#contradictions
My past is no longer present
I am not too much
I care too much
About everything everyone
****** or foreplay
If I had to choose I prefer tenderness
To fast or to devour
I listen to my stomach
Talkative or terse
I cry my tears to laugh them out
Live like an eclectic bookstore
Sleep like a nun
Roar like a lioness
Swear like a fool
Speak like a grown up
Think like a child
Show my difference
Own my pain
Blow kisses to my neighbors
Hug a stranger
Listen to an unknown soul
I'm on a web
That spins on itself
I'm the spider
And also the prey in distress
Dependent and rebellious
A teenage heiress
Why undress
When you can show yourself naked
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 9:38 AM UTC
They say the devil’s just a word
for those too weak to face the urge,
a scapegoat shaped from fear and shame,
a stain they blame, then speak his name.
They praise the pure, the clean, the saved,
while knees all knock at what they crave.
They call it sin with holy breath
and shake with want like flirting death.
Who dares condemn the heat inside,
the pulse that proves we’re still alive?
If lust’s the spark that makes us burn,
why curse the fire yet beg its turn?
Desire knocks, then asks for more,
it feeds the need it fed before.
It swears it’s love, delivers lack,
then leaves you reaching or empty sack.
I walk through streets of gilded ash,
where saints keep ledgers of their stash.
They trade in grace like minted gold
and hide their hungers, bought and sold.
They shame the flesh, deny the ache,
then sin by night for virtue’s sake.
By day they point, by dark they plead,
pretend they’re saints, behave like need.
Old doctrines whisper, thin as thread:
Fear the devil, bow your head.
But chains are light when truth is near
they’re forged from silence, not from fear.
Who names the line of right and wrong
when we’re stitched crooked all along?
A life of rules we break to live,
then beg forgiveness to forgive.
They warn of hell and devil’s kin,
but never count their favorite sin,
their pride, their greed, their secret feasts,
their holy wars with private beasts.
So maybe hell’s not down below,
nor heaven somewhere we don’t go.
Maybe the devil’s just the hour
we drop the lie and feel the power.
And there I stand, without disguise,
no hymns, no shame, no alibis.
Judge me if you need the thrill
your shouts are louder
than your will.
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 1:26 PM UTC
I’ve inherited contradictions - which could be genetic, original-personal failings, or the result of family dynamics - those are like the background radiation left by the big bang.
If you’re in school long enough, you take a lot of psychology tests. In my psychological makeup, a drippy sentimentality uncomfortably coexists with a cat-like indifference. This is probably my French cultural inheritance - is it too late to add that factor?
The seedbed of my current cognitive dissonance is time - I don’t have a lot of time for other people’s issues. Please accept these earnest, unfiltered insights - even if they are laced with caffeine.
I finally got some graded papers back - I wondered if they were shredding or recycling them. I did ok. It was an electrifying moment in an otherwise indifferent week.
Let’s wax somewhat poetically…
*I’m loving the Université.
The architectural spaces,
the concertante ways people
move through functional areas
and the layers of differing sounds
- the heard-like, instinctive responses
to the triggering abstractions of universal signage
- going up or down, yes, no, stop, go -
that send us in well-practis'd directions.
I find the colour and movement,
the fashion mix of high and low cultures
lush and satisfying but you can never get
a cup of coffee large enough.*
enough of THAT.
I’m not a poet at all. You’ve heard of method actors? Well, I’m a method writer. I fully inhabit my one and only character who, in turns, charms, repels, embarrases and delights me - just like everyone else in my life.
Would you buy defining yourself, in little vignettes, as an audacious act?
I write ‘flash fiction,’ I’m told, because it presents only one person’s perspective - but I do it with forensic precision - and present it all with the narrative negligence that defines my work - it’s art, people - on a time budget.
.
.
