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Pessimist
Disregarding
My sentiments or what I fancy  
A quailty of life
That doesn’t seem to hold firm
Ailing me along
Day or night
The object
Not of my desires
X marks
Thee spot
Never ending patterns
A montage of seasons
Like a unsolvable riddle  
Can you tell me
Where exactly I’ve been too lately
Never receding  
Rarely forgiving
******  
A mercenary for hire
Cursing profanities
The outside noises
Pale in comparison
To thee whispering hollows
Of my wicked garden
Perfect illusions
Far from desirable  
More like complacent pillars
Seldomly comfortable
In my own skin
Your opinions
Pale in comparison
To my point of view
In the vacuum of my mind
Deconstructing unrelenting
In irrepressible amounts of guilt
Why can’t I feel like myself
Why must these false pretenses
Flare up
Hold me in positions
That aren’t up to par
Continually stuck in neutral
 Jun 30 Caits
Blue Sapphire
Not all rivers
end up in the ocean–
doesn't make their journey
less worthy.

Not all love
ends up in a lover's arms–
doesn't make it any less
worthy.
Maybe you always were a rainbow but i could only see in single shades.
Pink or blue i labeled you, but baby you were a colorful parade.
You saw a kaleidoscope pattern a beautiful array.
you tried to share it with me but i didn’t know what to say.
In my own way i was blinded couldn’t see the flashes of light.
Had to shield my eyes the colors were to bright.
See baby i was taught to only see things through their filter.
When you tried to show me something different it left me off kilter.
Still i am learning and spinning  but i promise to try.
To see and appreciate your beautiful colors painting the sky!
 Jun 21 Caits
Archita Chakma
There comes a moment—quiet, unceremonious, unmarked—when the person you loved, the person you tethered your life to, stops being who they were and becomes someone else entirely, someone harder, more distant, a stranger occupying the same body, breathing the same air, wearing the same clothes, but not looking at you the same way, not speaking in that tone that used to pull you in like gravity. And you try, at first, to ignore it, to pretend it’s fatigue or stress or something chemical, something repairable, reversible. You try to will him back into the person you fell in love with. But then you realize he’s gone. Not dead. Just gone. And there's nothing you can do. No apology, no touch, no cry in the middle of the night will resurrect him.
So you mourn. Not the way you mourn the dead. No one sends flowers. No one visits. No one tells you they’re sorry.

Eventually, you accept the most difficult truth: he is still alive, but he is no longer here.
You become fluent in restraint. You learn to keep your sadness contained in respectable proportions. And yet, it spills- into mornings, into coffee spoons, into phone calls you don’t return. You perform functionality, but inside, something is collapsing.
You realize the breaking doesn't stop. It finds new corners of you to shatter. It digs deeper. It makes room for more pain in places you thought had already been hollowed out. And this is when the past starts to rise, not as a memory, but as a presence, thick and heavy and suffocating. You find yourself in that same room—your mother’s room—years ago, where she cried into her pillow as if silence would keep you from hearing, as if the walls weren’t paper-thin, as if children don’t always know.
And now you are her. Crying into the same silence. Except there’s no child on the other side of the door. There’s just you. And the you that once was. The child that never left. The child who learned early that love could vanish without notice. That people could stay and still abandon you. That pain could be inherited like old furniture—passed down, room to room, woman to woman, until no one remembers where it began.
People tell you time heals. They say it with such confidence, as if time were a doctor, a god, a parent. But you know better. You know time doesn’t heal; it accumulates. It stacks the pain until it becomes indistinguishable from the rest of you. Until you forget what it was like to live without the weight of it.
You live inside them. You decorate them. You fold laundry in them. You raise children in them. You tell yourself you are functioning. But really, you're just surviving grief on a loop.
And in your most honest moments, when no one's looking, you admit it—not aloud, not even in writing, but somewhere behind the ribs: you are still that helpless girl. You never stopped being her. You only got taller.
You’re the reason every song turns into a requiem.
Even the happy ones bend under the weight of your name.

The reason love walks with a blade behind its back,
because you turned it into something I had to survive.

You’re the reason
breathing feels borrowed.
Like I’m stuck in a waiting room
with no doors,
no answers,
just clocks that won’t tick
and memories that don’t know how to leave.

You’re the reason I bleed into pages,
why I stretch sorrow into sentences,
why I carve light
from the ruins.

You taught me grief in its native language,
how to cradle absence like a relic,
how to shape silence into meaning.

You’re the reason I learned to carry longing
instead of trying to cure it.
To live inside the hollow
and still find warmth.

You’re the reason I know
that love and loss
can belong to the same moment.

You are my reason.
The one that never left.
Who is your reason? Find me on the Poesie app as palindromic_angel to hear my readings :)
 Jun 14 Caits
Bea Hespera
Some things are better off dead
Buried in the ground
The memories stuck in my head
Spiraling around and around

My soul sits in its tomb
My hopes are the coffin it lies in
My inner child is the surrounding gloom
My dreams are the flowers lying on the stone

My trauma make up the walls that surround
My pain is the drawings underground
My soul was buried with the shackles that bind me
I had to bury it all so it would let me breathe

You have to stop looking behind to look ahead
That’s why some things are better off dead
 Jun 14 Caits
Anais Vionet
The day’s hours were worn down and a sudden sunset, that resembled a master’s painted glimpse of Valhalla was upon us, its majesty of deepest blue, blood red and black.

From our tenth-floor skew, the river looked, for all, like a wrinkled sea expecting a storm. Boats moved to tie up before the dark body of windswept clouds arrived trailing a wall of downpour and flickering, electric thunder.

Our study group had run over, as they tend to do. Most of the members urgently moved to pack up (they’d be campus bound). An unpropitious rumble and fierce flare of light revealed that mild twilight had swiftly faded to a darkest stormy night.

My pinched-pleated curtains thrashed before this tempest for the almanacs, feigning a life they do not possess, like twin ghosts stirred to wrath.

“We can order in,” I offered, waving a menu from the downstairs bistro, as I closed my French, glass doors. “Why not eat here and wait it out?” I shrugged, “My treat,” I offered, “and I have wine.”

A pleasant embracement of relief and consent followed. What held more power, I wondered, the society, natures coerce or the gratis fare?

Later. as we parted, a young man paltered, repaying me with a quick hug and cheeky kiss. The valueless touch, was itself rewarded with a small grimace of a smile, but the sin did not overset the mood.
.
.
Songs for this:
Riders on the storm by the doors
Stormy by Classics IV
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