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I have traversed untamed landscapes,
Where each step became a dialogue with the earth—
A delicate negotiation of trust and healing.
Roots intertwined with silent, profound stories,
Grounding me in resilience,
Stories of my ****** assault are now embedded in the soil.

Rocks stood silent, bearing witness to the relentless bullying and gaslighting.
Their stillness echoed the weight of those memories and the growth that followed—
Unyielding yet steady, much like the strength I built with every step.

In this journey, I grappled with self-discovery,
Navigating the boundaries of my being,
Especially as an autistic soul in a world that often misunderstood me.
Each struggle revealed new layers of my identity,
As I sought to understand my place amidst the noise.

The weight of expectations felt heavy,
But I learned to carve out spaces where I could breathe.
My peace was no gentle stream;
It was a summit earned through struggle—
Vast, unyielding, and hard-won.

As I ascended this demanding peak,
The view stretched far beyond the horizon,
Revealing landscapes of healing,
Belonging to all who had climbed beside me.
From this vantage point, I saw how our journeys intersected,
Each of us is a testament to perseverance.

I welcomed others not for comfort,
But for their courage,
Those willing to face the rough terrain,
Understanding that climbing meant shouldering the weight
And sharing breaths.

Belonging was not a destination;
It was a connection—a living, breathing understanding.
Our paths twisted and turned,
Yet they ran parallel, rooted in the same soil
Of shared struggle and triumph.

What I learned was this:
We do not belong by walking the same path,
But by the act of walking itself.
By moving, by simply being,
We claimed our place in the world.

Once, I sought familiar steps but found only uncharted terrain.
Now, every trail I walk becomes a bridge to cross.
And with each step, the earth beneath me whispers:
I am not alone.
This powerful poem explores the journey of healing and self-discovery through the metaphor of navigating untamed landscapes. It reflects on the impact of trauma—specifically ****** assault and bullying—on identity, particularly from the perspective of an autistic individual. The imagery of roots and rocks symbolizes resilience and the shared weight of experiences, highlighting that true belonging emerges not from similar paths but from the collective act of moving forward together.
newborn Nov 6
never thought i was worth it until somebody told me so
he told me never to doubt myself or feel any insecurity
and now my hands are ****** and the rope is tight around my neck
and now i wonder if i ever love again must i have to forget?
every shattered promise clinging to my sleeve
but i am freezing now, can i come home?
or at least observe you watching television
with a coffee mug and imagine it was me you never stopped dreaming of.
outside the snow is creating blankets i must wrap myself around
cause the cold is my muse and i must never let her down.
unless you want to keep me warm,
keep me safe in someone’s locket
doesn’t have to be your own
the loners never let you know
until it’s too late.
i never want to be your burden—love me for your sake.
love me so the cold does not preserve me in her arms
and leave me someone you must deal with when you inevitably shovel the driveway.
can you walk me home in time for the dinner bell to ring?
will you stay if no one’s home
or will you leave me to my own devices,
watching every human that i have ever loved disintegrate in my cold ****** hands?
i’ll wipe the prints on every item,
never leave no evidence.
i will crawl until my knees bust open and the floor is wet
from my tears that i feared would always seal my fate.
can you take me home, hand in hand, coats on shoulders, giggly negative self-talk?
but maybe make a stop
and i’ll make a home in your bed
just enough room for me to remember to forget
that this love will never ever happen again
and no amount of begging
will produce the results the same.
you must lay me in the corner,
tell me “stay where you are made,
don’t cause a scene, don’t make me regret bringing you like some kind of dead
weight.”
i will listen; that’s the best thing that i could ever do,
let me think high of myself for one minute or a few.
i won’t chew the food you give me
i just want to be forgiven
want to live without a knife lodged deep into my rib cage
i’ve learned nothings fair in love and war
there is nothing poetic about it
you’ll be left by your best friends,
your enemies will never mourn you.
and if you win there’s no virtue
to uncover
you’ve taken something in your hands that wasn’t even yours to begin with.
let me stay until i’m warm again
until their fingernails don’t puncture skin,
their violence becomes normalcy,
so i will know when to hide from the cold that slowly creeps
and calls me its daughter like i ever belonged to it
i believe you, i believe it,
just didn’t want to believe
that you’d leave
me on the porch for some yellow tv screen.
i’ll be as quiet as you want, you know i should never reveal my presence
once i do, the men deem me too much of something—something that they must rid of.
and i’ll forget the torture, long as you forget the power
instilled into your bones as far as any time must go.
i have tried in vain to get you to love me,
or at least see my skeleton
as i was made,
i’m just a body,
just something you can’t offend.
i have defended all my reasons as they lie flat on the floor,
sat in grass outside your house and waited for
the door
to open
much to my surprise,
no one loves you when you’re dying
when the love you once thought could happen
starts crumbling like a sandcastle
and wind chill makes you contemplate the reason why you keep going.
you’ve never been worthwhile
you’re just a silhouette,
of someone stronger who sleeps in comforters
and the cold is not their hollow mother.
can you walk me home at midnight
but if i ever stop trying
what’s the point in telling anyone i feel like i’m dying?
will you lift my wobbly legs, walking drunk back from the station?
i’m so sick of being cold;
i just want to go to sleep.
never thought i was worth it until someone told me so;
he must have lied through his teeth the entire time.
how could someone love me when i’m giving into weather,
when my pulse feels more like a broken clock
rather than a living thing?
how could someone love me
when every house i’ve built has no heater,
no place to lull the wind to just a sound
that can never enter?
how could someone love me,
cold and broken,
alone, with nothing left?
outside your porch beckoning for the warm light through the window
will you carry me home?
i’m sorry,
i’ll forget i ever asked you in the morning.
i’m back. it’s been a while since i have had the urge to write something which is very odd for me. perhaps i felt extremely happy with my life—meeting new friends, actually getting invited to things and feeling like i belonged. after a while, i am starting to feel like the people around me try to hurt me on purpose or at least don’t see how they are hurting me. i have contemplated a lot recently and i needed to write it down. this is just a huge culmination of what i have been feeling. this is a long one, but i needed desperately to puke it out.

