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I am a foreigner
To all that once loved me
To all that once cared
To all that once observed me

A stranger who slept in your bed
Three weeks ago, a new eternity
I am a foreigner to you
You are a stranger to me

Recently I've been invisible
It started many many moons ago
The days pass and I fade away
It is quite something to undergo

You cannot be my lover
You 'wish' you'd be my friend
But you know like any other, it's over
These little white lies come to and end

There are many others that I've lost
Now, I am a foreigner to them all
They pretend they do not see me
Yet, I always respond when they call

Your name lingers in my mind
The aftertaste of a bittersweet drink
Every time you gaze through the window
But perhaps I overthink
i am just a little lad
Last December, I decided that either true love existed
somewhere out of my reach, or it didn't exist at all.
In the mirror, my reddened eyes leered back at me,
piercing and livid, searching for the problem or the answer.

Ten minutes later, I was cured by cold pizza
and a hot shower, which made me wonder
if emotions were even real, or if I was always
just some version of hungry or tired.

Some sadistic part of me considered it a victory
to have had my heart broken, because at least that meant
I could feel something. It sounds crazy, but that's love,
and that's losing. It'll make you mad,
and it'll make you angry, too.

Time has a funny way of making a fool of me.
I couldn't tell you if there's a meaning to everything,
or if we're all just trying to make sense of what hurts us,
but I like to say I learned a lot in the six months
of never again:

que será, será, and c'est la vie; the future will surprise you
no matter how much you overthink; true love probably exists,
you just need a nap; and sometimes,
you don't realize what you almost had
until you're glad you didn't get it.
I still look at Oxbridgers with envy;
I still look at high-school kids bleary-eyed;
I think, I'll leave home and go crazy;
Looking back on old love, I'm cold inside.
My being's regret: I know full well why
It's all past my ears - there once was a time
When gratitude meant something; And, young, I
Was humble. I rose, and I fell, to climb
Yet again, dusty-handed, dishevelled,
And bitter. Do I not shine anymore,
You stars? I can't ask why I am so levelled
Because I know. I can't wail any more
Because I would waste more hours I don't have.
My speech is of a man half in the grave -
I'm only half out of my parents' house;
Wailing would be an insult to my nous.
I met up with two friends at Cambridge today and I was having a hard time containing my envy. I was always told at school I could make it - I knew I could, but I did not impress my interviewers. Possibly 'cos I went in so confident. When I applied to my competitive "Oxford college" style school, I came to interview very jetlagged, and gave it all I had. Those days were evidently over being interviewed by my dad's old college at Cambridge. They lost a real natural. I taught myself French and Spanish GCSE, received the highest marks for my exam in the country TWICE, and was top of my class for A Level. Oh WELL. No, I don't know when I'll get over my salt for this, in truth. But, you know, my godmother told me, "God has three answers to a woman - "Yes, dear.", "Yes, dear, but not yet." and "No, dear, but I have something better for you.".". Maybe I'll become professor in my hometown of Oxford. Who knows? We can only hope.
In the meantime, talking of Oxford, please check out the link in my bio (https://www.development.ox.ac.uk/mecfs) if you can, and, again, if you can, please donate to the Morten Group's efforts to find the cause of fatigue-related conditions. It's been centuries, and these illnesses really need to be addressed, because they are debilitating as heck for many, many people. Thank you so, so much!
Bella Isaacs Sep 14
There are still clothes I cannot bring myself to sort,
Still papers lying, crumbling, crumpling their worth -
My life is a mess since you hit me out of kilter
And I can't pick myself up, let alone my belongings;
I can't pick up, get up, grow up, let alone filter
What I need and what I don't, as in my longings
I asked for you - I should have asked to long for breath;
Perhaps I'm just enduring cramp now, in this little death
Of mine - Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow with a fresh head,
Maybe I'll remember my worth, and not with dread
That I am worth so little to you
Who was just one of a few
One of a few you passed by and left a wake,
Awake. How could you know, sweet rake?
How could I know? Disease can often touch us longer
Than we think; its hold, though weakened, is still stronger.
Second poem in the FortnightForFatigue challenge.
Leah Carr Sep 14
Soon I'll live in another world
Where colours paint the once-empty words
"Someday, I'll get better."

I thought they were lying
When they looked into my watery eyes, as I was crying, and said
"Someday, you'll get better."

Now that healing is drawing near
And light is flushing out the fear
Here I am, saying loud and clear
"I am getting better"
Didnt think I'd live to write a poem like this...
Julia Celine Jul 28
A little birdie told me
You'd wandered far away
Saw you out in San Francisco
Tracked your steps from train to train

She said you're finally wading in the water
And dancing in the streets
I told her she can come back home now
That news is all I need
stillhuman Jul 17
I dreamt of you
letting go
and because
that had never happened before
I woke up
I've kept you in my hands for so long I had no other space to grasp new things.
I let you go now in the box of my memories
John Brown Jul 7
tales of yore
echoed then
echo now

of your blinding perfection
bone against bone
not one past another

you are what he seeks
but not I
not anymore
MM Jul 7
Thank you for letting me know that I could still fall,

that I could still smile at the simplest things— like good morning and good night texts

or stupid selfies and corny jokes

And while it didn't work out between with us,

now I know my heart could still fall and flutter and love

And maybe one day, it will again
My Dear Poet Jun 29
A Lily never lies
unlike a neighbouring plant
where shrub and grub
are given a rub
like lavender to enchant
A Lily never lies
like your eyes
even if you tried
you can’t recant
you send a scent
and as soon as it’s sent
like lavender you replant
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