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misha Apr 8
When you want to cut yourself open
and offer your viscera to someone
people will come at you with hate.
so be the stronger person and
smile.
but this time,
show your teeth.
Opening up to others is hard, especially when you're used to being rejected and judged constantly for who you are.
misha Apr 6
Drifting from the sky like an angel’s feather
is a snowflake, that gently lands on my skin
And I think to myself-
what did that angel do to get kicked out of heaven?

Did he struggle as he fell? Thrashing with rage and indignation?
Or did he simply let go and allow himself to drift towards oblivion?
Or maybe, it was neither.
Maybe he chose to leave.

The small shock of cold brings me back to reality.
It is brilliant, almost too brilliant against my numb body.
I want it to stop so I can go back to feeling nothing.
It would be better for my tired brain that way.

I tried to tell a story once, but I realized quickly
That nobody was listening, that nobody cared
and that made me lose my mind entirely
because it made me feel so small.

In that moment, I watched my reality fall apart.
I saw a corpse. And two figures,
too cowardly to go separate ways,
but too cowardly to stay.

Too cowardly to listen- but how is it so?
When the words keep falling, falling, falling
onto ears that choose to be deaf,
onto skin that chooses to be numb.

And like the angel, I fall. This time on my own accord.
But was it really? Or did someone kick me out without me knowing?
But without wings to catch me, instead of falling
I mindlessly circle the singularity.

I tried to tell a story once, but then I realized I was
actually flying under the sea.
And nobody was there to watch and be proud
that I had achieved something I thought impossible.

So then why even try?
Each word, each snowflake, each feather
Is a reminder that I am in fact, still alive
and it leaves me to ruminate on a choice.

A choice I am too afraid to make.
After all, I was never allowed to choose
even the most insignificant things.
So why should I be able to now?
misha Apr 4
I want to reach up to touch the stars
even though they would burn me.
I want the universe to sing me to sleep
with a deafening radiant voice.

But all I got was fistfuls of shadows,
seeping from between my fingers like thick congealed blood
All I got was velveteen silence
coating my brain like a fine layer of silt

And I found myself falling.
Until my thousand opened eyes could no longer see the stars.
Except for the ones that were falling with me
illuminating our collective descent
in all shades of sickly green and blue

And I found myself changing.
as we learned to breathe in the murk
and breathe out dreams.
As we shed our wings
and learned to swim.

As we went down,
down,
down,
spiraling into the abyss.

But oh, isn’t it beautiful?
misha Apr 4
On the long walk home I spot a bird.
Her bright jewel colours and sharp song draw my vision.
What a paradoxical existence! To be precious, yet too precious to hold in my hand.
Too delicate to capture in a cage and admire endlessly.

Where do you go? A bird does not flutter aimlessly
like a lost poet, or a homesick heart.
Instead, you beat your wings with purpose,
perhaps returning to the nest you built so diligently for your family in the spring.

Or perhaps you are a young one, just setting out from your home.
Then, be wary, precious jewel, to not lose anything on the way,
nor come crawling back to the nest.
Your family loves you very much, but the nest is far too crowded now for you.
misha Apr 3
I wish that I could curl myself up so tightly that I would become a singularity and all the negativity in the world could be ****** into my infinite density and slowly over aeons I would radiate away into black nothing as I watched the world around me decay and
for once
I could
be happy.

Until the nothing of the world matched the nothing of my head except for the thoughts that go speeding by never being able to touch but only to die and the colours would fade away from blue to red to gray and then
I’ll ask
Are you
happy?
misha Apr 3
The cold
is all that is left after death

Brilliant star, beautiful child,
Why must you too leave?
There is a flash of jewel colours
A scream of hot fire
An explosion of gold and silver
And then
there is
nothing

Mighty void, eternal child
Why must you too leave?
Over uncounted millions of years
Yet not quite eternity
You gently fade away
And then
there is
nothing

Little particle, my first child
Why must you too leave?
The very forces that make this possible
This wonderful existence
Have undone you
and then
there is
nothing

And I am alone
And I am nothing
The cold
is all that is left after death
misha Apr 2
What am I made of?
Thoughts and dreams, floating up into the sky on new grown wings
But they are ****** down, by a force greater than us all.

What are thoughts made of?
Strange is the universe’s insistence on tragedy
So why not retreat to a charmed world of fantasy?

What is existence made of?
It is designed by a cruel creator to be impossible to reach the top.
So we must be content to live on bottom, which is more beautiful anyways.

Maybe something that was once a part of you
Now exists within me
And that makes me happy.
I used to find quantum physics so interesting, its a shame that school ***** all the joy out of learning something so awe inspiring.
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