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Come, sit by my side,
tell me of the dreams this world has yet to break.
Honestly, tell me your fears,
and I will try to offer you my hope.

-Rhia Clay
ash Jun 14
i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."


"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

i'm just kinda roughed out at the edges
is it adhd?
Salwa May 23
Sometimes ا miss the feeling of peace just to realize I never felt it not entirely anyway;
I crave it. You know how you just get this urge
This sudden want of something you haven’t even been thinking about
Fantasize about something so surreal to your mind
Then feel ashamed
How could anyone like me deserve to even dream about it
And it will stay this way
The longing the want just to feel an ounce of calm
It will stay out of reach , but just close enough to taunt me the rest of my life .
This isn’t my usual writing but This came from a quiet moment of realization. It’s not polished, just honest — a snapshot of longing I couldn’t ignore. I wrote it to let it breathe. That’s all
Zywa May 20
Really every lie

does need a decent wardrobe --


of nice eloquence.
Story "Il guardaroba dell'eloquenza" ("The wardrobe of eloquence", 1908, Luigi Pirandello)

Collection "Actively Passive"
Cadmus May 19
Take off your clothes.
Slow.
Let them slip like secrets.
Let the silk confess.

Step forward.
Bare skin. Bare soul.
No perfume to distract me,
no colors to lie.

Drop the stories,
the stitched-up smiles,
the lace of excuses.

I want you raw,
**** under the light,
where nothing hides
and everything dares to be real.

You’re never more beautiful
than when you’re stripped
of all that isn’t you.

Take off your clothes.
Let me meet
THE NAKED TRUTH.
This poem uses sensual imagery to expose a deeper metaphor, how truth, like the human body, is most powerful when unadorned. It speaks to the beauty of vulnerability and the courage it takes to stand uncloaked in front of another.
Yusuf May 10
Here you are.
Running and running,
you stand here at a border.
One of vessel and mind.
  
Oh, mirrored child!
How you have grown!
Still...
too tame, too wild.

A paper without a pen.
A frown devoid of rage.
Your words are vibrant.
Your value is undefined.

Static as a variable,
dynamic as an organism.
You have friendly masks,
yet volatile insides.

A friend?
A foe?
Brutality or mercy?
It is time to choose.

Oh, my best friend...
my oldest enemy...
how do you do?
Yusuf May 10
They see it not.
Their eyes open to me,
yet their heart remains closed.

My mind a web of ideas,
my heart a compass.

Warps of mercy and construction,
wefts of brutality and destruction,
how to share this tapestry?

Words?
Wounds?
No methods appear.
Am I to be silent?
What to say?
Yusuf May 10
Let us stay a little while,
midst the light and bloodied bile,
let us see what we can see
with our deceiving eyes.

The mother feeds their child,
and the scorching sun rises.
The lakes glisten like stars
and the birds sing again.

They're playing soccer.
And talking.
And having fun.
With eachother.

The plants move and twist,
and the tide ebbs and flows.
The grass is emerald.

They invite you in.
It just isn't for you.
If only it was.

The sky is an ocean of blue.
The birds fly like scattered sand.
  
You start doing your homework.

You like it.
You love it.
It's great.

It's fun.
It's so, so fun!
So fun...
that tears run down.

Yet your eyes are hollow.
Your head is full of soot.
Why?
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