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The world inside / the house
is empty, and you're hanging on-
to the railing one final time,
before your father starts the engine /
you're moving out / you're gone
deep into your book, the one
you took (from the library with no
intention of giving back) so long,
childhood; so long: shadows
expanding on the lawn as you sink
into your thoughts / into the wall,
feshly painted so the house would sell,
reading: receding: what you could never tell
your parents. [ ... ]
"Let's go," your mother calls,
but you're no longer there. She doesn't
notice that you're staying / it isn't
you who is obeying, exiting the door.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 20
Love is the painting
every heart hopes to achieve,
sifting through seldom
looked upon pictures,
we came upon this masterpiece:

The little boy pensive
just to hold the hand
of his darling,
and skipping along
we played to this game,
giggling in each other's ear,
yet, with only sweet innocent thoughts.

The daytime summer sun
meant a twirl in the air,
a ride on the swing,
and an ice cream to share.

As children love
was an amusement ride,
just leisure fun we never took seriously,
as adults love achieved art,
developing a magnum opus
rich in its own poetry.

The young man proud
just to hold the hand of his darling,
and strolling along their game matures,
they whisper in each other's ear,
yet, with each word the balance
of their intimate thoughts so rest.

The dazzled moonlight of evening
means an aura in the air,
the anticipated kiss it will bring,
and maybe an ice cream to share.

We were never good at every sport,
but somehow this one
came so natural for us,
and so we too were an art
unto ourselves.

Written June 28, 1989 in Williams, Arizona.
You were happy.

And I was supposed to be happy.

My gold leaf covered hands danced through every key and every scale.

Every symphony that you threw.

I gave you all that I could give.

The golden spotlight and rusting trophies that decorate your shelf.

You always wanted more.

But I'm afraid there was nothing more I could give.

You always wanted me here so why?

What did I do to deserve your shame and hatred.

Maybe you finally realized I was only plated with gold.

But thank you.

For scraping my dreams, my mind, and every hope I had for myself growing up.

Now I know that steel only bends under unimaginable pressure.

And I can walk away from you.

At last in the deep but soothing uncertainty that lays straight ahead of me.

Only having the hope that things will cool down eventually.

Let me leave.
-elixir- Apr 11
Ambitions rise up,
as I near the cusp
of adulthood,
where I am often misunderstood.

My mind's in the clouds,
searching for better grounds,
while they stay in their reverie,
as they plan my identity in brevity.
your ambitions are the fuel to your mind
standing in the middle of some vast, empty space—the kind of ocean or plain where you can see the edge of a dream in all directions

and it opens to you, and you let it in—womblike—everything around you is meaningful, whether it’s beautiful or horrible or sublime

it must be written above and left to fall as the wettest raindrop, tempting fate, and fate retaliated—again there was light, and again there was darkness, a new day
PV Mar 29
I am a mother
Although I’ve never carried a child in my womb
Or pushed life out of me

I am a mother,
Although I’ve never had any children who came from my blood
Or called me mom

I am a mother,
To the cat I care for so tenderly I would lay my life to save his
Or the little bugs and spiders I let out into the garden after
Storms have brought them in

I am a mother
To my parents, who needed me to grow up and be strong enough
That I could take care of them, and provide a safe place for them to regrow

I am a mother
To my family when they've needed a shoulder to cry on, or a hug
during times where life only seemed to hurt

I am a mother
To the team, I listen to and support when they have nowhere else to go

I am a mother
To the stranger that only needs to see a smile as we cross paths

I am a mother
To the lover that never had one

I am a mother
To the sister, I ferociously protect and will forever do so

I am a mother
To the boss who needs to know he’s is doing a good job

I am a mother
To the community that needs a voice to stand alongside them

I am a mother
To the friends who know I will always be there

I am a mother
To nature as I thank her for the beauty she is

I am a mother
To the world, who might never notice me but who I will love regardless

I am a mother
Although I’ve never carried a child in my womb
Or pushed life out of me,

I am a mother.
Katie Mar 16
I'm not quite sure how to feel
About college
In a year of years like this.

The freedom was a welcome change
In every sense of the word -
Religious, romantic, individual.

The loneliness that came
When my roommate moved out
Perhaps a bit less so.

I can truly be myself here,
And it's scary, in a way -
For someone with so much to hide.

I'm allowed to speak my mind
For the first time in my life,
And people are willing to listen.

I can talk about my spirituality
And my sexuality freely
Without getting judged into silence.

I'm making new friends again,
Slowly but surely,
Although it's still a sharp learning curve.

I can indulge my special interests
Like Greek mythology and poetry
And get actual class credit for doing so.

Sure, my diet could be better
And my sleep schedule's in the toilet,
But at least I'm staying in decent shape.

So maybe a year like this,
Albeit quarantined and socially distanced,
Was the best possible outcome.
Cat Mar 14
You always trusted that adult
With life figured out.
As you got older
You became that adult
With nothing figured out
Robin Görtz Mar 1
The last strike connects and Geralt´ s free at last.
A sword in his hand and an armoured chest
He has slain the final boss.
He has finished the final quest.

