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India Apr 14
I wish to keep the wishbone within the body,
Not snap apart a life under the guise of luck.
Collect lost pennies, not lives,
You evil murdering *****.
нина Apr 13
the subtle difference
holding a hand
chaining a soul

burying a self
heading from the dead things piled up behind you

(isn't love)

a transaction
integrity for security
(isn't love either)

kisses are not contracts
presents are not promises

defeat comes into the bar —
—familiar squabbles dizz out the bartender
drunk—young love
burning down onto the dance floor
holding on tightly to that known

O' Captain, my Captain!

treacherous are the roads of the morrow
—its grounds, too unstable for plans
futures have a tendency of falling flat—.

a dulcy dandy melody
that of feet walking past—.

i endure
with the grace of a woman
not the grief of a child

i learn
to take in warm loving arms
my sunken ship
back to shore—
day 12: comfortable
нина Apr 12
back then
i’d look in absolute horror
at the chaos of my life
and think:
"this is the end of it all,
i’ll lay down to drown
in the sea of my sorrows"

now i look at it
in absolute bliss
and think:
"how glorious
this life i've ruined!
i breathe so it changes
everything, i breathe
and it changes"
day 11: eureka!
нина Apr 11
you often find yourself in this room as a good place in which to be miserable; for it is dark and still, full of ancient furniture, sombre curtains and hung all round with unfinished portraits of unknown men. no doubt it is an excellent place for woe, as the fitful spring rain that patterns on the window-pane seems to sob "cry away; i'm with you."

prim little doll you are always home, claiming bad weather and a cold keeps you indoors, spending most of your youth in between books and inked paper. here you read a great deal, cry a little and dream when allowed, among the books hands have stored for ages in the old dusty shelves. this suits you better than anything else but it is not good for you; you grow pale, heavy-eyed and listless, though your soft mother keeps all sorts of pretty needle-work stored in her closet and she paints you with lilacs when violets grow under your eyes. your poor friends rack their brains out for new amusement to wrap you round and determined to venture you in a bold stroke though not very hopeful of its success. little dreaming that their odd friend would find pleasure for herself in a most unexpected quarter.

child, you have no real cause to be sad, for you sleep in warm covers and have not yet discovered the real war among the spirits' cries. for you are unlike any other your sorrows may echo now; amuse yourself with the never ending nostalgia for it can only last so long before it brings you back.  
you were given the freedom to *** round, to swift from anger to content without consequences to hold worries about.

before squeezing out a single tear listen to the soft bird's chips, oath yourself the right of sadness but don't deny the desire for love, for every girl must find her corner when she's out in the real world.

my friend i wouldn't borrow trouble but have a real good time, i'm sure i should think i was clover if i had folks and colours and nothing to do but enjoy myself.

      sing for you, play for you
          a dulcy melody.
day 10: i'm worried about her
нина Apr 10
i walk around
daze and consumed by my thoughts.
my thoughts have thoughts have thoughts
i tell my thoughts my other thoughts
trying to ease my isolation.
i constantly have a lump in my throat
and slightly watered eyes.
i've missed out.

i hate my-self
but i
love my-self
i just don’t
love my-self
day 9: paradox
нина Apr 9
i often forget
i forget
about my hands
and ears
my ears
i hear
all i hear are
dancing girls
and rubber
rubber bands
but i know
i know you know
i know you
you don’t
you don't know
what that means
day 8: tessellation
нина Apr 7
solitude stands
reflective of ourselves
pretending at times we do not exist

brooding insideness
greetings and farewells
fighting the abyss

dulcy be the sudden kiss
you have forbidden yourself at last
pretending at times you do (not) exist
day 6: (l)on(e)ly
escapril 2021
LC Apr 5
it presses my shoulder blades,
ties my neck muscles into knots,
then settles deep within my chest.
the pain is the first sign
that my body is haunted.
it then puts my thoughts
on a hamster wheel.
they run in circles
without an escape.
this is the second sign.
but my heart takes control.
it voices my thoughts
so they can be seen and heard.
it stops spinning the wheel,
slowly comes out of my chest,
unties the knots in my neck
and lets go of my shoulder blades,
and my body does not feel its weight.
#escapril day 4!
нина Apr 5
i was never good at being alone,
but i always managed to make myself
lonely, even among the chanting crowds

i drew every line that
differentiated me from
everyone else.
i convinced myself that
i was satisfied with loneliness,
but i wonder how much of that
comes from an acquired ability
to thrive of off unchosen
to what extent it might be
a form of contentment
built on a bedrock of
day 4: ghost

* you can find this poem as a spoken word on my youtube channel. search the title!
an artist Apr 3
the exact middle, she claims
i'm neutral, she says
i don't pick sides, she proclaims

no, no
the exact middle is never
the exact middle
of nothing

we are always in the middle
of something

when i hear her say,
"you know i've never picked sides,"
what i really hear is:
"i don't care enough to care"
"my comfortability, my ignorance, is worth more than someone else's struggles"
"my silence is more important than another's life"

what i hear is you giving up, giving in,
because it's not your problem, right?

no, no
the exact middle
is never
a "neutral" place to be
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