#holygrail - Hello Poetry

Deep darkness, despair. How could you know, you’re not there? Empty mind I crave, But constant chatter takes me to the grave. Fleeing, running; working, studying, drugs, and stuff, Distractions from revelation; I am enough. Progress is prized; the final nail, We need true clarity; the holy grail. Opening out and up to the mystery unknown, Here, flourishing can become our own. Insights of the true us, Found when there’s nothing, no sound, no *** Embracing loneliness can be the pearl sought, Moving away from things ought, Turning to the unknown, Is where true dreams are sewn.

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Apr 29, 2025

Apr 29, 2025 at 5:17 PM UTC

bekahalle

Can Embracing Fault be the Pearl Sought?

Deep darkness, despair. How could you know, you’re not there? Empty mind I crave, But constant chatter takes me to the grave. Fleeing, running; working, studying, drugs, and stuff, Distractions from revelation; I am enough. Progress is prized; the final nail, We need true clarity; the holy grail. Opening out and up to the mystery unknown, Here, flourishing can become our own. Insights of the true us, Found when there’s nothing, no sound, no *** Embracing loneliness can be the pearl sought, Moving away from things ought, Turning to the unknown, Is where true dreams are sewn.

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Break me into chasm then let the love pour in— flower into deep well— stem the umbilicus of what you could say you knew of me— the privilege of living inside your own head— and me, something made of sand, a wink— something of one of many lives ago, though how well you knew me— as did he— how well they saw me— and maybe no one did. We were lovers in a past life. And now I am obscure as lost Atlantis, origin of the fairy tale— fragile as gossamer and the Holy Grail.

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Oct 30, 2019

Oct 30, 2019 at 7:49 PM UTC

erin-suurkoivu

Atlantis

Break me into chasm then let the love pour in— flower into deep well— stem the umbilicus of what you could say you knew of me— the privilege of living inside your own head— and me, something made of sand, a wink— something of one of many lives ago, though how well you knew me— as did he— how well they saw me— and maybe no one did. We were lovers in a past life. And now I am obscure as lost Atlantis, origin of the fairy tale— fragile as gossamer and the Holy Grail.

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⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠ ______________________________________________________________ In memory of him? her? I do not know. ______________________________________________________________ In the hushed moments before sleep, you summon the loveliest memories of him-- memories now resigned to heartache and destitution, to some far off, phantasmic realm (wherever that may be); you come to school ill one winter's morning, flesh cadaverous, pale cheeks embellished by bloodshot eyes wreathed in dark circles. He rests his hand atop your forehead affectionately, his eyes shaded with concern as he comes to the realization that "You're burning up." (But, eventually, his affections begin to ebb away, and with them, so does your fire-- the stuff of magic); Mouth frothing with rage, you haul off and punch the living **** out of a bathroom stall. This escapade of fury leaves your left hand inflamed bruised splintered. When you tell him what you've done, he meets you outside of the girl's washroom and takes your hand in his, runs his fingers over the inflammation bruises splinters softly and asks you, "Does it hurt?" (These days, it hurts everywhere-- and all for him, darling); He pulls you-- fretful and teary-eyed-- to his chest, his palm cradling the back of your neck. For a moment you forget about the cuts on your thighs; the blood seeping from your nylons; the sorrow gnawing at your bones. For a moment, you can't help but wonder if this boy is to be your Gideon-- your Holy Grail. (And, to think, one abrupt gesticulation of his wrist and your neck snaps-- and you're a goner).

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Oct 2, 2018

Oct 2, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC

VinylPoetry

In Memoriam

⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠ ______________________________________________________________ In memory of him? her? I do not know. ______________________________________________________________ In the hushed moments before sleep, you summon the loveliest memories of him-- memories now resigned to heartache and destitution, to some far off, phantasmic realm (wherever that may be); you come to school ill one winter's morning, flesh cadaverous, pale cheeks embellished by bloodshot eyes wreathed in dark circles. He rests his hand atop your forehead affectionately, his eyes shaded with concern as he comes to the realization that "You're burning up." (But, eventually, his affections begin to ebb away, and with them, so does your fire-- the stuff of magic); Mouth frothing with rage, you haul off and punch the living **** out of a bathroom stall. This escapade of fury leaves your left hand inflamed bruised splintered. When you tell him what you've done, he meets you outside of the girl's washroom and takes your hand in his, runs his fingers over the inflammation bruises splinters softly and asks you, "Does it hurt?" (These days, it hurts everywhere-- and all for him, darling); He pulls you-- fretful and teary-eyed-- to his chest, his palm cradling the back of your neck. For a moment you forget about the cuts on your thighs; the blood seeping from your nylons; the sorrow gnawing at your bones. For a moment, you can't help but wonder if this boy is to be your Gideon-- your Holy Grail. (And, to think, one abrupt gesticulation of his wrist and your neck snaps-- and you're a goner).

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