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Poetria 7d
orange flower flicker shy
pinprick of light, puncture the sky
break the day, hold my face
kiss this sleeping heart awake
even the shadows have a softer outline
Poetria Sep 23
i am the silt of the ocean bed
falling into places i am not meant for
swept away from where i would like to be
floating, drifting into scene
sinking, falling back to sleep
pun intended
Poetria Sep 22

i can learn how you verse, how you speak

but my tongue holds no honey as sweet

then to speak, linearity i seek

still, in poetry my colour won't bleed

yes indeed, i decieve to be seen;

my tongue will take lifetimes to heal


now you see: i unravel, revealed

half-strange and a weapon, my speech

but i practiced pretense to be near

my defence for the self that i fear

so you see: i am only part here

in these pieces, i'll never be real
this poem was born from a journal entry i was writing, that was explaining my first journal entry in more detail.
Poetria Aug 21
i don't want to wait for six years
to make you wait for six years
to spend a year doing everything with you
and then leave you like a poem i won't complete

because if i can't wake up to you

watch all your movies and listen to your music
as we lounge on this brown leather couch

the air cold and our blanketed bodies warm
as sunset pours through the unfixed blinds

then i don't want to have you at all

have you like microplastic pieces of a straw
have you like a trailer, a prologue

but i do
i do
i am ******, not damsel
perpetual blue

the poems whisper something new,
sweetness that resembles you

but i don't want resemblance i want you
like the shock of electric current i stumble into
and i don't want to ask myself if i'd like to
kiss you
hold you
have you

i want to know and i know,
i never will do

i want to run from the idea,
i want it to be true

the i ends all too soon,
and the you will too
Taylor once said she writes to process how she feels about things that happen to her, to make sense of it all. I realise I do the same.
Poetria Aug 11
18 crept in with the quiet illusion of comfort

in the flakes of snow outside Gloria Jean

on a Sunday afternoon
, sipping something

warm and letting the cold seep into my skin

only to burrow myself into a warm blanket

. 18, upon arrival, was gifted

with gorgeousness writ by a favorite friend

However, 18 came quietly, the world

defining her before she could have spoken to

me herself
. 18 began to hurt, trying to find

what she was born to be rather than what

she was being molded into
. 18, like snow,

was fragile. 18 had been January, and

then just as fast
, she is March. 18 is script-

writing with Mahnoor again
, just like 15,

16, 17, familiarity. 18 is confusion and

, a growing sense of unease,

muffling a voice in my head trying its

hardest to be heard
. Upon seeing April, 18

did not desire this trip anymore. But the

Spring brought whispers of vanilla and a boy

with the softest smile in a place of pain
. 18

was running off to corners of life, trying to

escape the stench of dying that had taken to

following her around
. 18 survived May, 18

survived June. 18 fell into July, a house

of gloom
, and decided to settle in the

, if only the month would settle for

18. The world was calling her, but she

would not be seen
. 18 ran back to the long-

awaited cold
, overcome with joy for the

numbered days
, a birthday again, a

bittersweet break
, an ache for escape.

But 18 walked away from July, and

found herself in August
, quite by surprise.

And August, she realizes, can be

anything she likes
August is ambiguous
Poetria Jul 29
through text, reflect,
this horror set,
was all inside my head

a million moons were changing,
they were spinning like a top

the sun a little scalding,
and the cats were getting lost

my summer suffered silence,
but my colder winds were soft

and i am breeding guilt
for the things this mind begot

these worms are only eating,
and the worms were made from God

my heart, with little beating,
barely breathing, blood would clot

a lack of light, adjusting eyes,
and laughter half forgot

'neath July skies, i realised,
in living, i was not
i wake in the night, i pace like a ghost
the room is on fire, invisible smoke
i'm drowning but quiet, on oceans i choke
help me hold onto you
(T.S, The Archer)
Poetria Jul 6
hands and hair,
sweet summer sweat

spiral stairs,
staying away from the rest

i want to write a poem about you,
but your smile has stolen the words i would use

the spring grew these roses,
and now summer has bloomed
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