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empathy
something I struggle with
I'm not heartless
or lacking kindness
I just don't know how
to put myself in other's shoes
I can't see their pain
in their perspective
I see it my way
not theirs
it's a struggle
I want to be understanding
but I just can't
I wish I could be
more empathetic
but alas
I'm just a misunderstood fool
empathy: the ability to understand and share the feelings of another
matilde 7d
Man was not born perfect. Neither divine, nor beastly. But shaped from the mud of contradiction: a being who, at the same time, reaches for the light and falls into shadow.
Among mortals, there exists no creature entirely good, nor entirely corrupt: each walks a ridge, where every step may lean toward evil or good, without ever fully dwelling in either.

According to the bards of the South, it was Prometheus who molded the first human heart using tears stolen from Eléos, a minor and forgotten goddess, born from the Compassion that Nyx, the primordial Night, wept while watching the wars among her children.
Prometheus ignited that tear with the fire of thought, but he left man with a flaw: the heart could beat in tune with another’s pain, but it could also reject it, shut itself off, dry up.

When man wounds man, when he betrays, strikes, tramples—what awakens is the most ancient part of him: not the one shaped by Eléos, but the one carved by Nemesis, the goddess of retribution, twin sister of balance.

And yet, when the guilty fall, and the unjust suffer, the heart of the just one hesitates.
Thought whispers: “He deserved it.”

But this voice does not come from Eléos.
It comes from the blade, the one Nemesis sharpened with the envy of the living and the resentment of the dead.
A blade that cannot distinguish between the righteous and the vengeful, because whoever wields it, even briefly, loses sight of the heart.

Eléos, on the other hand, does not speak loudly. She whispers.
She reminds the heart of what the mind has forgotten: “He, too, was a child. He, too, was afraid. He, too, sought love.”

And then empathy appears—not as pity, but as a sacred discipline.
It is not an emotion. It is not weakness.
It is the ability to face the pain of the one who hurt you, and say: “I do not wish for him what he wished for me.”

And then you see.
You see the guilty one’s mother watching over his bed.
You see the father remembering a boy who once ran, now motionless.
You see friends who do not understand.
You see yourself, reflected in the face you once hated, and you realize the harm he caused was born from the same hunger for love that burns in you.

Eléos sits beside you, in silence.
She imposes nothing.
But if you listen, she teaches true compassion: the kind that knows how to weigh pain, even when it belongs to the enemy.

People invoke karma. They say: “It’s justice.” But it is not justice they seek. It is revenge.
And revenge is a knife held with a cold hand, but one that slowly burns the palm.

There is no compassion in those who cry for a dog but laugh at the outcast classmate.
There is no empathy in those who grieve for a lonely elder but despise a peer who cannot speak.

Empathy is a fire that only consumes pride.
It is the art of seeing the other not as a stranger, but as a missed version of oneself.

And forgiveness, then, is not forgetting—it is transformation.
It is saying: “You are not innocent, but you are human. And I choose to see you with the eyes I wish were used to see me.”

The myths say Eléos lives in the woods at the edge of Tartarus, where the spirits of the repentant wander in search of peace.
She does not punish them. She listens.
And when a soul learns to weep for what it has done, Eléos gives it a second skin: made of silence, memory, and light.

And you—if you wish to know her—do not call her.
Sit beside the pain you once hated, and listen to it.
Only then will she come.
And she will call you:
Daughter of Compassion.
Keeper of Forgiveness.
thought about this at 11 pm while laying in bed listening to Radiohead ****
ash Jun 1
i drew a few hearts on my bedding
when it was bare without any sheets
perhaps i shouldn't have — it's bad manners,
what you're taught as a toddler to preach in.
but then i wondered —
who would ever notice?
i'd like to mention, the art of noticing.

i went to fetch some groceries.
while returning, without my headphones,
i took notice — and the world seemed to hold me in.
a woman was talking to her husband,
chatting about how the war drills cancelled.
two brothers were playing cricket —
i passed them by and heard the younger say,
"i'll learn to throw well in time if i grew bolder, yeah?"
the older one smiled —
a smile i've done many times — and chuckled.

