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Aaron E Mar 30
If I were on it, I'd align and live
a day worth the dent,

But if it's obvious or not I sense
created consent.

I try to fabricate a way in which
to break from the grip,

But it's appalling how inactive wings
will stay in the crib.

I see a season peeking in and out of clouds,
twiddle thumbs at my reflection
waiting numb at the direction of the wind

Brittle lungs hope to wrestle the distention
My complexion shows the symptoms
My assumptions were it's manifesting sin

It's the stagnant pool of water
It's a faltering foundation
guiding hands to feed the slaughter
Drawing lines to frame them in.

I make my mirror into butcher,
draw conclusions from the surface,
tunnel deep into the portrait,
judge the avatar as worthless.

We're just lonely little boxes,
on the surface,
if we only see the surface,
but the ocean drowns the treasure
for the divers to uncover

Will the tyrant butcher keep us boxed in cages
dancing superficial cadence
here to languish
never speaking to each other

Or can we assume the seasons feed the roots,
beneath the surface,
seed resurgence of connection,
see a new escape begin.
Stay Connected.
“Mom, how high do planes fly?”
40,000 feet in the sky,
I don’t know if it’s worse in the cabin
-or is it the pressure that I can’t say goodbye.



After doing it a handful of times
I thought I would get used to this,

left behind my previous times,
leaving for a future I don’t know exists.



Men carrying boxes off my doorstep,
I’ll miss my friends in the past,
this isn’t the first time i’ve done this,
and it won’t be my last.



Used to have parents and sister with me
with my dogs there for the worst days,
now my sister and mom are separate from me
and my dogs passed away.

College under a year away, visitin’ knock on my door yet,
Mom strolls hesitantly into my room and sits me on my bedspread,
she tells me it’s that time again, her job had another mis-step,
tellin’ me Georgia is last on the list for this journey’s true end.



Though I know better, for I am no fool, she’ll surely do it again,
move back to Ohio just to retire when my sis goes into college,
yet I can hold no resent even if we’re up and out of state again,
cause this cycle is bound to repeat until it does hit an end.

Go from OH to MC to AZ to CA
to NH to OH to NJ to GA
back to OH to NC to NY to PA,
visit AZ and CA, not live there, but give thanks.



I’ve gone through this nation-wide journey through most states,
from drug-towns and cities to towns then away,
Mentally more than physically this journey i’ll take,
And move on my own ’til my hair turns gray.



Though I am not one to cry,
I’m not one to bat an eye,
I’m instead the one to soar high,
The height that planes fly.
Star BG Jan 5
In mental compartment of mind
a delicate balance must be found.
Boxes of memories are stacked
careful not to tip them
Careful to stack into their
color coded container.

Red for past pain
Blue for sadness that forsaken me
Green for money had lost and had again.
Purple for people who come and go.
Yellow for happy thoughts to fly in mind.
Orange for moments of change needing to accept.
Pink for memories of play with inner child.
Indigo for dreams seeded for future.

A mental compartment in mind, I carry.
And sometimes they tumble only for me
to re examine, cry,
and make a rainbow.
Inspired by Temporal Fugue-a fine poet
Amarie Oct 2019
It seems that all people can really do these days is attempt to fit themselves into boxes. The flimsy kind, made out of cardboard and ready to collapse at any moment. Attempt is the key word here. People attempt to fold their bodies into these tiny compartments, but we aren’t contortionists, so we don’t do a good job at fitting all of ourselves inside the constraints of the brown-papered walls. So we take off pieces of who we are - for some only knicks of excess skin are removed, for others entire limbs are ripped off and left behind.

Scarring us, killing us. And we let it, and we like it. As cruel and sadistic as it may sound, we learn to crave the pain if it means feeling the relief of fitting in... We’re obsessed with boxes, we believe that without them, we would die when in reality, they are the things that are killing us - suffocating and preventing us from seeing the beautiful light.

But we, we are the ones to seal our fate - I mean seal the tape that folds the ***** and leaves only a crack to glimpse the outside world. The outside world, the fearful world, scary, brutal, dangerous, complex, repulsive, hateful; kind, inviting, simple, beautiful, safe. We’re so afraid of losing these stupid boxes that we rarely open them up to step outside and feel what it is like to stretch our limbs and taste clean air as the sunshine kisses our malnourished skin.

These boxes are killing us and we are letting them because we were tricked to believe that the light is darkness, up is down, right is wrong, pain is happiness, life is death. You’d think that people would want to escape these boxes, to fuel their desire for something better, but these boxes are the abuser in a toxic relationship.

And honey, it feels like there ain’t no escaping them because maybe they aren’t that bad, maybe they did some good, maybe they keep us safe, maybe this is as good as it gets, maybe I don’t want to leave these boxes because, after all they’re just human - the flimsy cardboard boxes were made by humans. The very thing that causes us so much pain was constructed by our own hands in front of our very own eyes. We made these boxes and yet we don’t know how to destroy them, how to get rid of and live without them.

Maybe the boxes don’t need to change, maybe we do - funny how the boxes get you to think that you’re the one who needs changing- but maybe we do. The boxes are a product of our own creation, and maybe if we change ourselves, the boxes will change too...

I don’t think that these boxes will ever disappear all together. No, they’re too much a part of us, a manifestation of our own flimsy knowledge and broken understanding packaged in the form of societal expectations and confinement to provide some structure in an otherwise chaotic world.

No, the boxes won’t leave, but maybe we can learn that it’s okay to leave them - it’s okay that parts or the entirety of us in no shape or form could ever possibly fit inside of them. That’s scary, there’s no denying it. To think that you don’t fit into something is terrifying, but that just means we can create our own space unconfined by stupid, flimsy, cardboard boxes.
Michael H Aug 2019
Boxes are good to carry things
or to keep things in.
We use them for lots of stuff,
To move, to store... for bins.

My feelings are not boxable,
they're complex, changing, free.
If you try to box up my emotions,
then, you're trying to box me.

If you could box a rainbow,
would you really want to try?
I'd rather let it live and die
its short life in the sky.
It's so easy to put people in boxes; draw lines creating side, there's 'us' and then there's 'them'.
Those that they feel comfortable with and those they don't; there are those with many chapters and those that have just started writing their own; those who have the will to do and those who are only doing what they can.
Those we share something in common with and those we don't seem to know at all but then somehow in all our boxes there's 'us' those who have tattoos, those who have been bullied, those who have bullies others, those who feel lonely, those who are madly in love,we who have overcome tremendous adversity—the lucky ones whose team may have won the championship this year, we with great self-love and some who have beat cancer and finally there's all of us created with great strength and beauty;together we shall stand—
shatteredpoet Jan 2019
they glued labels
on my body
that won't come off
without removing pieces of myself
too
and it hurts
almost as much
as watching them
bend and twist
and break your
body
to fit you inside
a box your heart
has outgrown
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