they say,
"damn kid you write so much"

i say,
"how could i not when my home
was stripped off words
for so long -
so fucking long that my lips cracked
like aged paint tearing off walls.
and i thought my voice
will forever be lost in these desolate rooms
that i learned how to scream
without having to make a noise."

and maybe if they say,
"damn kid you write so well"

i'll reply with a shrug,
"maybe for you...
but i never thought about it
all i know is that i've felt empty
for so long -
for so fucking long that now i let myself write.
write whatever. to fill the empty
rooms with new, colorful paint."

-n.c.

Just wrote this and didn't even edit it or check for errors. I guess sometimes being impulsive in writing lets us surprise ourselves with what what we truly feel inside.

i'll chase the dreams that are part of my control,
and live the rest on fate's parole.
-
i am beyond what
i've perceived of me.
i just have to keep my eyes shut
and complete my journey.
the path ahead lies
my destiny
and i will rise
in order to be free.
-

Leonila 1d

Fly Butterfly

Trapped behind the iron bars in the cage of my mind.
I dilly dally and wrestle with putting aside who I am.
For what if others don't like who they see before them?
See I'm aware that rejection is a cold and heavy prize.
Yet, I'm used to and acquainted with the way of sorrows.
But the masses of people prefer the joy of the acceptable.
And so I fight holding back the tears of darkened nights.
For soon morning will rise and I will go forth with a mask.
It's just too paralyzing to reveal to others who I really am.
Into the world I go, imprisoned by shackles of my mind.
Prisoner of self doubt and people pleasing is who I am.
Because God forbid they should feel the pain that I feel.
I'd rather revert and crawl back into the safety of my shell.
Raveling into the shackles of the frame of my weary bones.
But I should pose the question, what is so terrible about me.
What could it be about me that hasn't been seen before?
Is it my simple brown eyes beneath my hooded eyelids?
Could it be woven, twisted curls cascading from my head?
Maybe due to height challenge and speaking with an accent.
Is it that I'm severely sensitive and extremely, painfully shy?
Who knows, the mystery lies in that I myself don't even know.
There I am wanting to say hello, but hoping for a quick exit.
It's of essence to be prepared in case timidity hovers over.
And there I am a wallflower in the party sitting by the wall.
The ugly chrysalis shrinks back into the safety of her shell.
Comfortably secured in the safety of my chains and shackles.
You see I'm not ready for the unraveling of breaking forth.
So I wage the war of the imprisonment that suffocates me.
For I feel the butterfly's journey, is undeserving and distant.
An unknown new territory in my simplicity to undertake.
Because what kind of butterfly would I become anyhow?
I mean, I'm caged in my jail by the agony of self denial.
I'm in chains and shackles of my frame's skin and bones.
How can I be a beautiful butterfly? I don't dare to even fly!
I crawl through my existence in this awkward body of mine.
But I would like to fly, fly, fly like the free butterfly fly, fly, fly.
I want to glide with the grace that she glides through in life.
I want to fly, fly, fly like everyone else in this world does.
For butterflies come in many spectacular shapes and colors.
They take the redemptive flight of freedom's journey solo.
Butterflies don't care about the incarceration of the process.
They just willingly trust and obey nature's gruesome plight.
Taking steps in cycles and stages they break forth and fly.
So I fight and wait until the day when I am good and ready.
For I know when I'm prepared I too will take freedom's flight.
My soul will whisper to my being, "It's now your time to go!"
"Fly butterfly in the beauty and the freedom of who you are!"

©Leonila

I wrote this to a prompt challenge and ended up weeping as I was writing it. Perhaps my most free verse poem.

Maybe this is where I truly start living,
maybe it’s here I’m awaken. 
Maybe this is where my burdens are taken 
by something greater that sees that I’m tired,
and the demons inside me will leave me inspired. 

Maybe this is when I truly start growing, 
my naked soul will finally be showing. 

So firmly I stand, and deeply inhale, 
never again stepping back on the scale. 

Maybe it’s now, right here, that I see; 
it is my soul, not my body, that should drop to its knee. 
Because it’s our souls, not only bodies, that should be connected, 
without any worry of what is expected. 

So firmly I stand, sigh and breathe in, 
realising not loving myself is my only sin. 

Maybe this is where I truly start living,
maybe it’s here I’m awaken. 
Maybe it’s here my doubts will be shaken,
to the ground where I will leave them forever,
consciously choosing to always endeavour.

It's not you, it's me.
Not true.
It's all you and all me.
I need to give you up for my sanity.
You make me go insane with your little games.
Why do I keep playing?
I believe in second chances,
but this is your millionth chance.
I've tried all too many times to let you in,
but you reject me and act like nothing happened.
I'm letting you go,
out of self respect.
I have that now, and I'm not letting it go.
Adios.
See you never.
Your welcome, self.

I'm beautiful.
I'm beautiful because I said I am.

I'm beautiful because my eyes crinkle when I throw my head back and laugh boisterously at a stupid joke I made myself.

I'm beautiful when I smile lazily and my double chin peeks through the polaroid that effortlessly captures my features.

I'm beautiful because, after many years of being told I don't fit into the spectrum of socially accepted beauty, I laughed and told them to fuck off.

I'm beautiful because all the years of self-loathing and self-doubt erased the moment I said I'm beautiful.

I'm beautiful and there isn't a soul alive who can convince me otherwise.

just a reminder.
XX 1d

The first time you broke me was your own fault,
the second time, my ignorant hope was to blame.
The third and fourth and fifth times were self-harm.
I crossed my heart and hoped to die
that this would be the last time you would ever hurt me.
But maybe now, this isn't about all of the promises you didn't keep,
maybe this is about not keeping promises to myself.
I said cross my heart and hope to die,
and now I have to deal with the crushing pain in my chest.

I felt fucking horrible for leaving you. Horrible.
Remembering how you picked me flowers and surprised me with junk food on my bad days, being so sweet.

-But then I remember-

I felt fucking horrible when you abused me. Horrible.
Not just the kind that leaves bruises, but the kind that made me question "should I wear this?" you were so rude.

-And then I remember-

I was supposed to marry you. White dress, friendsand family, dancing an promises. you could never keep your promises.

-Sometimes I remember-

I was supposed to call you, every time I drank- even though it wasn't even enough to get anyone drunk, because if I didn't and you found out, you wouldn't speak to me for a day, sometimes even two.

I remember smiling, giggling and laughing with you, but that didn't happen much.

But i fucking remember every reason I frowned, cried, and screamed.

I felt fucking horrible for leaving you, horrible.

-But then i remember-

How to love myself.

Original. Written in September 2017
ren 4d

The fascinating thing
about him
was how loneliness
did not fear him.
How he found comfort in himself,
whilst others believed to find
their comfort in another,
amongst gardens of choice.

He understood himself
in a world of confusion,
and that
is truly wonderful.

- kyh, thank you for teaching me how to accompany myself with love and amity when I was most alone.

what a dulcy melody,
delightfully painfully,
precious laughter.
remind me again,
why was i so sad back then?

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