11/5/24
ImosyrroS Nov 2
Believe me, I would have let you see me for who I am.

But knowing that could have only led to a greater disappointment.
                                                 ­                                                  ~ImoS
Yesterday & Today I noticed a little emote before my pfp name. Was it you?
Emery Feine Oct 12
They should really invent a place where I belong.
Not one with entirely sunshine and rainbows,
God knows I've prayed too little for that,
But one where
I fit.
I don't stand out,
But I'm still my own person
And not that me that I've shown others,
Deceived them for far too long.
My fixation with belonging
It's like a need
That will never once be met.
And I'm left starved and ravenous
For just an ounce of it
And its empty calories
this is my 127th poem, written on 10/11/24
Emery Feine Oct 2
Why do we wish that orange sunset won't ever die?
When we barely notice the normal, beautiful blue sky?
I think why we crave for the sunset to prolong
Is because the prettiest colors are the ones that don't belong
this is my 91st poem, written on 4/14/24
sha Sep 4
They connect and feel This Land beneath their feet.
But why do I feel nought but dirt and grass?
Don’t be fooled, I appreciate the base –
Filled with sacrifices and bones of the times of the past.

But is that not the history of everywhere we go?
The soil is filled with our successes and mistakes.
It is what we share in our ***** blood
Yet with the innocence we possess difficult to fake.

The other people of This Land are like any other.
Some possess flowers, some with guns,
And for sure all of them exchange arms
Depending if another is to be (rightfully?) shunned.

I suppose it is me, thinking too strictly.
My head trying to cope with the loneliness I hold.
Or perhaps This Land could just reach me better,
Maybe the people of the Land could have warmed my cold.
Inspired by the patriotic festivities in my country. I don't hold any ill feelings towards my nation, do not get me wrong -- I feel as if I praise and scrutinise the different aspects of my culture the same approach I do to any nation.

This Land © 2024 by Sha is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0
I've always enjoyed a good cup of coffee,
Which is why I've gotten really good at making it.
My slow solo morning sips,
It was the only time my coffee got the attention I believed it deserved.
But then you took your first sip of my coffee.
It was a slow sweet simple sip,
Yet my coffee seemed to find a place where it was truly meant to be enjoyed.
In dreams I wander, searching for a place,
A home that’s found in your tender embrace.
Yet fate’s cruel hand keeps us apart,
A sorrow etched deep in my heart.

You are the home where my soul longs to stay,
A haven of peace, where fears melt away.
But destiny’s paths lead us astray,
In separate worlds, we drift day by day.

Without you, I roam, a nomad in despair,
A heart without shelter, burdened and bare.
The house of my dreams, forever out of sight,
A love unfulfilled, lost in the night.
Inspired by reading “the girl from the other side” and few fragments in the back of my head, certain emotions lingers around
These are not my tears; but just the remnants of all
the forgotten kinds of many lost dreams
These are not my reasons to cry; why should I-
cry any more, as there is always less of the time
For every joyous hello has promised me a sorrowful goodbye,
every down season, is the cause of a once crashing high

These are not any of my tears to cry; over things I can
no longer control, things wished to have been owned, longed to
have been called mine; as like these supposed tears of mine

Of course, I’m fine when I choose not to cry; tears are only
a promise for a moment and only in a moment shall any life
be gone- and maybe by then, as you cry over me, will there be
a place for all my tears to belong.
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