Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lise Nastja Mar 25
The roaches come out
every 5 am when everyone sleeps
But I see them
When I’m up at dawn
They crawl one by one
On the microwave
the bruised wooden table
Sometimes it creeps into me
In one ear, out the other
It echoes my father’s laughter
My mom’s denial of said laughter
I hear its critter noises
And I shout ****** ******
Yet they all still sleep
Soundly at the comfort
of politeness and tolerance

No one believes
The crazy daughter
When she screams help
M R White Sep 2021
She knows of the sensitivity that riddles me.
Even the quickest of her words I catch, and they leave my hands red.
Why mother?
Why do you spit venom at me, and weigh me down with cruelty?
You know how I nourish my sensitivity.
You know I will eat up and gnaw angrily on your words.
I try to pick out what I do not want to hear,
But I hear them anyway. You know my ears are always open.
You know I take everything to heart, why do you take advantage of that?
Why father?
Why pick a woman so bitter and cruel?
Do you not want me to be loved?
I have a wound in my chest.
And I try to fill it with her love, but she offers me none.
Where can I lay down all this guilt my mothers give me?
Melody Mann Feb 2021
You subject me to the norms that stem from your fears,
your ignorance shrouds you from the generational trauma endured by the BIPOC community,
you continue to suffocate and silence the masses,
it is the color of your skin that reigns supreme,
however the same heart beats within us all,
a tantric hymn fighting for recognition,
so the world rises to have their voices heard,
to end the norms that are wrongfully placed upon marginalized communities,
for we will be heard,
it is well deserved.
Ode to the voices that have been silenced in pursuit of inclusion, recognition, and equitable treatment.
cristina Dec 2020
my mother, dedicated to flowers.
and by dedicated I mean she despises flowers with a passion,
a fiery repulsion so strong
that friends and family alike slowly started to mistake it for love
her marriage to my father.
my mother hates my father just as much as she hates  his flowers,
she says they are the worst flowers she could ever wish for.
god do I hope those flowers will not make it,
wilting away in the palest beam of sunlight
it is the worst torture that could ever be bestowed upon such beautiful creatures
to live and to grow and to blossom
cut away from their roots
dried
but my mother, my mother, she grows her flowers with uncanny care
fuelled by voluptuous rage and blind regret
some people still say it’s love
as the flowers shrink away into their own seeds.
so the flowers will surely survive
they’ll survive and they will live to see another day
day by day, night by night
in a place that is so loveless
one might mistake it for lovefull.

my sister, dedicated to flowers.
my sister, a lovely florist
a full-blown head in the clouds heart on her sleeves florist
and by florist I mean my sister values all her flowers so much
she sells them away to whoever might pay back just enough
for them not to feel  as worthless as her father’s flowers
which her mother always reminds her about
so she just sells them to whoever.
period.
she tells me her flowers are cute when they treat her to dinner
beautiful when they mend for her tremendous rent, you know?
life is never easy
but her flowers are only majestic, she says, when they are made into presents
cut and pressed and shrivelled into tiny scattered pieces so beautiful
they attract all kinds of unwanted attention
which remind her a bit of herself, she says
gifted only to those who will never know how to properly care for something so broken
one might mistake it for whole.

my grandma, dedicated to flowers.
except she never truly was
willing to take care of something that is fated to wilt away, that is.
my grandma didn’t despise her flowers like my mother does
she understood them – she felt them
and therefore knew not how to take pity
with thorns of self loathing
she molded herself into becoming one of her flowers
the only way she knew how to love herself.
my grandma knew how to make wondrous dresses out of petals and leaves
a disguise so colourful and blinding
one might just forget to look at all the right places
you’d have found nothing but pesticide.
grandma’s flowers were the most stubborn
born in a desert island of broken promises and scraped knees
where they were buried too
when the time to hide away the corpses left in her wake finally came.
sometimes I wish she had not left her son’s flowers to rot
colouring them so violent
one - such as his daughters -  might mistake it for gentle.

