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Poetria Mar 12
kaleidoscope of jagged shards
create this face, forever changed
against all possibility
imperfect pieces rearranged

where light is twofold magnified
and shadows waltz within the light
and waves of light, of liquid gold
now break behind unseeing eyes

then fleets of doves assail the skies
in graceful waves, untethered flight
toward my vacant heart they glide
my thoughts unowned, now occupied

one string of fate, two counterparts
diminished light, a distant star
your presence, through the fog, is felt:
a lighthouse in the dark
a poem!!! a poem!!! the drought! is! over! and! out!!! R E J O I C E !!!
Poetria Nov 2023
the death of a loved one is a serious matter. this is my immediate thought when you are mentioned somewhere, sometime, somehow, in conversation. the death of a loved one, you would have said, is a serious matter.

you would have said, death is serious and grief is inevitable, but persist in finding the joy anyway; in defeating those dastardly tendrils of gloom that will threaten to pull you into the dark forever. outrun the shadows and find yourself always warm and well under the Sun’s guiding glow.

you would have said, let them judge your misery and misinterpret your intent: people will always be quick to call something wrong if they just don't understand it. You would tell me, always, not to care about the opinions of the masses anyway. 'So what?' You would say.

my phonetics professor said it too, one day, and I almost cried, the tears were rather stubborn in that moment, fighting my lashes for safe passage. To publicly showcase your grief, I think, is to do yourself more harm than good,

so bury you I will, within paragraphs like this, until, at the ordinance of the clock, I am to put away thoughts of death and sentiment, and instead, turn my face toward the Sun, to wash these blues in waves of gold, that I might find myself a part of life, and, that I might learn to love all things anew.
could do the normal thing and write incredibly private thoughts down in a neat little notebook, call it my journal, and that'd be that but nooo, gotta be all dramatic and not at all serious enough
Poetria Jul 2023
these are old bones, bones of the dead,
bones that don't belong inside a body

bones that decay, abandoned first aid,
and forgotten calcium supplements

Baba, in life you took my soul, I thought,
so I held my heart away from your hands

Baba, I have no use left for it now,
bury it deep under great piles of dead land

I've been told by the birds that you're not in the sky but in fact, just beyond my eye's reach

I've been told by the cemetery stones and old trees that the earth houses empty bodies

Some days I think you are trapped in the clouds,
but they pass to reveal mirthless blue

Some days I think you'll walk right through the door, but the foyer is clean of your marrow

Baba, these bones have aged too soon, with unlived years I dreamt to share with you

Good years, after the last of the wars, in which love surely wins, triumphant over all

Years of peace, filled with the light of the sun
I witnessed warming you in your grave

That sun, over sands of sandspit beach,  painting us, bathed in gold this December

4 months, and these bones creak along to your song, it goes:

I miss you, I love you, come home
I miss you, I love you, come home
Poetria Nov 2021
mama, i am waiting for the sun to fall out of this picture
i am waiting for your laughter's collapse
when you go, what happens to the dream?
the one in which you don't burn everything you touch,
the one in which i don't have to run from your love

when you go, take this dream
to lie with you forever
and i will watch as wildflowers grow around your stone
a garden born from you
of children who won't run,
one final, beautiful redemption

mama, i will meet you where the ground keeps us sweet
under the sun's golden glow, i swear i won't run from the heat
promise me a smile when it's time to take your leave
and i promise i will honour you in loving memory
my love for my mother and my need to protect myself from her is a conflict i can never win. what would winning that even look like?
Poetria Oct 2021
in a poem at the table

a masterpiece of lies in love

his composition celebrates your downfall

/

these are my traitors hands

two silver, hooked offenders

dipping into the well of you

/

this is my gentle sin

his promise, unfulfilled

the plan: my pirate's map, his cruel hunt

X

your puppet smile is straining

X

his words, a loaded gun

X

your flower heart is wilting

X

my wicked work is done.
watch me never do justice to a pirate metaphor ;)
Poetria Oct 2021
hearts are pounding on my window
i sit in my skull, miserable smoke
there is no real thunder anymore
just my machinations, crippling the doors

i have choked on this poem too many times
i have loathed it each night since the sting of July
i am leaping through time to find someone to love
without stabbing my way through their skin to feel something

would you wait a few years for somebody so stuck?
would you sit with the shell of a girl you once loved?
i pay in patience for this world, a cost that always comes
i can't disinfect these splinters without smothering the Sun

a dull fog, a dark cloud, an omen that grows
the more that it swells, the less i seem to know
i miss my own love with an ache i can't date
i miss the story of the girl that i could have been
i sat down to write because i felt the need to. i didn't expect to realise that i am so scared to be close to anyone, to love anyone in any form as truly as i know i can because i have never recieved in my relationships the love i give back to myself so freely, every forgiveness, every kindness. i also realised i cannot love anyone truly until i learn to love myself better. but i am so lonely. i am isolating from everybody i know with a dull awareness about it all. i can feel my friemdships slipping between my fingers. i am watching, letting it happen, pushing for it a little because only i know how to hurt myself best. why am i doing it? a thousand reasons and not one i can name. bottling and not sorting and living here in this house hoping to write something that strays from the topic of me, and my hurt, and those who hurt me, and the hurt in the world, and the hurt and the hurt and the hurt. i want to write a poem so rich in flavour but i write a variation of the same thing every time. i think i want to disconnect from feeling like this but i am so scared of becoming the people i live with. i think i don't know what i want. this poem is nothing special but i'm surprised to find myself liking it.
Poetria Aug 2021
carve yourself a fresh wound
between your shoulder blades
this is how your blood transfers to me:
hot steel draining into these canals uninvited

fallen angel named a saint in his glory days
i carry the burden of the fire that you are
light in the sky my feet bleed to outrun
i suffer from the weight of my misjudgment

always the Sun: all-consuming, and unburnt
a self-fulfilling knife, and a pacemaker pulse
with you, religion ends and my faithlessness begins
infliction serves to aggravate this ruined innocence

your ruthlessness is heaven-sent and eating me alive
you are the cause of everything, are too the cause despite
i look to you in blame, but it circles back to me
that traitorous, inevitable, infinite shape

there is no space inside your heart that i could ever win
i miss the story of the saint that you could've been
i realised that you do not always get to decide what you are defined by: and i am defined by this relationship, whether by choice or by consequence, or both. you do not choose who your father is, you can only choose how to make sense of what he's done. he will be so deeply woven into your flesh by the time you can see it for yourself, and by then you are already in the aftermath
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