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Asonna Apr 2021
he loves me
he loves me not

He loves me not

Never in a million years did i imagine this,
sensation of lonely haunts me.

                                         *consumes me

becomes the true identity of what it means to be me.
                           Forever more.
No love to give,
No love to share,
No Love, that's it.

she loves me
she loves me not

She loves me not

you just haven't met the one,
oh you're young,
there's plenty of time,
                              stop stressin ***.

but that's not the point.

Used so much my soul screams for protection,
had people walk out,
judge me for my choices,
                               Like they were my choice

She loves me
He loves me not

*They love me not

sinking ship.
iceberg ahead.
I'm going under.
Ready to give up instead.

My walls are up,
Don't need to take cover.
Put the gun away.
Spare me of this final blow.
Juno Dec 2020
This pit of jealousy has grown too deep.
I lash out at the walls but i only hurt myself in the process,
and as i sink lower, deeper;
I feel my friends stand on rising mountains.
my childhood was so sheltered i’ve grown behind everyone else in many things, and it seems everyone thinks me a toddler because of it.
Where Shelter Aug 2019
lay this body down, where shelter is..


maybe you’ve been here, HP, awhile,
faintly remember the nook of poetry,
the four old soldier chairs, worn to a gray shade indescribable,
facing the merge of the river and the bay, lookin out southwest,
today, in nearly summer over Sunday best,
wearing a new old navy lime t-shirt,
ancient Champion grey cotton flannel shorts,
summer uniform of the generation that went boom and bust

as the sun escapes through apertures of now and then,
interrupting the partly cloudy forecast,
lazy me risking an end of summer skin reddening chastisement,
but life without danger, no life at all, especially poetry danger

the windy breezes jabbering quite excitedly,
deep in conversation with the waves
that loudly enough are washing the shore,
beneath my feet sitting in the poets nook

the gulls are squeaking their point of view,
at will, saying to me,
who asked you poet?

discussing they, the day, when the humans will be leaving,
they tell day and season by the degree of temperature reductions,
knowing full well it harbors hints that our departure sooner,
till next we poetry nook

the Adirondack chairs, with no cushions, are now described
as “scratchy,” by the Wendy of my life,
two and something granddaughter, who returns next weekend,
with new insights and open to opportunities to “use her words”
to teach me anew how to see the loveliness that is my blessing

sometimes a human takes an inventory of life’s stuff,
the ex and in-terior terrain, wades through the moraine
that his glacier has dragged behind, the coarse detritus of his course,
de icing/deciding what to keep, what stone skip throw into the bay

I could sail from our dock to the Atlantic,
meet you over a pint or a pinot, or head down to the Panama Canal,
north to Portland or Seattle, cruise the Willamette,
go as far as Vancouver,
before the spring winter runoff,
show you my shock, the shock of well past gray,
now the white feather of my head, signifying...old warrior, as it
falls over my forehead, a new signature of my ever changing body,
the city doormen see, shocked, now call me honorifically “abuelo”

read a story from a harvard doctor who believes living past 75,
makes little sense, cause we use up more resources
than we could ever add back

no, not saying go die, but give up the meds,
the artifices to extend life
once you pass past the inflection where you’re nothing but a taker,
which maybe explains why wrote a dozen poems this weekend,
trying to expel what resources I can add to the world before I

lay this body down

the cloud bank covering the southern fork of long island,
thickly viscous like fresh honeybee secretions, after which,
some will

lay their body down

next weekend is labor day, and maybe I’ll labor more,
disgorging poems too long and too varied, perchance you will
enjoy one or two, as we both be closer to the day when labor ceases,
and we can unhurriedly

lay this body down, sheltered at last

from wind waves and gulls jabbering,
the alternating current of cloud and sun


Empire Mar 2019
Growing up sheltered
Is not what it seems
It is full
Of pain
Just like everyone else
We hurt, cry, and hate
Only we have to hide
Desperately hide

Crippling perfectionism
Became my sickness
I had to always be right
Or at least justify my wrong
Because I couldn't
Bear to let them down
Let everyone down
Let myself down

