Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Filomena Aug 7
Being or seeming?
At first I was scared.
I was timid.
I tried to please,
but got in trouble anyway.
But when the changes came,
I was empty.
What you see is the real me.
I was worried.
I hated my image, but I ruminated.
I did things that should have been unspeakable.
I felt guilty. I felt free.
But I'm still looking for the real me.
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 56.
Filomena Aug 4
Reflections I've seen
in the pool of the self

Whenever my glasses
come down from the shelf

With changing distortions
that ripple and swell

The smallest of pebbles
can shatter my shell
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 6.
Yemaya May 11
My body was art --- not to your taste,
you covered me in criticism.
Your words molding me like clay
until the mirror reflected a shell.

The child inside,
forever lost.
it’s been a long time, old pal
does the pen grab your hands with fright?
i used to read your poems and songs
like they were lullabies and holidays,
soothing me to sleep and escaping the days,

have you forgotten how to put pen to paper?
how to make fingers type?
is this what it’s like for all the poets whose words weren’t borne of pain?
thinking too ******* what to write, what to say
if they’re not tears, they don’t flow naturally
these words are hard to create

you’re all out of practice
nothing to compose that feels genuine or profound
are you a liar to yourself? have you lost who you once were?
are you not ready to give up what’s already gone?

maybe you’re not a writer anymore
working 6 for 7 in a bar, big boss boy now
happy but frustrated, making money you have no time to spend
but it gets spent anyway
with no quality time to show for it
and you, lying there, awake

staring at a blank page hoping the words will write themselves

wondering if you’re a failure for moving onto something else

do you even want to write anymore?
or do you just miss the freedom?
i feel like i don’t have anything to write about anymore and i think it’s partially because i’m in a better headspace these days and partially because i hardly have any time to myself

i feel like all my poetry was so easy to write and so easy to be heartfelt because i was so depressed

now i want to write and i’m struggling, and i feel like maybe i’m not so creative after all

maybe i was just sad
maybe i’m not a writer anymore
maybe that’s okay but i’m just having a hard
time accepting it
or maybe i am still a writer with an exceptionally long case of writer’s block and no time to work on it
Zywa Dec 2021
What is a new year worth
if there is nothing new about it
and also nothing old?

If I no longer know myself
no longer am my old self
and have to learn

to love the other person
with my name and my body
whom I'd rather not be

Who misses my capacities
who needs to think far too long
before she says something back

who is not as funny and quick-witted
as me, as I remember
that I was, as I am

But it doesn't come out
it is hidden somewhere
so that I want to crawl away

and see nobody, nobody
until it appears and
I can jump and talk again
For Maria Godschalk #154

Collection "New Ago"
Lalaouna Amina Oct 2021
Do we think first or feel?
we feel
and that is itself an act
we think
and that is a react
To THINK is a react to an act: To FEEL.
life is all about feelings
Lalaouna Amina Oct 2021
Emily Aug 2021
When I look in the mirror I see
roses. Stark and stubborn.
Bursting from the cracks
in skin too plain
to do them justice.

When I look in the mirror I see
thorns. Threatening to break through the façade
so carefully contorted to fit
that cookie-cutter idealization
of a pre-packaged identity.

When I look in the mirror I see
monochrome; like the eyes of the beholder
who twisted my covert dissatisfaction into something--
maybe not beautiful, but at least
accepted, yes; eyes that couldn't behold
when I had my own ideations; couldn't accept
that underneath that soft, dull skin,
there were thorns.

There are thorns
and there are roses, too, when I look in the mirror--
they are engulfing my reflection;
transforming my figure into one that is unrecognizable
to those discerning eyes--

but not to mine,
these fiery red eyes of the beholder
which finally recognize beauty
worthy of love.
Next page