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riri 1d
displaying a badly painted portrait of myself to the public
just so that i can be picked on, as i predicted
self-sabotage isn't just a bad habit, but a disease
the only cure to it is self-love, but that's something i can never seem to reach

possibly the pain became too addicting
or i'm afraid of change, i'm afraid to be loved
after all i can never accept the fact that i am loved in the first place
i'm so used to mistreatment, for it's the only form of love i know
i complain about "why does it feel like the world is out to get me" when i literally set myself up every single time.
Flo 4d
On a cloudy day
The autumn leafs are falling
Time to say goodbye
Here’s to new beginnings.
i didn't know then
what i know now
the thoughts of an adult
aren't the same as a child
i wasn't the same person
as who i am now
time has a way
of changing things around
time has a way of changing things around
Kim 5d
Is it where you come from that matters?
Is it your history, your line of descent?
Do they really know you, they chatter
Would they sit down with your friends
Where do you come from they ask
What is your story they say
Will you do away with your mask
Let them know you if they may

What went before doesn’t matter
Only the present counts
It’s a fresh start you barter
For your past in the ground
But when it comes down to it
They still want to know
Where did you come from
Where will you go

You choose your own fate
Your life is in your hands
Your future’s for you to make
You’re not bound to the land
Let them know you by your deeds
By your words and by your song
Do they need to trace your feet
To know where you belong?

What is a reputation -
But a binding rope
No leeway to stumble
For it’s a slippery *****
If the days gone by are to colour
Every speech and action
Where is the scope to discover?
Aren’t our lives but a fraction -
Of what they could be
If we believed we were free
To set forth and make waves
Or float along with the sea

But then again you may say -
Do people really change?
Can they let go of the hate -
Washed clean by the rain?
And can we trust someone who lays
No claim to yesterday -
For whom nothing can vouch
But the words of their mouth?
If one is constantly changing -
Then where does one stand?
How can the others trust you -
How can they shake your hand?
Is trust merely an illusion
We conjure up for ourselves -
To alleviate the confusion
To put reason on the shelf?
One day we all must choose
When there is much to lose
Whether to cling to the family tree
Or take flight and be free

Those you grow up with are forever
They’re the ones you never leave
Where you came from is your start
The first page of your story
But it can’t tie you down
It can’t hold you back
You mustn’t be afraid
For in the attack
They may have the armour of the known
And the weapons of their forebears
But you will have freedom
And an army of your brothers
Your brothers in thought
And ideals and humanity
Your sisters with whom you fought
The winds of disparity

So I suppose what I’m saying is
The only story worth telling
Is the one that unfolds
In the final reckoning
This is an old one, posted here a few years ago. Made a slight edit. Thought it was more relevant than ever so decided to repost.
11
the air is cooler      
      less kenetic and soupy              
           less aggressive with the mammal scent
safer (it seems) clean

        the skin retracts a little
dryly
                     less welcoming to dirt contact
                           my feet shift cooly in my sandals

the world awaits
             new temperament
03/09/21
Yesterday, a cloud burst in mythologies
and the rain fidgeted over the retreat

of a tidal pantheon; deities swept away
by a current, and we stood awhile, watching

the moon elbow out the dusk. Breathing
is burdensome when cars float on water

and corpses leak out of cavernous
basements. Every tablet, etched, in the cold

heart of building code was read again
and then again. It wasn't enough to blame

Aeolian whim or the raging riposte of Apollo,
now that we had marvelled away Gaia's

ozone skirt. Her amnion always leaked
in folkloric floods each time she birthed

a parable. She once asked Noah to build
an ark so he could ride her waves

and we scrape the sky to impale her
in shards where her womb is soft and yielding,

as we sour the air and burn the water and strip
her of her emerald sigh and melt her hills

and silt her wetlands. Mostly it was the asphalt
plastering her yearning that calcified her veins

and arteries, as she died slowly under our feet.
We could hardly fathom her sorrow for the tears

rolled off her torso like an oil slick
and rode far into the subway for sewers.
Hurricane Ida’s remnants created deadly havoc in Pennsylvania, New Jersey and New York days after the system hit the Gulf Coast — some 1,000 miles away (npr.org) I composed this poem in the aftermath. Read further at my blog. Originally published at http://davinasolomon.org on September 4, 2021.
it was 365 days ago
that things changed.



I regret that,
and I regret you.
Orin Tisab Sep 12
...
Transformation, to be transformed
To fly, to the wings that soared,
My dreary genesis,
To the radiant prism, O dear Iris

Fly, Fly my butterfly
Sparkle, luster, let the light come by.
Grown and free.
The vision of beauty, sending love letters to thee.
One day I'll catch you
front and center
on the outskirts
of your city
riding along
a conveyer belt
you'll be dressed
quite insensibly
idling back and forth
along the past
happy in your
pathway hang-ups
and far too distracted
to notice we've become
skull and crossbones
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