Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Pax Wildrake Sep 11
A confession;
I've written.
I wrote it for you,
Because I can't talk to you anymore.
Or at least the way that we used to
Because I don't trust you.
And you don't trust me.
A confession;
A confession to you that
I am not what you imagine me to
Be
I do not catch the train home you think I do
I do not stay away from those kids you told me to
I do not hand in my math homework when it's due
I don't know what I mean to you.
A confession;
A confession to say
That some days I feel like I'm worth no more to you than the scores I rack up in contests,
No more than the certificates I earn for academic excellence,
And you tell me I'm excellent
But every day I feel like it's less and less true.
A confession;
To proclaim
In my own way,
That I wish I didn't have to be excellent.
And that I could just be okay.
I'm sorry I can't be who you want me to be,
But I don't know what you want me to be-
Or who I'm supposed to be,
Because I don't even know if I'm chasing your dreams
Or my dreams.
Or if all of this is just a stupid bad dream.
A confession to say
That no matter the way
I wake up each day,
I just want to be your child.
I'm sorry.
I love you.
Pax Wildrake Sep 3
alone,
he writes-
in the palm of their hands,
he writes-
loved by them
but not to be given love,
he writes-
dazed by the world,
he writes-
until the day his fragile feminine form may shed away,
she writes.
Pax Wildrake Aug 20
ʷᵉˡˡ, ᶦᶠ ᵃˡˡ ᵗʰᵉ
.               ᵗᵒ    ʷᵒ
.         ˢᵉᵉ         ʳˡᵈ
.     ᶦˢ               ʷᵃ
ᵃ                    ⁿᵗˢ
ᵍᶦʳˡ ᵗʰᵉⁿ                              .
                 ᵐᵃʸᵇᵉ             ᴵ ʷᵒⁿ'ᵗ                                                 .
ᵗʳʸ                     ᵃⁿᵈ                                 .
ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ          ʷʰᵒ                                     .
ᴵ  ᵃᵐ                                   .
Pax Wildrake Aug 11
ᶠˡᵒʷᵉʳˢ ᶦⁿˢᶦᵈᵉ ᵐᵉ
ᵃˢ ᵗᵒˣᶦᶜ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵐᵃʸ ᵇᵉ
ᴵ ʷᶦˡˡ ʷᵉˡᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵗʰᵉᵐ
|  |
|  |
  |  ☾
|  
★  .
Hanahaki is a fictional disease in which flowers grow in the lungs of a person who suffers from unrequited love.
Pax Wildrake Aug 11
the tea man
waits for him
in his tea store
at seven in the noon
and brews him
a cup of tea

everyday
a different flavor
sometimes loose
sometimes bagged
and they all tell him
a different story

tea man doesn't speak
he lost his voice long ago
he lets his leaves speak for him
and speak they do,
in a voice so soft and gentle
that caresses him around the waist

today
tea man brews his last brew
and the only thing cupped in his hands
is tea man's still face
he lets tea man
slip away softly
like a dropped bag drifting into a cup

they lock each other
in a warm embrace
and let the tea in their hearts
mix together into a beautiful infusion

the brewing is finished.
written over a steaming cup of strawberry tea
Pax Wildrake Aug 3
ᴾᵉʳʰᵃᵖˢ
ᵂᵉ
ᶠᵒʳᵍᶦᵛᵉ
With our mouth
ᴵⁿ
ᵒʳᵈᵉʳ
ᵗᵒ
ᵃᵛᵒᶦᵈ
ᵈᵒᶦⁿᵍ
ˢᵒ
With our heart.
Pax Wildrake Aug 3
ˢᵃᵈ ᵐᵃⁿ
ᴴᵃᵈ ᵃ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴸᶦᵏᵉ ᵍᶦⁿᵍᵉʳᵇʳᵉᵃᵈ ᶜᵒᵒᵏᶦᵉ ᵍᵒⁿᵉ ʷʳᵒⁿᵍ,
ᴴᵉ ʰᵃᵈ ᵐᵉˢˢʸ ᵍᵒˡᵈᵉⁿ ʰᵃᶦʳ
ᵀʰᵃᵗ ʷᵃˢ ˢᶜʳᵘᶠᶠʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ˡᵒⁿᵍ.
ᴵ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵖᵃˢˢ ʰᶦᵐ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵈᵃʸ
ᴼⁿ ᵐʸ ʷᵃʸ
ᵀᵒ ᵐʸ ˢᶜʰᵒᵒˡ⁻
ᴬⁿᵈ ʰᵉ'ᵈ ˡᵒᵒᵏ ᵃᵗ ᵐᵉ
ᵂᶦᵗʰ ʰᶦˢ ˢᵃᵈ ᵐᵃⁿ ᵉʸᵉˢ.
ˢᵃᵈ ᵐᵃⁿ
ᴬˢᵏᵉᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ᵐᵒⁿᵉʸ
ᴵ ˢᵃᶦᵈ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ʰᵃᵈ ⁿᵒⁿᵉ
ᴬ ᵐᵃⁿ ⁿᵉᵃʳᵇʸ ʸᵉˡˡᵉᵈ ᵃᵗ ʰᶦᵐ
ᴬⁿᵈ ʰᵉ ᵈᶦᵈ ᵃ ˢᵃᵈ ᵐᵃⁿ ʳᵘⁿ.
Next page