I spent every moment
Full of anxiety
Like everyone was watching
And to a degree,
They were

This sickness festered
Within my mind
It brought me a pain
That I could not explain
Because nothing was wrong
Except me
Something was so wrong
With me

Quietly, every minor failure
Twisted into hatred
A self-loathing
That started to **** me
And I didn't even see it
Until it was so big
It tried to swallow me

You see, my problems
Rooted so deep
I couldn't even acknowledge them
Because having problems
Meant failure

Now, I, the sheltered child
Sit alone trying to heal
With all of my baggage
That appears so light
In comparison
To that of those who
Had it much worse

So in silence,
I long to feel whole
Knowing how
But my strong desire for
Won't allow

My need to be perfect
Won't let me rebel
Because it would mean
Blaming no one but
So I can't let it out

I find mediums
To release the angst
Nursing a caffeine habit
Instead of *******
The destructive forces
Within me
Wouldn't mind it
Either way
nja Jan 2019
But she's exposed herself.
Flesh and bone protruding out the protective bubble.
She's only just gone and dragged herself to the margins of society.
Removed from the warmth of the gooey womb she supresses a lingering shiver.
Now she resides in a ***** dimension. Present, not quite faded yet.
Now the perfectly grown princess has self-inflicted chips on her shoulders.
Addicted to self-flagulation she tries to regress back home to her former alter.
Beyond. Reach.
A stone bleeding with pleasure weighs down the remains of her birth right.
aANotes on my sheltered upbringing and how I purposly sabotaged my background and privilidged future because of the choices I made.
rayma Dec 2018
The silence in this world is ringing
ringing like the unanswered phones left on the line
because no one is home to hear
the shrill call of an unanswered voice just begging,
begging for one more shot at whatever sordid mess they’ve left behind
because the future is ahead and it’s scaring them.

Please, just let me come home.
Home was never safe, it was never warm,
it was just a place for childhood embers burnt fast by the age of 12, no, 11, no, 10,
but then I still beg to go back because life’s ahead, mom,
And they’re calling my name but I cover my eyes
because all I hear is the shrill call of an unanswered voice
begging me to amount to all that I’m worth,
to take strides on horizons I can hardly fathom,
because out there, they’re looking for a shadow to their sunset.
A step away, a reach, a grasp,
but I let it fall from my hands and crash -
graceless, inelegant, twisted, metamorphosed into a nightmare I’ll never catch.
Because these walls are a sanctuary
where the hands that cover my eyes and
the hands that cover my ears protect me
from the world’s volatility,
and the one thing I grasp:
in the highest degree.

So fire your bullets, because they’ll only ricochet,
keep away
no way
no wait,
this isn’t invincibility,
just conciliatory me
bending, twisting, metamorphosed into
        a grotesque shape
        a nightmare I’ll become
When someday there’s a ringing in my head
of an unanswered phone left on the line.
I don’t want to hear it;
the shrill call of an unanswered voice just begging,
begging for one more shot at the broken pieces,
this puzzle strewn across the floor
like it’s always been there
just never seen before,
Because you only see the flash after you hear the bang
and it’s all over.
It’s too late.
The phone keeps ringing.
I wrote this at the beginning of the month. It's a new style for me, one I've been exposed to a lot more lately, and it's very satisfying to write in the throws of an anxiety attack x
I use to see home like a prison
A place that chained down my soul
Times have changed, I have progressed
Here, I realized I have the most control
I use to see my room as a place
Where I was trapped within 4 walls
But now it is a sanctuary, a refuge
A place where I'm almost free from it all
I wanted to get to know the world and its people
And I still haven't seen it all
Though now I see my home as somewhere
A place I can heal every time I fall
Nylee Sep 2018
little longer
a bit more stronger
and so much more
I hope for.
All the papers
I just tore
my dreams not
reaching their shore.
Well before,
so much better
heart sheltered
I, not deserted.
Everything I wore
all filtered
refined to core
Could go ahead with
all that
keep quiet
be that
watch and mimic
being sick
in head.
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