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polina 1d
This feeling in my gut, the butterflies,
The tunnels that concave and shake
The soft skin of my stomach, shuddering
And the tightness in my chest that holds me whole

And those sacks, filled with air, exhaled out
Tired from their own deep breaths, they still
Shallow they turn, the basin filled with my reflection
Those lungs of mine, the giver of life
The taker of mine

I don’t think anxiety can be explained,
But isn’t this feeling simply a chemical reaction?
Drowning me in its taste, I beg for another chance
Winding back time isn’t as easy as you think

And yet I step up to the challenge, and the lights
scald my sensitive skin
Sunburnt, starburnt, I face
Their gazes head on, and alone,
I heard the thud thud, shhh shhh,
The pounding of it on the floor, I let go
And I let myself move,
Oh won’t I let myself move
Change the perspective
Like it's an elective
Chosen over the summer
To be my fifth period

Just say you’re happy
Be loving and sappy
Like a 90s sitcom wife
Who’ll never leave her husband

Do what you must do
Plan, not impromptu
Like a 2000s rom-com wedding planner
With a touch of OCD

It’s the deck you bought
The cards want you to rot
As if a deep dive on tarot
Could turn you into an intuitive genius

Mope like a poet
Standing strong like you know it
Like writing your pain
Isn’t still just performance in another font

Process and grieve
You’re so ready to leave
As if leaving my Crocs out of sport mode
Lets me linger longer
Making pain pretty feels awfully wise,
Til you wake up and notice
it's all you can write.
BEEZEE 4d
Grief as an interlude.
The in-between performance.
Where shoeless days, wandering forests—
meet
black-dressed, paired farewells.

Where velvet curtains close and draw,
a symphony has long prepared
(for you).

Percussion slices into silence.
Clarinets hum in minor tune.
The bass joins in—they’ve been appointed.

Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.

The music plays now just for you.
Regret takes center stage.

What wasn’t said.

“What could I do?”

The music begins to fade.
I guess it’s time we see the view
from our heart’s balcony.

Crossing legs and leaning in—
anticipating more…
A special place for all our kin
is bursting from our core.

Cymbals reach the back of room.
The flutes play loud and low.
The composer pulls a handkerchief—
tears and sweat compel this show.

You feel so sorry.
You feel alive.
You feel memories—sharp and sore.
They’re taking bows.
The act has closed.
Another’s passing through death’s door.

Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.
Grief doesn’t arrive as a finale—it slips in between the acts.
This poem imagines loss as a performance
A shatter of glitter
Breaks over her eyes
When she looks in the mirror:

Swathes of pink
Speckled by silver circles
Matched by the anxious glittering
Of the waterfall
That is her earrings.

It's her last glance
To hold the spectre
Of herself
Until she explodes
With the other girls;
Prim and dainty.
Context: Wrote this in response to a prompt on the HelloPoetry community group chat. Please check out Caroline Shank's beautiful response as well. If you would like to join the group chat, please message me. :)
Nosy Jul 9
Lunch breaks, school plays
Why you had me as the fool played?
I loved you, but I can't stay.
Sometimes I have to remind myself what a monolith is:
  A slab.
  A structure too heavy to argue with.

It doesn’t blink.
It doesn’t beg.
It just stands.

I am not one.
But I pretend.
  I straighten my back,
  Hold my breath,
  And let people leave fingerprints
  On something they think won’t break.

But I crack,
  Only where no one sees.
Not like stone,
  But like anything that remembers being softer.

Sometimes I have to remind myself what a monolith is:
  Unmoving,
    Unmoved,
      Unreal.
As a musician, I am also a performer. Whether I am any good at it is up to debate.
Cadmus May 22
👺

In this grand  masquerade,
We call
The real world,

No mask,
costs more than

your own true face.

🎭
To be seen as you truly are is the bravest costume and the most unforgiving stage.
Anais Vionet Apr 14
Lisa and I played a round of frisbee-disc golf today—let’s reminisce.

