#escapril2021 - Hello Poetry

I wish to keep the wishbone within the body, Not snap apart a life under the guise of luck. Collect lost pennies, not lives, You evil murdering *****

0

Apr 14, 2021

Apr 14, 2021 at 8:28 AM UTC

indiajade

Wishbone

I wish to keep the wishbone within the body, Not snap apart a life under the guise of luck. Collect lost pennies, not lives, You evil murdering *****

4

the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul between burying a self and heading from the dead things piled up behind you leaning (isn't love) a transaction integrity for security (isn't love either) kisses are not contracts presents are not promises defeat comes into the bar — —familiar squabbles dizz out the bartender drunk—young love burning down onto the dance floor holding on tightly to that known O' Captain, my Captain! treacherous are the roads of the morrow —its grounds, too unstable for plans futures have a tendency of falling flat—. a dulcy dandy melody that of feet walking past—. i endure with the grace of a woman not the grief of a child i learn to take in warm loving arms my sunken ship back to shore—

0

Apr 12, 2021

Apr 12, 2021 at 9:35 PM UTC

ekkihugsa

NOW

the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul between burying a self and heading from the dead things piled up behind you leaning (isn't love) a transaction integrity for security (isn't love either) kisses are not contracts presents are not promises defeat comes into the bar — —familiar squabbles dizz out the bartender drunk—young love burning down onto the dance floor holding on tightly to that known O' Captain, my Captain! treacherous are the roads of the morrow —its grounds, too unstable for plans futures have a tendency of falling flat—. a dulcy dandy melody that of feet walking past—. i endure with the grace of a woman not the grief of a child i learn to take in warm loving arms my sunken ship back to shore—

34

you often find yourself in this room as a good place in which to be miserable; for it is dark and still, full of ancient furniture, sombre curtains and hung all round with unfinished portraits of unknown men. no doubt it is an excellent place for woe, as the fitful spring rain that patterns on the window-pane seems to sob "cry away; i'm with you." prim little doll you are always home, claiming bad weather and a cold keeps you indoors, spending most of your youth in between books and inked paper. here you read a great deal, cry a little and dream when allowed, among the books hands have stored for ages in the old dusty shelves. this suits you better than anything else but it is not good for you; you grow pale, heavy-eyed and listless, though your soft mother keeps all sorts of pretty needle-work stored in her closet and she paints you with lilacs when violets grow under your eyes. your poor friends rack their brains out for new amusement to wrap you round and determined to venture you in a bold stroke though not very hopeful of its success. little dreaming that their odd friend would find pleasure for herself in a most unexpected quarter. child, you have no real cause to be sad, for you sleep in warm covers and have not yet discovered the real war among the spirits' cries. for you are unlike any other your sorrows may echo now; amuse yourself with the never ending nostalgia for it can only last so long before it brings you back. you were given the freedom to *** round, to swift from anger to content without consequences to hold worries about. before squeezing out a single tear listen to the soft bird's chips, oath yourself the right of sadness but don't deny the desire for love, for every girl must find her corner when she's out in the real world. my friend i wouldn't borrow trouble but have a real good time, i'm sure i should think i was clover if i had folks and colours and nothing to do but enjoy myself. sing for you, play for you a dulcy melody.

0

Apr 10, 2021

Apr 10, 2021 at 10:36 PM UTC

ekkihugsa

dearest e,

you often find yourself in this room as a good place in which to be miserable; for it is dark and still, full of ancient furniture, sombre curtains and hung all round with unfinished portraits of unknown men. no doubt it is an excellent place for woe, as the fitful spring rain that patterns on the window-pane seems to sob "cry away; i'm with you." prim little doll you are always home, claiming bad weather and a cold keeps you indoors, spending most of your youth in between books and inked paper. here you read a great deal, cry a little and dream when allowed, among the books hands have stored for ages in the old dusty shelves. this suits you better than anything else but it is not good for you; you grow pale, heavy-eyed and listless, though your soft mother keeps all sorts of pretty needle-work stored in her closet and she paints you with lilacs when violets grow under your eyes. your poor friends rack their brains out for new amusement to wrap you round and determined to venture you in a bold stroke though not very hopeful of its success. little dreaming that their odd friend would find pleasure for herself in a most unexpected quarter. child, you have no real cause to be sad, for you sleep in warm covers and have not yet discovered the real war among the spirits' cries. for you are unlike any other your sorrows may echo now; amuse yourself with the never ending nostalgia for it can only last so long before it brings you back. you were given the freedom to *** round, to swift from anger to content without consequences to hold worries about. before squeezing out a single tear listen to the soft bird's chips, oath yourself the right of sadness but don't deny the desire for love, for every girl must find her corner when she's out in the real world. my friend i wouldn't borrow trouble but have a real good time, i'm sure i should think i was clover if i had folks and colours and nothing to do but enjoy myself. sing for you, play for you a dulcy melody.

