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It’s small things that mean nothing
But say everything to me,
Because everything has a reason-
A meaning I just have to see.

I can’t let things be as they are,
No, nothing’s a simple coincidence.
You linger in my atmosphere;
Surely, that’s not an accident.

But why?
And what does it mean?
I’m presented with puzzles
But not all pieces are seen.

I wish I had never looked,
My thoughts no longer free,
Now my conscience is booked,
Chained to what it perceives.

I just can’t help myself,
I just had to know,
Now I’m drowning in questions-
When I should be letting it go.
I saw something I shouldn't have while looking where I wasn't supposed to be
I'll speak your name

until it's not pretty anymore

Until it's so sharp and so distorted

it burns my cheeks like acid.
It's what I'm good at, I'm told.
Kairos 6d
Poverty, all around.
The poor squeezed dry
by every system,
every suit,
every layer of government.

I’ve decided to leave,
to live light,
to give away what I no longer carry.
Not to make a point,
just to move.

No one told me how.
No school wrote back.
No agency replied.
No office opened the door.
I asked. I waited. I knocked.
Silence.

So now,
I give away for free
what they would charge rent to store,
tax to sell,
or fine me for leaving behind.

Not out of wealth,
but because generosity
feels like defiance
in a world this rigid.

They won’t tell me where to go
just how to stay in place.
I only heard rules as a reply
No humanity in their solutions

But I’m not waiting anymore
The world is sick.
I'm leaving my country and donating most of my possessions to people in need and NOT ONE institution, including schools, accepted it, many have not even responded to the donation.

Praise for the lady at a local shop.
Who went out of her way to make sure the stuff goes to families in need.
mae Jun 29
i walk into the clinic
like it’s a gas station off Route 66,
neon buzzing, hearts tired.
my body full of roadmaps & warning signs —
but no one reads the signs,
no one hears the engine knock.
they call it stress, call it nerves, call it nothing,
but I’ve been breaking down in slow motion since the Eisenhower years.
Kalliope Jun 20
I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.
If I weather your storms, could you handle mine?
Storm chasers have never been easy to find.
Lostling Jun 14
"Be flexible, the flexible ones are those who survive."

No.
We are the ones who get taken advantage of.
They see us bend once--
Heart stretching, limbs folding backwards--
We don't break.
Instead we always fix ourselves
A smile stretched across our faces.

And so they pull
Push
Twist
Yank
All because we're flexible
All because we can handle it
My sibling took my socks while we were packing for our trip, leaving me with less socks than needed. I found them and took them back. Then we got into a fight. Our mom told us that "flexible people are the ones who survive in the world."
Maybe she doesn't know what it's like to always give in, to be a pushover. Anyways so now I'm wearing shoes with no socks about to hike up a mountain cause I'm too ****** to unpack my luggage.
(I can reuse so I have enough, but she took what mine and I feel like no one cares)
I never used to need to plan or plot before I wrote-

imagination shriv’ling on the vine around my throat.

The words come out more slowly now, viscous as with blood-

I have to **** and ***** and wait and pray for one more flood.
6/5/25- only in poetry am I free
sofia Jun 1
You never raised your voice,
but you never listened, either.
I learned to smile
while shrinking quieter.

I gave and gave
until I bent,
and still you asked
where all the warmth went.

It’s not rage—
not fire, not storm.
Just the slow erosion
of keeping form.

Tiny cuts,
dismissed as small.
You said, “Don’t take it personal.”
I took it all.

Now I nod and pour your tea,
but something’s hollow in my chest.
You never broke me loudly—
you wore me out
like all the rest.
My portrayal of emotional erosion in a quiet, imbalanced relationship—one where neglect, dismissal, and subtle invalidation cause deep damage over time.
Kushal May 23
What do I do to find peace
What do I watch to find joy
Where do I go to escape
The minutia of the toil.

I’m tired of every decision,
And feeling like none of them take me where I wish to find myself.
I don’t want control…
It’s not as if I ever had it.
I just want peace
And quiet.

I’ve lost the will to go on.
I don’t even care to end it.
Guess I’ll suffer eternity…
An eternity only man perceive.
**** it all. Just... **** everything. The world is ******...I'd never chose to live here if I had a choice.
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