I love the ‘live performance’ of sports, how you must physicalise
discipline. You get this instant feedback that you have to own and
lean hard into. The being present to adjust, the internalised mechanisms of performance—the ‘liveness’—is the most exciting thing about sports. And, of course, the one who does it best wins—there’s a simplicity to it.

Being Sunday, the course was crowded with guys. Most of the groups were college teams of five or six guys. Since there were only two of us, we were playing faster.

I don’t like going up to a group of guys and asking to play through.
They always let us but we get these appraising looks—not strictly golf related—that you can feel. So we skipped around the guys and played open holes—still playing 18—they just weren't contiguous and it took a bit longer.

It was great to get out in the sun. The course was all rolling fairways, there’s no grass greener and no sky bluer. I came in 14-under (straight brag). I’m a little competitive, my ego loves to be placed in a hierarchy, and winning seems to give form to me, it’s such a pleasant and coherent narrative.

As we were leaving our escort Charles stepped away for a minute and a couple of Yale looking guys offered us a ride back to campus—which was all very innocent and chivalrous—to save us waiting for an Uber or something—I'm sure (we were all sweaty and looked like drowned rats).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘let’s run off into the sunset.. not.’
But I said, “No, thanks, anyway.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Golden Boys by Res
Fruitcake by Subsonic Eye
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 04/13/25:
Reminisce = talk, think, or write about things that happened in the past.
{For solo performer (mask optional). Lighting: warm, then cruel. Microphone optional. Heartbreak required.}

[Lights up. One step too close to the mic. She smiles like she’s survived something.]

POET:
I said I was shattered.

[Pause—look down, then up. Like you’re remembering it too vividly.]

And the crowd snapped.
I said I couldn’t sleep.

[Soften your voice here. Sell it. They love insomnia.]

And they nodded.
I smiled at the right moments.
Let my voice break on the word left.

[Yes. That word. Linger on it.]

Called it a poem.
Called it truth.

[Invisible margin note: Remove “pathetic.” You already said “poem.” Same effect.]

POET:
And it was—
mostly.

[Look away. Smile like a secret.]

I didn’t mention
how long I waited
for him to text back.

[In script: add something about refreshing Instagram. Delete it later.]

I said he left,
not I begged.
I said I healed,
not I still Google him sometimes
just to feel something specific.

[Optional: laugh. See who laughs back.]

[Stage note: Adjust mic stand like it’s his hand on your jaw. Let them feel it.]

POET:
I sharpened the metaphors.
Cut the clumsy parts.
Dressed the grief in short skirts and darling dresses,
and made her look like a woman
you’d want to cry over.

[Look devastating here. Not sad. Iconic.]

I didn’t lie.
I edited.

[Beat.]

Like any good writer.
Like any sad girl
with an audience.

[Margin scribble: Underline “audience.” Question whether you meant “witness.” Leave both.]

POET:
I know which line they’ll post.
I know where to pause
so it sounds like I might
still be heartbroken.

[Optional: blink back a tear. If it’s real, even better.]

So it sounds like maybe
I’m brave.

[Cut alternate ending: “So it sounds like I won.” Too desperate.]

POET:
But the truth is—
I want to be loved
perfectly.
Understood
accurately.

[Harsher here. Like it’s a confession you didn’t rehearse.]

And if I have to script my suffering
to get that—

[Pause. Look right at them.]

Fine.
Cut to black.
Cue applause.

[Lights dim. She stands still. Hands at her sides. Someone coughs. Someone claps. Someone regrets texting their ex.]

[End scene.]
Andy Denson Mar 22
non-reacting
presenting an acting exercise

— it’s windy outside.

non-reactors finding.
searching.
stillness in the storm.
This poem explores the concept of detachment, performance, and presence. The repetition of "non-react" and "non-reacting" suggests a meditation on stillness and the art of restraint, much like an actor perfecting the nuances of silence. The imagery of wind and searching captures both movement and pause, creating a delicate balance between action and inaction. A piece that speaks to those who navigate the push and pull of existence, artistry, and self-awareness.
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