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Preeti Verma Oct 5
Spiraling down the memory lane

With little to no shame

Muses the self esteem quitely

Where’s my gal who once shined ‘oh so brightly’

.

What made her loose the strength

That had earned her praises at length

What made that power she once held

to break into tears that geld

Who would u blame in this situation?

What led her pride to cessation?

Must be her own inability…..u say?

No one can control the thoughts that stray

.

One can ponder that till infinity

But now she is back to sanguinity

That was unexpected….u say?

Well these are the thoughts that stray

.

Worried, Ashamed, puzzled and hurt

What about me?…the esteem blurts

Crawling, Stumbling yet standing

How longer I’ll be the only one sacrificing?

.

The strength never comes from only growing

Sometimes it stems from the breaking

Those little pieces carry the heart aches

Which first quakes, breaks then makes

Let the past be her experience

That will make all the difference

Let the broken esteem guide her

Make her forever 'ohh so brighter’
3 a.m. thoughts (old collection)
Ira Desmond Oct 4
Do not ever allow yourself
to reduce the incomprehensible miracle
of your very existence

to basic questions of self-worth.
Do not ever allow your boss to write you off
as nothing more than a worker

who is failing to meet
some arbitrary set of expectations.
Do not ever allow a bully to tell you
that you are nothing more than a child

lacking in physical strength.
Do not ever allow a politician
to boil your being

down to a cheap distillation
of inside jokes and snickering, racist
circumlocutions.

The fact that you are here,
today,
alive and present
and reading these words
is a stentorian, staggering miracle.

We are,
all of us,
perhaps guilty
of occasionally forgetting
this fundamental fact.

But we must remember,
you and I,
and every other being with us,
that we sprang forth from nothing—
absolute oblivion—
into awareness and consciousness
and individuality, and personality
in this gargantuan, freezing, largely empty universe.

Allow me to remind you
that that idea
is entirely incredible—
the purest void was somehow spun into
the totality of your being—
into the infinity of the present moment—
a Möbius-strip mindfuck
expanding outward in space and time
reaching toward all directions simultaneously.

The fact that you and I are here is miraculous.
And the fact that you exist is a miracle.

Do not ever let
our sickly civilization
try to tell you anything to the contrary.
Nao Sep 28
it's true.
I would love,
to like me.
self-esteem
Maya Duran Sep 18
Everything you own is covered in blood.
     They arrive on moments composed of crumpled paper, tired and degraded by the heat and pressure of God's palm, left in Her pocket too long. ******* and apathetic inaction meet in the center of the sheet where your pelvis, your s e x rests while you sleep and lie and lie and sleep and sleep and lie. A Rorschach blot card where you see the death of dignity. Mother, Roommate, and Tinder Dates that you never bring home see everything that they had hoped you weren't.

     Cochina. Pig, ******* pig.

     And I can't read that last verse out loud. That tells you everything you need to know.

Everything you own is covered in blood.
     You bleed when you don't feel enough, or when what you feel isn't what you ought to feel--silly ******* scholarship with the brains and the championed cheek bones (if you just lost the weight, she says to herself sometimes, and her friends don't agree, but there is a deafening lack of disagreement that takes the room).

     Bold girl who never made suicide jokes because she was so so so good at this game called self love until she wasn't. Until she ran out of bad ***** juice. Until she felt the weight of it, the world.

     And so you choose to feel the bite of an exacto knife.

Reliable, that.
Pleasurable, that.
Guilty, guilty pleasure.
Shameful pleasure.

     We were supposed to be grown up, glowed up. Above this.

                                                  **** this.

     When did it become so hard to love yourself?
TW for Self Harm. It was a bad evening. Old temptations came for me
Do you ever glance into the mirror and disapprove of what you see?
Despising your body, face, your bruises and your scars.
Have you regularly wanted to be something you can’t be?
Do you ever dream  of having a life of being accepted and free?

You should start by telling yourself you’re strong, loved, free and my scars won’t define me.
Every shade of amazing
Every bit of wonderful
And every sketch of lovely
MeaningfulMee Aug 25
Body.
I say, I have a voice,
they say no, you have teeth,
that aren't white,
enough.

I say, I have strength,
they say no, you have an ***,
that is not big, enough.
I say, I have a point of view,
they say no, you have eyes,
that aren't bright,
enough.

I say I have a mind,
they say no, you have hair,
that is not shiny,
enough.

I say I have power,
they say no, you have tighs,
that aren't small,
enough.

I say I am a soul,
they say no, you are,
Just,
A,
Body.

And I begin to believe,
Them.
Just a short poem I wrote I hope you enjoyed reading it.
I would really appreciate it if you could let me know what you thought about it.
Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.

A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an ******-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.

And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.

A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Though the content of this poem was developed within the dark confines of my mind, it was in part inspired by, i_weigh, Sam Smith, and Marie Southard Ospina. As someone with rather extreme, played-a-small-part-in-my-four-suicide-attempts level of body image issues, I'm hoping I can go from the shameful young man to the validated old man by the time I'm dead… I mean, not the young stud doing pullups, I can't do those. I've done an 1000lb leg press, but pullups? You crazy?! But enjoying that dessert wine and a book? That I can dig.
rebecca yong Aug 7
ideas fill your head to the brim until your chest is aching, wanting to burst open with all the love and light of the galaxies. the world is burning and you hold the matchstick. your heart heaves and bears the weight of your burning ambition, but it is so paper thin. its walls crumble apart as quickly as you built them up, a slight jab is all it takes to tear you open, gutting you of all faith. has the universe not moved for you to take your rightful place on a throne, on a beautiful crater on the moon? why do you let yourself fall at the hands of strangers, whose words ought to be nothing more than winds passing through your hair?
reading through my previous posts again and reflecting.
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