#honestpoetry
The Thing You Carry
The things weary me the most
The word you choose
Stabbed my soul the most
The dagger I gave you
The power I gave you
The sword I gave you
You're using,
Manipulating,
Bearing the flag of supremacy
You nearly got me choking
You say I use AI
You don't know what I bear
You say it's emotionless
But you don't know what I carry
The weight I carry
Is hard to bury
The pain you raised
Is hard to erase
The trauma you caused
Is gonna cost
You think you're the best
Being a ***** is not the best
You say you're my friend, but all I see is an insecure girl
Who claims herself as a girl's girl
You're nothing more than a two-faced *****
You say you know me
But you still carry the 15-years-old me I bury
You’re blinded by your own mess to notice the stress
I'm hurting, I'm suffering, I'm evolving, I'm embracing
I'm writing, I'm shining, I'm penning it down, I'm hiding, I'm diving
I'm not a seashore bird, constantly migrating
I'm the Phoenix — always rising
Jul 23, 2025
Jul 23, 2025 at 6:08 PM UTC
i don't consider myself much of an author
though you could call me a poet
i have a book, turns out
i guess i've been living under its illusion
but today, after three months of it being public
i held it in my hands and went through the pages
i'm not super proud, i'll admit
it's not perfect, barely anything
if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book
i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look
poetic or pass off as poetry
i'm no professional, barely perfection
but the title does say perhaps we could be anything
so here i was, reading through, found a good few
but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought
when i penned down that thought
and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing?
_thing, huh._ really low of me to put it that way
when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake
no plans, thoroughly unrequired
i know many creators
ones who are artists, and they almost always mention
_“i'm not really proud of that one”_ —
the particular one that marked their beginning
but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules
that lead to more such evenings
when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece,
put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it
but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon —
maybe not everyone would critique
are we ever really proud of all that we do?
do we really accept it?
then this particular vision erupted in my head
i held the book, held it in my hands
and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head
it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed
i was left to accept that if anyone wanted,
they could have had parts of me
the specific ones inside the book
and the ones in the title
and in the words
and in the emotions that led it on
and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired
maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there?
perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice
not super proud again — but hey, _i'm a poet!_
i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads
i think i might be onto something
like let it enfold you by charles bukowski
god, i don't know the man
not his works or of any other plans
but i do know that words stick
the meaning they carry does too
and if i say i love the book (yet to like it)
_will you read it for me too?_
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 11:13 AM UTC
****** Leaves My System
Others — white and dark —
Order their coffee in environmental mugs.
You don’t get stars,
Only reused syringes.
****** leaves as joy —
A nub with no shadow.
Trauma’s shadow is bright white
In my pipe.
Who says addicts are unclean?
I scrape my pipe and cooker,
Shockingly clean.
I don’t get anything.
UC tomorrow —
Do you sleep sound?
The rush — excitement.
Why wrap so tight?
Don’t break the crack in the pipe.
Sounds like joy.
Smoke fills my lungs.
Yet I get nothing.
In burning light,
Where was my life?
Vapor fills the room.
Oh, there’s a feeling —
I’m content.
How about you?
Could you ***** yourself a hundred times
Just to feel a little?
Stop — there’s blood in the needle.
You think an ****** is good?
You’ve never seen blood mixed with life in a needle.
Trust me — don’t try.
You miss all the shots you don’t take.
Ones you don’t take can’t **** you.
I wish they would —
The ones that hit hurt more than the ones that miss.
Well, ask him:
****** needle, arm —
The true holy trinity.
Just ask Jesus —
Blood of Christ, blood of an addict,
Redeem me.
Needle exchange —
Well, I need a life exchange.
Maybe something sharper.
Sorry, I meant to say spare change.
May 21, 2025
May 21, 2025 at 1:33 PM UTC
i feel as though my body is no longer mine
a stranger in my own home
*a b a n d o n e d * and b r o k e n
isn't it funny how the one place i'm supposed to feel safest
is the one that does the most d a m a g e
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 8:09 AM UTC