filosofia Jan 3
Empty feels sizeless, shapeless.
Emptiness is when you don’t know where you are.
You don’t know who you are. Or you know -- You knew.
You know that you knew, and no longer know.

But, emptiness is not nothing.
It has weight, it inhibits everything
I try
to do.

It is a box made of one-way glass; thoughts come in,
but can’t get out.
They come in by the thousands, some light, some viscous. And resisting
the urge to float
and settle
and make sense
and turn
to a color
to a palette, with each shade
and feeling
and turning
to action.
The thoughts, they come in
and they can’t get out.

Inside they remain.
Inside they are
Not thoughts,
They are

What were we talking about, again?
Ashley May 2018
My knees are weak as I fall to the ground.
The stairs I lay on has yellow fuzzy carpet. Carpet that is full of crumbs, dust, and nail polish.
The yellow carpet was once white, but is now not, no one knows why only it knows.
My knees can’t stabilize as my brain can’t make a move.
Without a moving body I have no moving brain, but I can’t have a moving body without a brain.
All I can think of is the words you put in my head. I’m to scared of your movements and every word you say is like a million of needles pinching me to teach me a lesson.
I’ve become to weak that I don’t seem weak to myself. Because for as long as I can remember I’ve been like this, weak. That I forgot how it felt to try or work hard.
So once I lay on the yellow fuzzy carpet. Not worried someone will see my salty tears hit the stairs, or see me falling to the ground. All I care about it whether or not if you know your words hurt too much to explain.
Whether or not you choose to be this way.
Because I’m feeling the yellow fuzzy carpet beneath me, and I’ve been on this yellow fuzzy carpet stairway to many times before.
Is this okay? It's practically a draft and I only feel a need to write poetry when I am panicking or crying
KM Hanslik May 2018
I always told you keep
your secrets like ink, right up
under layers of my skin where I can see
the black mark they leave.
Impermanence never deterred me from reaching
for your hand like an anchor to measure my weight against
paper-thin realities. Sink with me, lace
my muscles and bones with
the soft heavy haze
of summer,
let it rest heavily
inside my head. Mark my body where
it's out of sight,
mark these moments each
on the wall, leave them etched in tallies like
we don't care how many we win or lose.
In such a state as we are,
everything fades
into the white noise of soft
muttered phrases.  
I twist my fingers around my anxieties, make them
diluted and palatable for the journey ahead;
I've been afraid of losing ground or losing you
but it's unclear now as to how
those fears came about in the first place, and their threads are unraveling
as we speak.
I think I tend to glorify
these things more than I should, more than letting them fade
into the background.
The subconscious is a lonely place, no man
should have to go there alone.
Dress this up or
down, but
the underpinnings remain
the same, and I've always found comfort
in the way the ache
of all the world's catastrophies rests
in my bones like a shared
evolutionary sorrow;
I like how the pain grows
my muscles stronger and my skin
thicker. I think stitching
myself into you has added
new layers to these moments and new stories
behind my eyelids and a few new marks
on my wall of "chances I'm glad I took."

I think taking in the pain has given
me the voice so sought-after and I think
I've grown enough of it through my blood now to build
you up how you deserve, and to show you
that casting stones is not always
a plan for failure; sometimes we find miracles
in the middle
of wrong calculations.
I listen to the words of tv hosts
trying – or maybe just pretending – to analyze
topical issues of the day in depth
on their panels with certified experts on the issue

yet in the end mostly remains a host of possibilities
rarely a clear decision
more seldom even a provocative conclusion
one could at least start arguing about

what happened to well-structured arguments
that did not lend themselves to fuzzy readings
but had a recognizable opinion at their core
challenging viewers to discuss some more?
Griping about the lack of good TV panels seriously discussing topical isses
I feel, to add to the thrill
of a blockbuster thriller, new gory slasher,
they should offer kiwis at the doors.

The concentration it takes to eat a kiwi
in the dark is not for the faint hearted.

Ultimately you have the risk of being
stuck with a funny fuzzy tongue feeling
which will put you right off your popcorn.
2nd of April 2016

I wrote this when I was trying to write a poem for every day of April in 2016 (spolier alert: never ended up writing a poem each day in the end, only the first week or so)
KM Hanslik Apr 2018
You dream of the sun when
your words begin to miss their mark, when
you haven't seen the flaws of your actions until
it's too late,
when the tentative what ifs are swallowed by the looming presence of no.
You begin to dream of the sun when you spill
yourself into another and the other
devours you whole and leaves you
You begin to notice changes in
the lack of color in your skin or
the way your ribs feel a little sharper under your fingers, but
change is natural, you tell yourself
and try to forget the fuzzy things
in the corners of your mind that tell you
stop, because
what do voices know?
You drum your fingers along the edge of who am I, turn the phrase over in your hands and try
to forget the answer
as you dream of the sun and being
swallowed by it,
At times I feel socially awkward
hiding away those eyes from contact
mumbling and stuttering
as though I were stumbling,
upon the words as I was discovering.

Please don’t think I don’t want to talk
when I rush out,
Please don’t think I don’t want to talk,
when I don’t open your messages.

I escape out of nervosity
I feel the fuzziness in my head
butterflies in my stomach
nervosity in my nerves
lack of air in my lungs
tremble in my muscles
and the gritting of my teeth on my nails
as it drains every ounce of energy out of me.

I hide behind shadows
so I don’t encounter any social interaction.

No matter how many times I plan
and play a conversation in my head
I shudder and fret in reality,
making myself look like an awkward mess.

I want to be friends
I want to say hi
but the words do not escape
for I feel tongue tied.

I feel conscience and dreadful
for being such an awkward mess
choking on words
unable to let them
escape my tongue.

I am thinking
more than I am speaking
I can have a conversation in my head
but somehow, I find it difficult in reality.

But then you reach out
and make the first move
It makes it easier;
only to find myself
being an embarrassment once again.

But you don’t judge
you play it cool
and remain patient
you still show an eager to talk
and maybe that was what I needed
to be comfortable and me.
You are calling
and I just keep staring
my heart resonates
to the vibration of the ringing phone.

My eyes are hazzy
My mind is fuzzy
I don't know what to say
For I fear I will make a fool of myself
leaving to end the conversation
on an awkward note.

The call ends
I breathe
to calm my nervous nerves.

I call back
only to find myself stutteringg
and being overly conscience
with every word I say
dreading to have called
as the call ends.
This is a poem based on a true event of having anxiety when someone was calling.
Julia Aubrey Feb 2018
perhaps we were meant to meet at a different time, on a different planet, in a different universe.

maybe we were meant to glide past each others warmth and flourish in the rays we put off.

it's a silly feeling. being bottled up tight and released with zero gravity to guide its course.

fuzzy and twinkling, like two stars in a strong orbit around a common barycenter.

it's like we're dancing around the same feelings, the same glow, but never realizing we're spinning to the same force which holds it all together.

set ablaze, spinning spirits letting off sparks of stardust we silently wait for our moment to shine.

whether that be together or apart...

-Julia Aubrey Rhodes-
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