To feel across the surface of your soul;
the coarse and smooth,
the dips and grooves,
the frigid and the flamed.
I yearn to savour you, your lips and your honey,
your sour history and your sweet dreams.
To breathe you in, to know your sweat
and your soap, your scent so well I remember
you’ve been here before if I’m ever alone.
To touch your static, your charge, your heart,
the one that makes mine melt and tremble.

I want you; I want your everything.

And if any part of you wants me,
my broken glass, my cute quips,
my puppy dog wags that only you can cause,
take it all. Take my everything.
It is yours.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Jul 2019 · 1.2k
First
Alek Mielnikow Jul 2019
clasped hands on snow covered hills

trails of blood down fresh cut legs

pain and love behind the big brown eyes
of a smiling freckled face embraced

flushed from crown to nape


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Mine was not outdoors; don't know if that's fortunate or unfortunate. At least it wasn’t in the cold. My hypothetical characters are troopers of romance… or they have very strict parents but are still bursting with hormones…
Jul 2019 · 149
Behind the Curtain
Alek Mielnikow Jul 2019
Heard from within the static
An erratic fracture falling flat
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out

Found whimpering in dimpled corners
Unearthing a second coming
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out

Calling all the innocent out


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Jul 2019 · 232
Lighter
Alek Mielnikow Jul 2019
He proclaims this room as if it’s his throne
Igniting his body with his cologne

He presses the top like a wheel to a stone
Then leaves me behind all cold and alone


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Can you guess which handsome pop ballad British singer I was listening to while writing this?
Jul 2019 · 207
Breadcrumbs
Alek Mielnikow Jul 2019
Old breadcrumbs litter the placemat where
my little one had sat that morning.

That morning I told her she was running too
late to finish the PB&J with fine
pineapple pieces she had made for herself.
She gobbled the thing up in seconds, and with
a mouth still full she walked over and mumbled
bye. I wiped juice leaking out the corner, and
with a snort and a kiss to her forehead I
said see ya’, have fun. And with that she was out
the door, her red backpack one strapped like the
baseball boys did.

All that’s left are these breadcrumbs. I can’t
get myself to clean them up and throw
them away. I see them every day,
every meal, every middle of the
night as I peck on pineapple PB&Js.

As much as I know these crumbs must go, I don’t
regret for a second letting her eat that sandwich
the way she did. It was hell to raise such a rebel,
but she was never going to let anyone stop
her from what she wanted, including me. And she
makes me proud. I’ll clean it up eventually, but
for now, my little one’s breadcrumbs stay.


-
Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
This one was very emotional for me to write.

I cried while writing it, and I haven’t cried while writing since Dear Daughter Of Mine. I mean, I guess one can say I cried while writing (I must attest…), but I don’t believe that counts because those were slight tears of joy that didn’t even roll down my face. I can get those from laughing a bunch, or after ***, too… wow, now you know a bit too much about me.

Anyways, I’m quite sadistic, so I hope this poem makes you cry too. Enjoy.
Jun 2019 · 231
The Napping Sun
Alek Mielnikow Jun 2019
The sun is napping behind a cloud,
though loud plane engines call her awake.

Pollen is prancing around the patch,
and tiny critters follow their lead.

A big dog lies on the patio,
his smelly body absorbing heat.

You rest here with a pen in your hand,
tossing small diamonds into the sand.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Jun 2019 · 144
Your Shadow
Alek Mielnikow Jun 2019
I keep seeing your shadow everywhere I go.

By the lake, on the road, in the city, on
the porch, across my bed. Everywhere, you are
there. I can tell it is you by the shape of
its body, every inch I knew so well. And
it won’t go away. But I’m being selfish.
I know the shadow wishes the sun wouldn’t move,
that it would offer the gift of staying in
place. Or you wish the darkness of the new moon,
the cruelest moon, would not drown you like I did.


-
Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Wait... what?!
Jun 2019 · 172
(I must attest...)
Alek Mielnikow Jun 2019
I must attest
to just one thing
to help evolve
your muss and health

I just suggest
that you don't need
to love them all
to love yourself


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
I am filled with so much love! And in more ways than one. I'm in love with my friends, my family, my dog. I'm in love with people in general, and strangers ("the stranger the bettaaa..."). I'm in love with my new video games and books. I'm in love with the wonderful venues I frequent. I'm in love with dancing and singing. I'm in love with someone who is so kind and sweet and smart and warm and caring and **** and cute and strong-willed and skillful and something that I can't explain but I feel it when I see them. And this poem is helping me love one other thing.

This may sound like I’m a comedian who laughs at my own jokes, but this poem made me tear up. I didn’t cry while writing it, though. When I work, I’m too focused on performing surgery to take all the emotions in. But once I sat back and read it as it is, it hit me like a 16 ton weight.