it's not always the best place to be,
the world i mean — when you wish to fit in.
i'm almost always with my earphones — wired or the other ones,
trying to fade it out: the noise, the surreality, almost all of it.
because it's just so hard to seek the peace i intend to live with.
but then, on a few random days where i feel like the chosen,
everything feels a bit better —
like it's not that bad to be broken?

they function, yes they do —
but i notice the way they lag,
and sometimes choose just not to
show who they are.
so they wear masks:
ones that hide, ones they despise,
and sometimes don’t even realize
until it’s too late — and the mask melts into their skin.

i feel bad sometimes —
this empathy just carries my soul,
brings it to absorb every ounce of pain i can
from the one beside, and the ones i cross.

but on other days like tonight,
i walk, almost free.
there’s good winds, myself carefree.
there’s a lot of work pending —
i won’t deny i’m procrastinating.
but for once i smile,
and i smile at the thought of myself smiling —
for no cause, probably seeming delusional
to the one in passing.

but how do i tell them the moon’s following,
and there’s the hint of wet mud after the evening shower —
the sensation filling up my blood —
and it’s nice for once, easy to exist,
almost easier to fit in.

my thoughts are like string lights,
almost always entangled together.
not one single shines bright —
but sometimes they glow,
like when i'm hit with a current of emotions.
they glow bright, almost enchanting —
and on nights i'm able to sort,
sort through the flickering ones,
the ones that died, and the ones that hold the right light,
i pour them out, let the candle-like wax from my brain transcribe
words and feelings into the right imagery,
hoping it'll make sense by the time i'm done with it.
and this right here is quite one of the examples
of same cord of fairy lights
(i'm to believe i might be magical in all my might).

but then i look around
and see the way they look in return —
and even though i stand out,
stand out in a way the odd one does
in the system of evens —
it’s not the best thing, not the flashiest.

but i continue to walk
with a silent acceptance.
maybe the world is like this.
sometimes i notice the good,
often the bad,
mostly the in-between.

and the greys are a nice position to be in
when the extremes have taken you and thrown you.
for not all magnets hold together —
the like ones just never really go well together.

we're all simply misfits —
and yet the word holds the fits.
so i guess in the end,
we all really do miss the irony of it.
i'll have to rethink, got another to write on and about.
Lizzie Bevis May 28
Gentle kind soul,
I see the tears you weep,
as you sit in quiet vigil
while the world is asleep.

The world's weight has settled
in your bones tonight,
leaving you wishing for peace,
instead of a fight.

Kindness flows from you
like steady breaths, so deep;
While others dream and slumber,
your selfless mind still seeks.

I sometimes watch
as your mind creates storms,
and your eyes rain with mercy,
as you care for all.

Your heart overflows
with hopes and dreams,
while time, like a fish,
swims quickly downstream.

Silhouetted by moonlight
spilling through the window pane,
its presence is a thankful kiss
that softly speaks your name.

©️Lizzie Bevis
Dan Speers May 27
They came and took the dog away today
and they’re going to put it to sleep
because it barked, they say.
A lady dropped a dime in the checkout line
and no one stooped to pick it up.
She shrugged and said, “It’s just a dime.”
An old man on the bench in the park watched a kid run about,
tossing peanuts to the pigeons. The old man grinned
and waved and nodded and someone called the cops to check him out.

Some teens made a giggling trip to the mall
during the day, a school day, to shop for jeans.
In the food court they had burgers and a malt.
A woman in a minivan hurried into the grocery lot.
She never gave it a thought as she parked,
ignoring the sign for the handicapped spot.
An elderly lady sat in the library with a permanent pout,
not reading her book. She fell asleep and passed away
and for a day, a very long day, no one came to check her out.

They came and took the dog away today.
The veggie stand sold the last of the corn.
Winter came and took the leaves away.
Somewhere, someone was popping popcorn,
the smell hanging in the air like bacon frying
and in the hospital, another baby was born.
On the news they said an icy patch ended the lives and ride
of this drunken man and the girl whose car he hit.
We lit a fire today. It was cold, so very cold. Outside.
*So Very Cold Outside first published in Margie,
The American Journal of Poetry, vol. 5. 2006.
I’ve drunk enough—
don’t fill my glass again.
All you’ve ever offered,
I’ve gulped down to the grain.
Pleasure’s senses never sate;
for me, they’re just a stain.