Songs for this:
new friends by flowerovlove [E]
Tokyo Lift (5am) by Cautious Clay
I Should Be Home by Balu Brigada
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 11:21 AM UTC
I beg for understanding
But I can't even figure out myself
I crave recognition
But do nothing worthy
I'm desperate to be seen
But my own vision is clouded
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 8:56 AM UTC
A few thoughts—like wild dogs—run,
Snarling, sprinting, none in unison.
One walks wrapped in quiet reckoning,
Another leaps from the shadows—unannounced.
Serious faces in the gathering of silent aches,
While jesters sneak in, stealing peace.
He walks—a slow tide at sundown,
Breeze in chest, no ripple in sight.
But beneath—magma hums lullaby,
Cradling fury like a sleeping child.
Cool eyes, volcanic veins,
A storm rehearsing in a candle’s calm.
Family—his driftwood and his anchor.
The balm and the blister.
They lull him with laughter,
Then jolt him with a sigh too long,
A silence too sharp.
And yet—
There is a place.
Not drawn on maps or etched in stone.
Where scattered thoughts find their rest.
Where the mind exhales what it held too long.
There—he folds into himself,
A silent hymn of peace.
Not even or odd.
Just still.
Just enough.
...
But the world claws back—
A phone buzz, a sigh across the hall,
The clink of plates, a missed stare,
Little things—
Each one a thread in the tapestry of turmoil.
He smiles. Sometimes wide. Sometimes just enough
To not break.
His voice—a riverbed in drought,
Holding the shape of past floods.
The night asks questions.
Why do shoulders carry what the soul can’t name?
Why does love sometimes bruise,
Even when it’s trying to heal?
Yet still—he finds it.
That sacred place.
Maybe it’s a song only he hears,
A far away place deep in nature, unknown
Or perhaps, it’s just the breath
Between two thoughts—
Where nothing aches, and nothing burns.
Here—
Even the chaos kneels.
The fire sleeps under wet earth.
And the day, whether odd or even,
Slows…
To a whisper.
Susanta Pattnayak
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 5:10 AM UTC
So you know I don't believe
A ton of the **** I'm musing on,
But rather I am just musing on it.
Yet, we know of violent extremists
Which we are funding
Who do believe in similar rhetoric;
But I am guilty?
No. **** you and **** that.
Where's my army funds?
Where are my weapons and munitions?
Oh, right. I forgot.
The Irish aren't people,
No need to apply.
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC
nothing but a scrap
of paper from a make-up catalog
saying,
“Real Flawless™”
but here i am,
unable to stop
thinking
about what it markets to me
what it asks of me
what it stipulates to be
true.
“Real Flawless”
modern day doublethink:
“my body is mine but
Yours
to look at and
Yours
to judge and so i shape it
to the eye that is
Yours—
i am proud though i make myself
small”
“Real Flawless”
mandatory affirmations, prayers more like,
repeat repeat repeat
how much i love myself even
as i consume comparisons
and then calculate the calories.
“Real Flawless”
the only reason
beauty is pain is
because it tears
us in two.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 11:49 AM UTC
always the artist
hidden behind her canvas
never the muse
with a languid smile
always the composer
forever lost in false reverie
never the music
a song, a symphony
always easy to like
just for a while
never worth my price
in the transaction of respite
always the sacrifice
on the altar of lies
never the worshipped
devoted only to my light
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 8:21 PM UTC
The truth is,
There's no elite thinker's society,
We're all elite in our own respect.
We evolved from bent over forms,
Working for raw survival.
But as we grew, some of us split away,
Faded from simple survival,
Growing a taste for art.
So were born the sculptors,
The painters, and the poets.
Clever as they were,
The old artists.
They formed a secret society,
For elite thinkers to survive.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
This is the law that supersedes all
Other laws:
Thou shalt not complain.
Thou shalt have a successful career
𝘢𝘯𝘥
Shalt be a perfect mother.
Thou shalt be innocent and experienced,
Rebellious—
But not too much.
Thou shalt never need help.
Thou shalt never age
Yet maintain a veneer
Of self-acceptance.
