Jobira 10h

People used to keep their words
Even till death. But,
Today, honor has no values
For the truth hides behind shadow;
Yet, it is the perfect first
punching lies, told
That could swing and put,
One’s heart and mind to a ground,
And go home a winner with a gold.
Liars are the current heroes.

There's no honor in lies.


Silence the
And ignore
The lie

Storm strucking
and you are gone
You left all butterflies inside
And slowly
Coldness comes
Darkness covering
I'm walking down the path
Healing myself
A bit struggling
Yet fireflies still sparkling
Telling white lies
That you are staying
Pain disappearing
But it still hurts
It was a lie.
You are still gone.

it’s all a lie, how i say i’m
a writer; i’m a fraud, and none of it is
mine. my pieces are edited over and
over, occasionally by those who’re
with genuine talent,
but i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.

    my first real crime: i applied for a writing course-- i guess stanford didn’t see how my fiction wasn’t just me, and it was jenny, my good friend jenny who edited this piece-- made it worthy of  praise, worthy of pride, worthy of
i remember that morning, a sunday in may, my phone waking me in vexation, and with a grudge i pick it up, reading jenny, my good friend jenny say: cher, i got in, i bloody got in, check your god damned email. now.


  holy shit, i can only internally scream, it’s
all a lie.
    i’m not who they think  am, i’m
a fraud, a really good
fraud, a fraud who
deceived not only stanford but also
       themselves, a fraud with
too much pride     so they
forced themselves to apply. i don’t deserve
any of this, at all. i faked my skills, my
     piece isn’t mine, it’s all a lie, i’m not
with genuine talent,
cause i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.

     and another time: on the flight to san francisco, it sank in-- how i’d be stretched thin, pretending and acting and deceiving a professor, a real stanford professor, how there was no way in hell i’d be nearly as good, i was misunderstood cause i wasn’t anybody, you see, i’m just me; a sad, short, fool; like i was once again the sad and  anxious kid alone in
then in a blur, i’m checking in, these students sitting here all assured and then there’s me, o me, about to be marked as an absentee because apparently they see me as an equal, an equal who was at the very least
with genuine talent,
but i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.

this is insane,
i can’t stay in this house full of writing
   students, they’re almost like mutants,
writers are an absolutely crazy
lot, they’ll give me  a blood clot and
whatnot. well, maybe the expository bunch
will be alright, but that’s just a hunch. my
concern is with the creative crew,
         cause everyone knows the
            most catastrophic murders are
creative.  they know no bounds, they’ll write
whatever to the grave, their poetry so sharp
it could kill, and i know,
just from looking at them that, well,
i’m screwed, cause i’m not at all
with genuine talent,
and i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.

     and now a paradigm: i’m in class, my first class with twelve others, and next to me, my friend jenny, my good friend jenny, sat quietly, and in my chair i’m in internal warfare-- my head reeling, face flushing, all sorts of anxious feelings. so we’re waiting for the prof, and the moment he shows up i’m about to throw up because i know i’ll make myself out to be the weakling, the pleb, the imbecile amongst the others and i feel like a criminal. matthew, the prof, gives us five minutes to write, and all i could write was a pathetic seventeen syllables, and it truly was terrible, something like:

we are born as light
and struggle not to drown in dark
but it’s all for naught

  and i clearly remember his face, that expression showing subtly that i was a disgrace when i recited that haiku, and i felt as if that that was my cue; to leave, that is, but i couldn’t. and so i sat in class for the next three hours hanging my head in shame, because i knew that i wasn’t
with genuine talent,
and i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.

i wrote this for school and it won?? it's been made into a short film!!
it was based on a true story, i really did go to stanford and feel like a fraud
Jobira 3d

A tiny lie, pierced
My ears, and my arteries
With a sharp edged knife
And cut the wires connected
Between my head and my heart

I am the daughter of death and dark,
in this world I was welcomed with minimal light,
a gift of family and maybe friends,
I continue to be everyone's fading figure.

Ungrateful hands clutched me loosely,
they reached the air too proud of their escape,
even blood disappoint me,
and the rest of my whole being.

Famous lies that still surround this neighborhood,
which is which and who killed who,
an endless speculation,
too restless to be the truth.

Wasted money in return for a better exchange,
I forced myself to stand in front of people,
whose well beings abandoned their degrees,
I aimed for the fact but one gave me a laugh.

I am quiet and just a pass through,
silence that insisted to cover my mouth,
a favour I will give,
mouth stitched.

Listen. Understand. Appreciate
shiv 5d

This is not poetry,
This is not soul.
Just words I've
Never spoken.

mk 7d

i fear you more than i love you

sometimes i wish you were dead so that i wouldn't have to leave you but i wouldn't have to live with you either

i went to dinner with a friend you forbade me to see. when i hugged him, his body was neither as soft nor as warm as yours and i didn't like it very much. there was no sexual tension; only liberation, and deep, deep guilt.

sometimes i lie to you about my phone being out of battery. it's on airplane mode because i need some time to myself and you don't like it when i ask for "alone time". why do you need alone time, you always ask. i don't know how to explain it to you anymore.

i wish i had never met you because i am in a cycle of evil and fear and guilt and pain and sure some days you make me feel loved but mostly you just drive me insane. insane, not in the oh my gosh i'm so in love way but in the i don't know what's real anymore way.

i feel weak because i am not strong enough to leave you.

i feel strong because through it all, i have survived.

don't read into this- it's just a poem.
Lovhat3 Jun 15

Your soul,
Was an embodiment of perfect imperfection,
Existing on the same plane with all of your insecurities
Banished from the land of the love ones
Gone with the wind as you fly trough the vast emptiness of your own universe

The lights that shine
As you swiftly
Gently moving across your memories
Disappear when you came to the realization
That you are no different
From the man who kicked me out of his house because you make out with a man
From the woman who supposed to raise me but slowly killing you instead
From the person who uttered words of hates as people like me pass by

You used to be the wings of Gabriel,
Covering me with the blessings from God
Now you're nothing
But a homunculus stuck in between glasses
Framed and frozen

Next page