I have this body like all others,
a hungry dog
that waits beneath the table
and eats all that falls from it.

Did no one warn you?
Never feed the dog at dinner.
Do it, and he’ll haunt your chair—
whimpering and begging for another taste.

Can’t you see the feast is laid?
Silver platters, crystal bright!
You’re the guest who’s free to taste,
to drink the banquet’s blinding white.

Is it the dog who gets the scraps,
does not care and all devours?
—Exactly!— and once he's finished,
he'll come begging, craving more.

Don’t blame the dog when he invades
your sacred feast.
You shout, you punish his demands,
yet you fed this beast.

Now discern. Divide. Rearrange.
Let each thing keep its name.
The dog in the dog’s domain.
The master at his plate.
All my poems are related with the music I compose and perform. Piano solo, modern classical/jazz style. I will provide more information when I make a good recording. My work try to explain my life philosophy. Philosophy that first are acts, and then I try to explain with music and words.
Don’t blame me if I am not,  
for in the end, I am by not being  
in order to be.  
Every kiss,  
every flower,  
every stranger’s smile—that’s me.  
Do you see the sun’s shimmer on water?  
That, too, is me.  

And that boy sleeping on the street?  
That mother weeping?  
Those who eat what others threw as trash?  
I am these people as well, I confess.  
Don’t be surprised if my sorrow does not fade,  
for I can be nothing but all these things I am.  

In the things that are alive,  
there is where I live,  
and it is not in death where I die.  
From thing to thing, my clothes change,  
From so much longing, my heart pulses.  

And if one day i ceased to be all this,  
what would remain of me then  
would be merely what i alone am.  
A small thing,  
or nothing.  
For blinded by indifference,  
not even my mirror  
would know who I am.
All my poems are related with the music I compose and perform. Piano solo, modern classical/jazz style. I will provide more information when I make a good recording. My work try to explain my life philosophy. Philosophy that first are acts, and then I try to explain with music and words.
January May 14
Perhaps,
to empathise
to understand a little more
is to hurt deeply without a wound
is to hurt deeper than a wound hurts

For you try to search for the wound to find the sword's owner
to explain the scar that's to be there
But you feel your wounds without any
piercing, tearing of skin
without any escaping of blood
without any sword
or the hands that were to hold it
hands that were to be condoned by you.

But there weren't any
how does one hold his own empathy accountable?
his own ability to gaze at this world from different
or perhaps
all of the peaks.
Izan Almira May 8
They say trust
is innocent,
they call me naive
for lending things
and knowing I’ll get them back,
for asking for truthfulness
without checking for lies,
for believing someone when they say
they’ll keep my secret safe,
for giving a hand
and knowing I’ll get a thanks.

But if kindness is innocent,
and ‘oh so pure of me’,
then maybe that’s why
we keep ruining things.
Because of course I know the risks—
of course I’ve been betrayed—,
but I choose to ignore them
because empathy
is my thing.

So, if kindness is innocent,
then turn me into a kid.
For real, like. I lended something to a teacher once (a pencil for his computer) so he could do some online lessons with another student from a different year group, and one of my friends went “oh why’re you doing that, he won’t give it back”. And I was like ??? dude, if you have trust issues it’s not my fault. He’s a teacher, he’s gonna give it back. (He gave it back).
Just know, it's not your fault.
No, It's not your fault .
The Mind betrays the heart.
But no, it's not your fault.

It's not like you could know.
Paths you were meant to walk.
All paths will over grow.
Being lost is not your fault.

Your human form stays lost.
The soul will pay no cost.
It's created to bathe in light.
No darkness is your fault.  

Oars ****** you toward a call.
You'll get weak, and you'll stall.
The sea will never calm.
No struggle is your fault.

Know that it's not your fault.
Your heart takes all the shots.
It's running from your mind,
And no, It's not your fault  

For, all will over grow.
The sea will never calm.
And no, it's not your fault.
Just know, it's not your fault.

©

Derek Abraxas

"The Quantum Bound Poet"
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