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Poetria Oct 9
my friends
you are a garden of fantastic flora
at dawn you are peaceful in sleep
among cats and bicycle men
firmly rooted, you are roses
all elegant thorns and complex structure
and the earth from which you grow is all softness
the leaves you hold high rustle rich in laughter
this, i know

my friends
i am liquid land born from a storm
born from skies that dislike sleep
find me in the yawn of dawn
and when i am not the sun, i will water you
this poem brings me joy
Poetria Oct 4
you say a thing, i say another:
now we are emotional

this room is not temperate;
the air is thick with ghost conversation

so we wait to feel better, we straighten our mouths
you burst wrap bubbles and i crush sour grapes

can your hands give me the love they still hold?
i am not the same each year, and you seem not to know

i ask if you can bring peace to my mind
instead, you command the waiter to smile

do you see? i am trying to break glass here

now you are taking your afternoon nap
and the thing in this room is wailing

i wait for you to wake,
but you sleep on blunted cutlery

it's that nobody likes talk of fixing the blinds,
so we adjust the curtains

now this room remembers less of light
and do you know we aren't breathing?
someday in the future my therapist will be reading my poems and telling me i never did manage my anger, it just shows up differently now.
Poetria Sep 29
i have been given the signs
and they taste just like wine
in that i've never known what it's like
to follow through with anything good
like paradise in stitches and worn by a child
your mother asking for your care, your time
but you still choose to linger in a place
where the zoned-out stay for moments in a day
you choose to tear the flowers clean out of your ribcage
give them a bright dye, keep them on display
to regurgitate all over this cold hospital white

i have been given the signs
of a perfectly sweet life
and i am still scared of toothache
this is SO conversational. or maybe i don't do conversation right.
Poetria Sep 19
real
not shadow, not curtain, not window, but the Sun
unafraid, infinite
my skull is skipping, the wind hits my face reminding me i am here, still here
to feel, to continue, to be
is this something i can hold and say is always mine, always within reach?
free
but i am not, and this will pass with devastation devouring me
poetry!
when i am not, she still is
why are you not in love with she?
why am i not in love with me?
to feel love, to see me
it is wonderful to gaze upon something so dull, to see it coloured, full of everything
so i am out of my mind, and entirely lost in it
what poetry?
so sad too bad
Poetria Sep 7
i am as gay as you will have me be
you that i love and you that i fear
this paper world, this heart that beats
is all you have chosen to give to me

there is a door i try not to open
i peek beneath it and see multichrome
it is not for me, i have been told
so i am neutral, so i stay muted

but i allow blue because i allow grief
a rainbow is stuck behind my gated teeth
a warm purple sky holds a burning red sun-
-these colours i hide, and i show to no-one

it is the door i try to ignore
a museum, anatomic, i used to explore
a place that is many minutes from reach
a place that is not a mausoleum of me

i long to be a wet morning flower
and desperate rain that is hard not to feel
to be two twin ******* holding themselves
high and proud on a woman's body

instead, i am a swallowed tongue
and people talking over tea
a painted smile, two tired eyes
a thing of archaeology

flakes of snow, faraway ocean
the coloured silence in a library
a glass before it hits the ground,
just hanging in the atmosphere

so i write with these words that you won't understand
and i wear this thick head that won't hold it's own weight
with this feather-like soul, i am barely seen whole
for i am as gay as you will have me be
not the person i wanted to be at 5, 10, or 15, because i cannot be all the people i want to be unless i leave this house / city / my own anxiety
Poetria Sep 7
this is real

you look
and look
and look

please speak

these birds, do you love them?
they said this path leads to greatness
i am walking towards you with every step that we take
i want to run, but you lead the way

i decide on a metaphor, and this is real
if you are a stone, i am a river
i am, always am
so then you too must be

you analyse plums as you pick them
i memorise your sweet confusion
there is a story here that is yet to be writ
so tell me this is as real as it feels

swear by the fish, the tadpoles, and blue dragonflies
by the orchards, the flowers, and ancient brown eyes
swear by your history, your land, your glittering sand
by everything here that i see, that is real

you look
and look
and look

but you speak in song, and not a word to me
someone tell me to write a poem about the northern areas that doesn't center around a CRUSH man this is excessive
Poetria Aug 28
i lived those years inside my head:
held together by bits of masking tape
so young, with the smallest slice of life
in love with oceans my childhood had never seen

it all comes back to those years i lived outside:
little heart beating fast for so many things
innocent, lonely, sinless, unholy
sad girl with nothing to hold but a heart on two sleeves

now my parents don't have luggage space for me

heavily, i exist; being is the burden i carry

the first time i spoke to God i said please, please, please
i want a horse, a pool, and to meet my friends in heaven
He said heaven is for the martyred, the right, and the young

the last time i spoke to God, i told Him i would improvise
i am tangled in a web of my own making, and i cannot cry
the sky is a lightweight blanket, and i do not sleep at night
i have tried to find ways to be bright like the Sun-

-but i am tired of trying to be

the black hole i visit is a land of thoughtlessness
a cosmic ocean of feeling and sleep
you tell me what His poetry means
my heart interprets it in the ways it is made to believe:

the smallest slice of life is to know everything is nothing,
and once i eat these three hands, nothing is all i will be
self-sabotage is a bad way to end a perfectly sweet month, or life
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