I've suffered, and still live with, such debilitating depression I've tried to **** myself four times. I've lied to friends about how I got bruises on my face while I hid the bite marks on my arms. I've pushed so many beautiful people away to make sure I don’t drag them down and unintentionally yet inevitably, rip them apart. I've drunk enough in one sitting to **** a person, without the hesitancy that a sense of self-preservation should bring. And I’m so ashamed and disgusted with myself getting my thoughts stirring in the morning is like jumping into a hurricane.

While I wrote this poem for you readers to take in, I ended up saying something to myself I didn’t think I could. It feels otherworldly. It even seems wrong, like I’m just waiting to sabotage every syllable. And I've spoken words like this before, only to throw them into a fire I've lit with hate. But I wrote this without hesitation. It flowed through my fingers, through a pen onto a page and then through a keyboard onto a word processor.

And I’m crying from the pain of remembering my destruction, and the joy of thinking I could be my friend. One who will listen and validate and soothe and advise and cheer me on when no one else is there.

I’m sure this mood, too, shall pass. But I’m holding on to this weird feeling of self-love for as long as I can.
Jun 2019 · 146
Sticks St.
Alek Mielnikow Jun 2019
A Lazarus body litters the sidewalk
outside a well-lit, desolate lobby.

On the left is a mexican restaurant,
with a line reaching to the
entrance. They should stamp
the grey and scratched up
plexiglass with a light and
dark purple neon:
Welcome To America.
It would be reinforced
by every delicious crunch
one hears on the way out as
cheap crumbs garnish concrete.

On the right, there’s a bar
alive on a Friday night.
Friends share hearty laughs
and pats on the back.
The bitter and the perishing
pretend they want this
when they should be
somewhere or someone else.
And mingling singles look for
compliments and numbers,
or maybe just someone to
take back and **** the **** out of.

But in the midst sits
a throne for ghosts.
Ceiling fluorescent reflects
off porcelain, paler than a farmer tan.
There are no other colors besides
the receptionist, bored to death,
leaning on the wall behind
the porcelain reception desk,
reading a copy of Ebony.
No ottomans or chesterfields
or benches. No consoles or cocktail
tables. Nothing adorning the walls.
Not even a stain.
Just a white hole, a bright
***** in an otherwise colorful
street on gray canvas.

I rise from my slumber
and mosey on out the lobby
in my purple linen suit.
The impoverished scrag,
his dog lapping his sores, asks
if I’d spare some change.

“Sorry, I only have card tonight.”

“That’s alright, sir. God bless.”

And I walk on, aware of the
Abrahams rubbing up against
a ****** in my wallet. I take a sip
of whiskey hidden in my empty
can of a drink that can never
satiate me. I wait for traffic to pass,
and then I jaywalk across Sticks St.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Luke 16:19-31
May 2019 · 191
Like Thunder
Alek Mielnikow May 2019
The echo of a hollow space
strained against my head
An empty cry of deception
and pain inside my mind

Of words not said
Of tears not cried

My fears ****** inside
my broken heart
Strong winds eroded my will
with no mercy

There was no clear path
There was no way out

But when all seemed lost
when all the roads had closed
and my eyes could no longer cry
I heard a sound in the distance

Like thunder

It mended a bleeding soul
healed a broken heart
awoke a dormant warrior

The tender noise
this gracious voice
told me
I am me



-
Written by CZ
Edited and Revised by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
This is a poem that a friend of mine wrote and asked me to edit. I thought it would be less work for me this week, which would’ve been great since it’s my birthweek (my 25th on May 25th). Nope, it was just as much work. Maybe even more because crafting someone else’s work is not the same as doing your own. But they loved the finished version so much they asked me to share it with their name under a pseudonym. So, here you go!
May 2019 · 415
Yellow
Alek Mielnikow May 2019
*****

how would you like it

the bartender
sighs the lord’s name in vain
understood the slurred wittiness

wobble onto stool
****** over
joining the rest of the line

sweet

the sound
system jests that one song
about a breakup
puke on the sofa next to your carpet

it’s yellow
swayed hips
shoulders give way

diluted In and Out closed
turn over

moist

to the Devil’s dance floor
where a pretty ugly Frenchie took your wrist
foot strikes a patch of ice
popped cherry on a yellow wheel stop

get up dizzy
scrape on forearm
the impassionate spring fever

wrapped around neck
constrains body against

*****

hands stroked rock hard back

she asks if she could have a stick

reached into baggies
pulled out a yellow
she takes halo
you took halo

got into the convertible

a silent triumph when you insert your key

twist


---
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
A fragmented memory
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