8

hands hands i often forget i forget about my hands and and ears ears my ears i hear all i hear are girls dancing girls and and rubber rubber bands but i know i know you know i know you you don’t know you don't know what that means

0

Apr 8, 2021

Apr 8, 2021 at 9:21 PM UTC

ekkihugsa

patterns

hands hands i often forget i forget about my hands and and ears ears my ears i hear all i hear are girls dancing girls and and rubber rubber bands but i know i know you know i know you you don’t know you don't know what that means

23

solitude stands reflective of ourselves pretending at times we do not exist brooding insideness greetings and farewells fighting the abyss dulcy be the sudden kiss you have forbidden yourself at last pretending at times you do (not) exist

0

Apr 6, 2021

Apr 6, 2021 at 8:44 PM UTC

ekkihugsa

good girls; hopeful they'll be and lonely we'll wait

solitude stands reflective of ourselves pretending at times we do not exist brooding insideness greetings and farewells fighting the abyss dulcy be the sudden kiss you have forbidden yourself at last pretending at times you do (not) exist

9

it presses my shoulder blades, ties my neck muscles into knots, then settles deep within my chest. the pain is the first sign that my body is haunted. it then puts my thoughts on a hamster wheel. they run in circles without an escape. this is the second sign. but my heart takes control. it voices my thoughts so they can be seen and heard. it stops spinning the wheel, slowly comes out of my chest, unties the knots in my neck and lets go of my shoulder blades, and my body does not feel its weight.

0

Apr 5, 2021

Apr 5, 2021 at 12:01 AM UTC

soulmusings

ghost.

it presses my shoulder blades, ties my neck muscles into knots, then settles deep within my chest. the pain is the first sign that my body is haunted. it then puts my thoughts on a hamster wheel. they run in circles without an escape. this is the second sign. but my heart takes control. it voices my thoughts so they can be seen and heard. it stops spinning the wheel, slowly comes out of my chest, unties the knots in my neck and lets go of my shoulder blades, and my body does not feel its weight.

18

i was never good at being alone, but i always managed to make myself lonely, even among the chanting crowds i drew every line that differentiated me from everyone else. i convinced myself that i was satisfied with loneliness, but i wonder how much of that comes from an acquired ability to thrive of off unchosen loneliness; to what extent it might be a form of contentment built on a bedrock of resignation

0

Apr 4, 2021

Apr 4, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC

ekkihugsa

resignation helped ceased the grief

i was never good at being alone, but i always managed to make myself lonely, even among the chanting crowds i drew every line that differentiated me from everyone else. i convinced myself that i was satisfied with loneliness, but i wonder how much of that comes from an acquired ability to thrive of off unchosen loneliness; to what extent it might be a form of contentment built on a bedrock of resignation

16

the exact middle, she claims i'm neutral, she says i don't pick sides, she proclaims no, no the exact middle is never the exact middle of nothing we are always in the middle of something when i hear her say, "you know i've never picked sides," what i really hear is: "i don't care enough to care" "my comfortability, my ignorance, is worth more than someone else's struggles" "my silence is more important than another's life" what i hear is you giving up, giving in, because it's not your problem, right? no, no the exact middle is never a "neutral" place to be

0

Apr 3, 2021

Apr 3, 2021 at 1:11 PM UTC

grchnly

the exact middle

the exact middle, she claims i'm neutral, she says i don't pick sides, she proclaims no, no the exact middle is never the exact middle of nothing we are always in the middle of something when i hear her say, "you know i've never picked sides," what i really hear is: "i don't care enough to care" "my comfortability, my ignorance, is worth more than someone else's struggles" "my silence is more important than another's life" what i hear is you giving up, giving in, because it's not your problem, right? no, no the exact middle is never a "neutral" place to be