I, dedicated to flowers.
I, anxiety ridden daughter of all flooded fields
blooming in the crevices and rocks dandelion -
I learned to resent the flowers that were ****** upon me by birth
the first words I remember were never spoken out loud
“you have and will bear those flowers as if they are your own”
hoping that would be just enough to mend
for the moths and worms that made a home out of my belly
I was born with no flowers of my own
no illusion as to what to expect from life
my mother’s, my sister’s, my grandma’s
and my father’s
my garden was the most full
and the most painful to care for
kneeling on the seeds with sand in my eyes
no gloves to fend away the thorns
the pesticide fills my lungs
and I always cry
nobody would ever guess
I never liked gardening.
this is old, but i think it has some potential still & i pretty like it
Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
stove juts out
stuns in sixty-year-old kitchen
shiny, electric,
everyone marvels
so much better than the gas stove
as if the functions are not the same.
I, misled, maybe
have no newfound love
for false hearths
and work dens masquerading as homes.
we never knew food
just kosher salt, pepper, ketchup
a dash of rosemary
yet our curves labored, steamed hours
heaped over knotted heels
at the end of the workday
you were so tired
and we ate whatever you could manage.

I desired to taste liberty,
imagined I had it on a slow burner
simmering with
coriander seeds, cumin, cinnamon
chili powder bleeding into broth
parsley finely cut
into slivers for garnish grew
dry in my hands,
waiting.

Somehow I ended up
back in that same kitchen
a dream at my lips,
hungrier than before.
Another reminder that if you want a free ARC of my poetry collection, just write me a message. :-)
I S A A C Jun 2020
You understand the cycle of generational trauma, birthed from hurt to cause drama
You understand communication styles that dip their pedicured toes into ***** waters
You understand the impact of microaggression and discontentment

But you don't know what love is
The examples you had only you taught you how to be toxic
Birthed patterns within me that restrict me
Anxiety reaching new heights as we reach the peak

Sleeping with you closer to me in cause a sudden dream prompts you to leave
If you love something set it free but what if you don't return to me
Emptiness I would feel because I never knew what love was
Until it was too real and I let my fears dismantle what would've been soulmate love.
Think'
Michelle Apr 2020
Terrifying,
And standing upon the precipice.
Young hopefuls,
Staring into the faces of—
The things that boomed long ago.
The gunshots ring,
Like a terrifying drum beat.
Boom.
Life passes in flashes,
Yesterday long gone.
And tomorrow-
Already has its mind made up.
eleanor prince Aug 2019
babe stirs
safety a wild call
lost to night

blood ties shunned
explosions blurring
lines

diesel spillage
corrosive
chill

breaking walls
of sleeping
child

carnivorous plants
insects torn to
shreds

by those lost
removed from
breath

passing pause
brisk breeze
grants space

as dawn
stirs
sentience
organized abuse
of every kind
impacts generations
of innocent
children
until dawn
of awareness
arises
and one
manages
to break
free
Whisper Yes Apr 2019
She sits on a stool in the kitchen
The last of the evening sun caressing her face

She spent the last 2 hours dancing
Her body being moved by the music
Freedom flowing through her veins

She couldn't talk that day
All she could do was allow her body its voice
Trusting it to show her the way

She lit 4 candles
One for each of them
Her mother
Her sister
Her grandmother
And her

Her body moving
Freeing each of them as she moved
Past present and future dancing
Secrets whispered and revealed through her body
Dan McGowan Nov 2018
The pull from the tree
That has poison fruit
Drags me in
Makes me eat
Against my will
Until I see
My feet walking
My hand picking
My mouth eating
That fruit again
What is the draw
This gravity tree
Why can’t I think
This animal pull
That drives me
To this fruit
I could ask Eve
I’m sure she knows
Unlike the man
Who just blames
Is that snake a rope
That binds my free will
Or are they fruits
From my labor
The magnetic pull
Of the dark
All that I know
Is please find a way
That takes me away
From the shadow
Of this tree
sometimes i write in first person even if it's not me, sometimes it's me.
Next page