Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
woolgather Jun 9
the more i open up to love
the more i remember
why i do not allow myself its folly:
what they have had
and what they shall want,
i have never been privy to
and i can not give,

for my hubris is
to feel love and to want to give it
but not be fortunate enough
to make one reciprocate;
i was broken before.
or i would argue
i was made to break.
funny how i still come back doing the same things knowing it will just hurt me

but i hurt no one, and that at the very least is comforting to know.

when no one is there to comfort,  there are words to plaster your pain into. and for a short while, you will feel relieved.

rinse and repeat.

i hope you are loved, stranger.

woolgather May 31
the irony
of stringing words together,
not meek nor brutal—
is that it feels as if
you relieve yourself
of a burden,
and yet also
ripping your flesh,
wounds both old and recent;
clawed open to be felt.

a willing martyrdom,
a frivolous act.
a lot of good things have been happening to me, yet i feel so winded with all the things i'm currently facing.

hope you're doing well, stranger.

woolgather May 28
i love you,
but it is the worst that i can do—
to burden you with yearning,
my love is nothing but pesteration.
you deserve the world,
and even more of it;

i apologize for my frailty,
but if the day comes
that i find myself worthy to love:
i hope you accept
this gift and cherish it;
i seek of nothing in return.

yet, in the end,
i could only hide
the myriad of things
i want to say
in words, haphazardly,
and hope you see

what it was
that i had to tell.
written in a span of weeks, collected from the shitshow that is my twitter(x?) feed.

i intend this for one person but i doubt they're even on here, and it's the paradox of being more comfortable to bare my soul to a million strangers than to that one person.

all these years passed and i'm still this lovesick.

in any case,

i hope you're doing well, stranger.

woolgather May 2
interesting to see
how i grew up and came to be;
what i wrote, how i spoke.
no one euphemism fits
yet i shall try to describe:

like a reptile that shed its skin and kept it,
like a keepsake, which at one time was cherished
but now left to weather by the windowsill.
like seeing the scars
from the wounds you know you dealt yourself,
ones you still call beautiful despite all the horror.

it's the closest to seeing how angsty and in your head you were,
how you felt everything, even the nothing,
how you so desperately wanted to crawl out of your skin,
and you still sometimes do.
you read those words and feel like
those words were never yours.
but they are.

at least now you know you've changed;
not where you wanted to be,
but farther than where you once were;
and that, i think, is beautiful.
rereading my old stuff, i do not know whether to shove them in a dumpster or make myself anew entirely. but i knew at one point they felt like everything.

i was a little *******. well, i still am a *******, just, larger, i guess.

i hope you're doing well.

woolgather May 2
it's been a while since i wrote anything,
it's been a while since we last spoke.
maybe you have things better for you now;
maybe you don't.

no matter how it goes,
no matter the ebb and flow,
you're still welcome here.
or, i think,

i'll always be here.
or, i've always been here.

hiya. it's Nes.
a lot of things have happened to me since the last time i've been here,
and maybe i'll talk about them some time,
if i find the right words.

i hope you're doing well
woolgather Jan 2022
like reuniting with an old friend;
uncovering things kept bust lost to time—
seemingly returning to whence before,
painting hurt with words and rhyme.

a fragment, still part of a whole,
perhaps losing some was part of the course;
the spark inside, still enough to combust:
neither solace nor somber, a dwelling force.
Hi, It's Nes.
It's really been a while, huh?
If no one's around to see this then, I can't fault anyone.
Here's to hoping the spark turns to a wildfire.
I need it.

I hope you all are doing okay.
woolgather Jul 2020
the walls have heard:
things you haven't,
the scars tell
more than you could ever speak.
the bruises know
more than you could ever muster;
how i cried without tears
and screamed without a voice.
i kind of regret that i found poetry to rid myself of emotional baggage; i wish i found it when i was at a happier place.

i'm kind of losing how i write, and at this point i don't know if there is anywhere else i could return to.

and it scares me.
Next page