Thou shalt not be overly
Emotional
But thou art not permitted to be
Robotic.
Thou shalt be assertive
But lo upon the woman
Who dares express anger.
Thou shalt have infinite patience.
Thou shalt be progressive without
Challenging the status quo.
Thou shalt carry thy burdens with
Immeasurable strength and without
Disintegration or failure.
And ye shalt do these things, that
Ye might become the 21st Century
Woman.
Mar 3, 2025
Mar 3, 2025 at 9:24 PM UTC
Betting on plays
And whether teams could pull it through;
Factoring rates given to the risks
Versus stats, records, and rankings,
Of losses, successes, et cetera.
Whether physical or digital,
These playful monetary mediums
Like domestic feline & bengal tiger.
Like dog as like cat,
It's a different reaction to them
And connection with them
Having grown up around them.
These paper jaguars & plush lions,
So much for the fear of adversity
When you're trying to crunch everything.
If you're always in the middle
Of working through or thinking about something,
Punching an equation,
Then how can anyone hope
To knock you off kilter?
It's just another component-
Another addition & subtraction,
Division & multiplication,
To calculate & sum.
You've gotta be in it to win it,
And you're always just one bet away
From winning it big.
Making it good
Sometimes takes all it can take,
And even then you might not
Break even.
I sense disturbance,
See some malign figure,
In your line of reason.
Yet, through our conversations,
No appeal can be made to logic.
The calculations offer a grime visage.
Play with your heart, play with your gut,
As your head will steer you wrong.
If you're thinking about it,
You're thinking too much.
Just lay it on the line,
Bet it all,
But don't bet too much.
Listen, it'll be fine.
Tomorrow we can
Recoup your loss.
The contradictions are lost,
The irony was over
And you took the under.
The spread accomplished
Chose the given
And you were taking.
If something flew
You were beneath it.
Feb 10, 2025
Feb 10, 2025 at 1:04 PM UTC
Berlin, Berlin,
contradiction city.
Grey concrete hulks stacked around
old buildings rising pretty.
A never ending construction zone
that tries to top the past
while dancing ’round her history
whose pallor shadows cast.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 5:05 PM UTC
People. Feel. Life. Time. Love. Hate. Day. Cold. Find. Lost. Good. Bad. Wrong. Write. Light. Dark. Heart. Mind. Eyes. Hear. Pain. Hope. Sun. Stars. Better. Afraid. Real. Thought. Help. Cry. Happy. Sad. Fire. Grow.
Perfect.
𝑯𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏.
The light
And the dark
Right next to each other.
Human
and God
Right next to each other.
These are my words:
Contradiction after contradiction.
This is who I am:
Everything, nothing, everywhere, nowhere
All.
At.
Once.
Apr 3, 2024
Apr 3, 2024 at 1:34 PM UTC
"Life is cheap,"
Said strong to weak.
"Wrong is right,"
Spoke rich to meek.
"Do none, hear none - nor speak, or see."
Evil said to divinity.
And we wonder why, when then
We do speak, that
No one seems to be listening.
Dec 21, 2023
Dec 21, 2023 at 8:03 AM UTC
My heart is made of bone
and lungs are made of pomegranates
My eyes are dull with stars
And my mouth is rough as apricots.
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 4:11 PM UTC
What is real? What is not?
Two sides of the same coin I have fought.
Waking happy. Waking sad.
Who’s to say what’s good or bad.
Two people walk inside of me.
Coexist they cannot be.
One sees hope. Dreams fly free.
One sees nothing. Lost at sea.
Who will win? Who will rot?
Which is true? Which is not?
I think it’s a choice, which one has voice.
Which one will I choose?
Flip the coin. Comes up tails.
Numbing doldrums deflate the sails.
Flip again. Comes up heads.
Refreshing breeze blows against the threads.
They don’t exist, but both are true
And both are wrong, through and through.
People matter, people don’t.
I don’t care, I know I won’t.
One day here and one day not.