With the help of your hand and your knowledge and skill
He was able to fight himself free.
And now that the prewritten story is done
He can pursue his own will and is free.

And now You sit in your chair, wishing not only now
To be Geralt, the man with the power
To beat all the shadows of past and in present,
But You live under your father

Who has written already the actions you take,
Who has written the words you will utter.
For he is the one with experience.
And he is the one who knows better.

Yet You were the one leading the witcher´ shand.
You are the one with the power.
Pick up your weapon and armour of mind
And kick him from his tower.

It is long overdue that you realise.
Your father is the final boss.
DEW Feb 12
Toe-skewered socks shuffled in years-tattered shoes
Patched-up tweed elbows rested gently; arms folded in poised disapproval
He was my teacher
A man steeped in the essence of the written word
Every bump and groove of his face were the syllables of a life long lived
Stressed and unstressed beats of the tension between us denoted his impatience
For he and I saw the word a different way
He detracted the sweetness of my plum-purple prose
and I loathed the strictness and banality of his expert structure, his measured cadence
but we could agree on one thing
We loved the word
We loved every echo of it in the long night
After fires fade and blue birds sleep
How dreams tumble out of the mouths of snoring dissidents
See those murmurs become the dialectic, the dreams, of poets galore!
We agreed on this
The desperate cry of freedom
Yet we could not agree on his score of my work
Which I had so passionately written till early morning
Rings of the moon beneath my eyes as I argue
And his stonewall-gaze leaves my arguments blunt
For you are young, he says, you do not know the way of the pen still
With sword I could ply approval from his lips
Rend his flesh asunder
Feed the dogs and the birds
Leave marks on his children like slave brands,
The power of the sword could make him do as I asked!
Exactly as I asked…
But with pen I could get nary a nod
I abandoned my search for his smile that day
Yet not the pen
In fact, I pressed firm, not with the nib, but with my mind
Day by day
Hour by hour
Past midnight into dreamland, by the light of the cosmos I composed worlds into waking
Tirelessly, my fingers plodded upon the keyboard
I watched the letters tick by
On and on
Full speed ahead
As if I were running
That stonewall-gaze
Peering down at my soul from an emerald tower
Each keystroke was a step away
A step beyond, years beyond
I sought my pleasure where it could be found
The approval of my peers
My professors
My colleagues
My fans
Scores of adoration, as if by the metric-ton
Still running
As if a scarlet letter of FAILURE were etched in my soul
And just like that,
My running came to a stop
As news of his death reached the shore of my self-imposed exile
Exile from shame
Exile from disappointment
I saw myself more lowly than ever
As, for after all those years of running, those stonewall-eyes had gone to sleep
And had not cared for my embarrassment
My resentment
My bitterness
It were as if I were fighting a ghost I created
And look where it got me
To the top of the world
Chased into an emerald tower
Fearing myself a fraud at the ease of my keystrokes
How could such talent belong to a failure?
Well the man who proved I was a failure was dead
And I realized
So, too, should my defensive pride live no longer
So, too, should I free myself of the fear that manifests the agonizing toll of the pursuit of perfection
So, too, should I realize…
Just because he did not approve
Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t approve of myself
Exit stage left
Where dreams await
And I learn to enjoy what the dissidents dreamed
A life in which our dreams live free
No longer sheltered in the embrace of our childhood nightmares
No longer living in fear…
It's funny, I've often reflected on this particular comment one of my English teachers gave me once.

What's weird is, at the time, I considered his comment a compliment, "Second-rate author," I never considered myself to possess authorship, much less being second-rate, so I accepted it as subtle praised and moved on.
Yet years later, when I began to take much pleasure in, and put focus on, my writing, I began to resent this comment of his.

Obviously, I'm a much better writer than when I was 16/17, but for whatever reason, this comment of his bugged me as I was getting my degree in creative writing.

It's also startling that I got some very cruel criticism from some professors of mine while getting my degree, yet none of them needled my brain as much as that which I heard as a teenager. The irony is starling, LOL.

Anyway, I myself am now a teacher. When I began heading toward this profession, I knew there was going to be some sort of transformative lesson I would learn. Something important. I kind of lead my life this way.
Yet this poem is every proof of what it was that I set out to learn and this is only the beginning.

I love when a poem comes together like this one.
I had the first 5 lines pop into my head ad-lib and I had such an itch to jot them down that I ignored some important things to wait on my slow computer to open up Word so I could record them.
An hour later and I have this poem, which I consider a beauty.
It's certainly pleasing to me.
I haven't written a long poem like this in almost a year.
I've been on a steady diet of writing Twitter poems, haha.

Last night, I was looking at my pinned tweet, which was the last poem I posted here, and I thought to myself, "I need a new one, it's been almost a year."
Lo and behold! The Lord provides, haha.
It was a great day for this, too, because this was a great teaching day.
Rewarding, valuable, transformative, a source for reflection and catharsis, all culminating in this poem here.

I feel quite satisfied :)
I hope this poem was great for you, too.

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