21

ever since i left i've been spending time with my anger discussing perspectives and points of views burnt the bridge, called it even, clenched my fists, "wonder if anger is one of those things love gives birth to" – my dear, what isn't born out of love quickly dies of thirst i've been spending time with my sadness weighting words and keeping scores poking at the bruises, blowing candles on fake birthday cakes "am i really sad or is it just disappointment?" – it might as well be anger, it might as well be nothing i've been spending time laughing at the joke that always lands, getting the punch line right, it's satire. cynicism is a soft form of denial "when did your smile start to look like a smirk?" – i love the irony that rests on the most painful things i've been spending time in solitude keeping my secrets to myself collecting dust under my fingernails "only i know how my misery carries me" – and for the longest you've carried it the longest it has taken me i've been spending time unfolding transforming, collecting, lamenting waiting on the door to open, a window shutters "how deep is deep enough to bury hope?" – carve the stone and despair knows its home i’ve been driving away, somewhere calling out anger by what it is: grief these funny little things: sadness and its inadequacy, modern policies "where are we going?" – there is an ache in you put there by the ache in me i don’t really know where i’m going i just know that i’m heading from the death things piled up behind me

0

Apr 2, 2021

Apr 2, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC

ekkihugsa

halfway there

ever since i left i've been spending time with my anger discussing perspectives and points of views burnt the bridge, called it even, clenched my fists, "wonder if anger is one of those things love gives birth to" – my dear, what isn't born out of love quickly dies of thirst i've been spending time with my sadness weighting words and keeping scores poking at the bruises, blowing candles on fake birthday cakes "am i really sad or is it just disappointment?" – it might as well be anger, it might as well be nothing i've been spending time laughing at the joke that always lands, getting the punch line right, it's satire. cynicism is a soft form of denial "when did your smile start to look like a smirk?" – i love the irony that rests on the most painful things i've been spending time in solitude keeping my secrets to myself collecting dust under my fingernails "only i know how my misery carries me" – and for the longest you've carried it the longest it has taken me i've been spending time unfolding transforming, collecting, lamenting waiting on the door to open, a window shutters "how deep is deep enough to bury hope?" – carve the stone and despair knows its home i’ve been driving away, somewhere calling out anger by what it is: grief these funny little things: sadness and its inadequacy, modern policies "where are we going?" – there is an ache in you put there by the ache in me i don’t really know where i’m going i just know that i’m heading from the death things piled up behind me

37

for years, my bones have felt more like thin glass, feeble, brittle little weak supports that cannot begin to imagine embodying pillars my frame a vase, an empty shell filled with nothingness i am but a half built monument of girl flesh that never knew how to stand on her own my fingers feel more like knives, not dull but sharp, cold little needles that puncture venom underneath the skin, vile teeth my mouth, a death kiss i have failed at putting words to the misery, this agony i've bared since childhood a deep self hatred for who i fail to be and for how little me there actually is – half born like an uneaten dead twin here, in this mind of mine i’ve crumbled, a ruin of solemn, ashen rubble consumed by the promise of structure the hope of ending what shouldn’t have begun i have failed at this too however and it only feeds the monster within who is that then if not the human in me?

0

Apr 1, 2021

Apr 1, 2021 at 7:28 PM UTC

ekkihugsa

melt film

for years, my bones have felt more like thin glass, feeble, brittle little weak supports that cannot begin to imagine embodying pillars my frame a vase, an empty shell filled with nothingness i am but a half built monument of girl flesh that never knew how to stand on her own my fingers feel more like knives, not dull but sharp, cold little needles that puncture venom underneath the skin, vile teeth my mouth, a death kiss i have failed at putting words to the misery, this agony i've bared since childhood a deep self hatred for who i fail to be and for how little me there actually is – half born like an uneaten dead twin here, in this mind of mine i’ve crumbled, a ruin of solemn, ashen rubble consumed by the promise of structure the hope of ending what shouldn’t have begun i have failed at this too however and it only feeds the monster within who is that then if not the human in me?

26