In the end we come to naught.
Only others provide me breath to live.
I don’t know what else to give.
A useless vision. A hopeless dream.
Can I move on without the gleam.
Nothing to stand on. Nothing to hold.
No hand to guide. Alone all told.
It came up tails. Of course it did.
Do I flip the coin again?
Even if it comes up heads,
Will a tails I read instead?
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 8:50 AM UTC
Emotions can be:
little magical sprites fluttering
inside your heart
caressing the deepest recesses
of your soul
gently giving you that "high"
happiness
euphoria
inside you springs
a boundless utopia
Or...
They can be devious tricksters
gremlins, the vilest of
these little devils
torturing you
pricking you with a thousand needles
of sadness
grief
the lowest forms
of loneliness.
Inside us dwells
the eternal Yin and Yang
We may be walking contradictions
irresolvable paradoxes
toyed by the whims of unseen forces
barraged by these mysterious
sensations, feelings
and yet,
Such confusion is what makes us
human.
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 3:13 AM UTC
First among many.
That was me, to you; the first from the last.
The last among many.
That was you, to me; the last from the rest.
Quite a nice position, wasn't it?
A woman of many talents,
of many stories that were too late told,
of hardships in silence buried.
A lifetime of rollercoasters,
of standing on a pedestal
and being struck to the ground,
heel to skull, teeth to pavement,
threatening to never let up.
Yet you did, and have not spoken of it since.
Do the words 'too little, too late' ring any bells?
Does the phrase 'less is more' still hold true?
In my mind, I see you in an ocean of darkness
Helpless, and friendless,
suffering in silence.
Yet, you're hardened by years of experience,
of hurt in the dark, of scars in the night.
You, an old dog,
and one of your oldest tricks --
licking your wounds in isolation,
willing the world to do its worst
as you weathered the storm,
one that you've already withstood before.
I can only describe you as an Inverse;
a woman who,
ignoring her own palms skinned to muscle, to bone,
built ramps and laid bridges
to give children enough space to run;
who, turning her back from a life of rejection and hate,
showered everyone with only gratitude, and love,
and everything that she knew she deserved but never received.
You, who brought words to life
in a language so deeply underappreciated,
have rendered the world speechless.
You, who have shown strength
in the face of adversity,
have rendered your blood weak.
A woman of contradictions,
contradictions of the best kind --
for even in death, we celebrate life.
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 4:10 PM UTC
Moments of life,
Moments to explore,
Moments when I go crazy,
Moments when I need more.
Moments that are mine,
Moments that I do not own,
Moments that are heightened,
Through thoughts and no thoughts alone.
Moments penning poetry,
Moments by the sea,
Moments smelling flowers,
And the thorns pricking me.
Exquisite Joy
and Exquisite pain,
Moments with another,
feeling his grasp on my mane.
Moments where my thoughts are in knots,
Moments of release where I see just stars and dots.
And then sweet oblivion,
And floating gently above the tree,
Moments where I open my body and soul,
And am bound and totally free!
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 11:35 PM UTC
I love you.
Three words
which change everything
For better or for worse
May give you wings or break your heart
Can make you smile or cry
Could be a way to the new life or quicker death
Connect or break people apart
Can be a reason for peace, more likely war
Said in a serious manner
but more often without seriousness
Be careful before you say them aloud
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 3:03 PM UTC
A woman in awe
of her complex emotions,
she’s fearful but raw.
Lies and devotions
fuel her struggle from within,
is he deserving?
She wants genuine.
Which master is she serving?
Her heart or her mind?
This is what love is.
In contradictions she’ll find
she wants to be his.
He fills up her heart
so if she makes space for doubt,
she’s scared he’ll depart.
Her feelings throughout
tell her this love is certain,
but still she’s afraid.
Behind the curtain
hide all the worries she’s made.
It’s such a pity.
What a heart can hold
exceeds its capacity.
Trusting love is bold.
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 11:09 AM UTC