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Gh0ski3 Nov 1
Finally caught.
With nowhere to go,
at all
nothing
all for
suffering
As I'm
locked in this cell
It's so cold here
And
They're haunting me
The playback of my bad decisions
Blinded by
Flashing lights,
I can't see
Now that I'm stuck,
Horror
Overpowers
Regret
As
My breathing grows heavy
I can't leave.
I realize
My chest
it begins to ache
Then
People surround me
And I can't keep running anymore
I've lost my will to go on.
But...
I know it,
There's a sliver of a chance
For me
Because
I ran
To freedom
Slipping my way
Through the holes in this net,
Threaded by a fading future
As I broke down these walls
I chase that high
At full force
My heart pumps
like a madman
And then I'm finally free...
My rusted chains are broken,
Shattered at my feet
The adrenaline whisks me to action
As I escape
I can feel it
The touch of freedom is so rewarding
Peace
Finally,
Peace
I saw someone on here do this before where they made a poem with different perspectives that you can read backwards. Though, I'm still an amateur at this so it's not as good as I'd like it to be
Juliana Jul 2021
I opened the gifts one by one,
knowing that the softness I felt
under the antique Santa Claus paper
was yet another bundle of fabric,
more clothes to add
to my ever-expansive wardrobe.

One by one, the patterns were revealed to me:
some plain black cotton,
a Paris print with a sparkly pink tower,
paper cutouts the size of my favorite dolls,
and at last, a sewing machine.

I remember a roomless memory,
my mother and I hovered over the machine,
the internet failing to teach us
how to maneuver the thread.

“We’ll try again later,” she said.

Now, I open the drawer under my bed,
remove a dust-covered box,
running my fingers along the top of it.
I remove the as-new machine,
my failed future.
I walk to my computer, switch taps
from a Buddhism study guide
to an empty Google Docs.

I wonder if I was a seamstress in a past life.
Did I watch my family create the cave paintings
while I sat in the corner, hide on my lap
with a splinter of bone in my hand,
feeling nothing but bliss?

Did I live in the Edwardian era,
tailoring a perfect three-piece suit,
a walking skirt, my daughter’s chemise?

Did I ever pass my grandmother
in a secondhand store,
with my goal of finding a perfect neckline,
my favorite sleeves, a plaid pattern.

Did I find them among the stained and unloved,
did I make them into something beautiful?

Was this not a flashback, but a foreshadow?
Was this a hint at my next life?
Will I do the same with my daughter,
passing down the cotton and glittered tower,
hugging with triumph when the machine roars to life?

Will I be there at her first fashion show?

What if there is no past or future.
What if my soul is me, unchanging, stable.
What if I’m a butterfly,
every passing second another cocoon?

For I am a tree,
and these memories
are my branches.

My left arm holds the present,
the current reality. I fail to sew
even a button, but my dreams
reside content.

With my right arm,
I hold another present,
equally as real.

In this world, I made my doll a dress,
a bedspread with the leftover fabric.
In this world, I am not a poet,
and I don’t often dream.
In this world, my floor is my stage,
this fabric is my home.
In this world, I know not of other realities.
In this world, I live buried in my ignorant bliss.

— The End —