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thyreez-thy Apr 23
Looking at the mirror, I don't see myself
Lately been wanting to be someone else
Lately been feeling like I'm not enough
Hoping that someone can see through my bluff
Hoping someone sees that my life has been rough
Hoping that people see I'm not that tough!

I've been fake so long, I don't know what's real
Trying to say a word but I can't break that seal
People keep depending on me, they see me as a light
Little do they know, I lose sanity every night
Little do they know, I'm starting to lose this fight
I'll keep smiling on, and pretend I'm not hurt by the pressure
I'll keep holding on, take a break man I need a refresher

I'll keep high, making sure that my poise never falters
I'll speak from my mind, making sure that my words never flutter

...who am I?
(by Thabani and Thyreez) A duet poem from 2023
Kasansa Kuya Jul 2020
far past the horizon
is where I wanted to go
The day was ending
and there was still much I did not know.

Without caution,
I planned my trip.
Without distraction,
I was ready to skip.

In twilights arms the memories came back
as all my years put me in a trance.
Readiness to embark on a journey without caution or distraction and a strong desire for freedom and discovery
Emmanuella Jan 3
Too many stops. Too many pauses. Too many full stops.

When moments could have flowed fluid

Could have continued along time’s axis to unfurl experiences

Now unknown, now wondered about, now pondered on. I’m not shaken. But it’s never cathartic. It is forever suspense. It is forever remembrance.

It is not regret. I was who I was, and I am who I am. I cannot null that. It is, wishes, perhaps. It is, wanting, to exist as two, to stop, but to continue, to watch, to witness.

I am full stops; given to elective ethos and jittering convictions. And given to these full stops, I wander, wonder, what, what if, should, should have. What? Happens? After?
Chelsea Quigley Dec 2023
We ask ourselves;
That ‘life was made to die’,

But if we continue to ponder,
We turn grim,
And somber.

For this question is up to us.
A creation of an answer,
One can trust.

As one can love,
And finally adjust.
Chelsea Quigley Oct 2023
Back to the start we go,
Life is a constant flow,
Of ups and downs,
Smiles and frowns,
To all the memories
we know.

Back to the start,
We say
As we become
lost and astray,
Tired and drained,
At the tasks thrown at us today.
Or perhaps day one
For some,
Feeling less than alive,
We sink and thrive,
All at the same time.

What a strange way to survive.

Back to that feeling,
We pray,
That it goes away
one day.
Or perhaps not,
As we sink and rot,
In the wounds and woes
Life has thrown and tossed,
To make us feel lost,
And truly unknown.

Or perhaps we are content
In life as it is now.
How wonderful it would be
For all to feel the same,
The relaxing happiness
That we strive for each day.
We pray and fret,
And live to forget
Of the thoughts that keep us
locked in
And afraid.

But as humans we grow,
Live through the flow,
Of light and darkness,
For the awaiting goal.
To finally feel at home,
Content with the flow,
Of constant changes
To our mind and soul.
But we live and thrive,
Breathe and survive,

For what a strange way we live in this life.
Man Jun 2023
She's an amazing woman,
If only she thought similiary
Of me.
Caage Gaber Jun 2023
I fully hate you.
No questions to my detest.
Why am I here though?
My determination. I hate some qualities and that makes me believe I hate the person that personifies those qualities. Why though do I end up around said people?
Kushal Jun 2023
I sat in my room,
A rollup of green
Perched between my lips,
Bellowing away.

Above the clouds and gusts of wind,
I'd write these words.

I'm an artist for work.
It's hard.
There's always a worry for stability.
That worry now sits as the shadow of my works.
All impure,
Tainted by fear and anxiety.
Success is a goal so hard fought for
That I only see my true self in my poetry.

The one haven I've left for myself.
Working as an artist is hard. For me personally, it feels as though I've lost  my spark, always thinking on whether my art would help my career.  My poetry is the thing I publicise the least, and as a result, it's the only bit of art that feels like a hobby and not work.
The only place I can truly find art without any goal but expression.
Now to keep attempting to rekindle my fire for the rest of my art.
CasiDia Oct 2022
I am holding myself accountable
For now, but not always
There's times when I should have
been the first to say I'm sorry
Of course we all have those times.
We must all have those times.
To err, to caution, to be human
Questioning if you said or did
What was right, most kind
The best possible actions
Achieving the most perfect outcome

But I cannot hold myself hostage
To reckoning with perfection
Nor can anyone else reasonably
****** me upon such a pedestal
and expect me to preform
my best, most absolute
unconditional, unequivocal
gestures of good faith
If they have not made themselves
Stand tall in such high places
Responsibly bearing the weight
Of being incorruptible to errors

I allow myself to look within
And search for the answers
As to why there's always this desire
To be something more than
The accumulation of cells and dust
That surrounds my innermost self
It seems like finding answers
Will have to start with asking questions
As to why I am the way I am
Right here in the now.

If I can shape myself into anything,
more than or less than
what I already am right now
How can I ever truly be myself?
How to begin knowing myself
If it was never really clear as to
what my self was to begin with?
Where is the source of who I am?
What I am? How I am, and why?
What happens if I stripped away
All that I am and put the pieces
back together in a different way?
Would I become someone else,
or something else entirely?

I have always wondered
If wondering will be good enough
In search of the answers
In search of the miraculous
An inner earth within the earth
which I heard only
existed in pages of a book
Written in the sand
A very long time ago

If you looked into yourself
and saw a mirror reflecting
the parts of other people
you either hated or loved,
Could you continue to look
at yourself when others called on you
and honestly say to them,
"Look, I am what I've become"?
Glenn Currier Aug 2022
How sweet is our time together
falling softly into violin strings
up into sky on mockingbird wings
across piano keys of white and black
where there is nothing I lack
and every moment stretches
across horizons blue and gold
no matter how battered and old
my body of bones and flesh
every minute green and full and fresh.
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