#languishing - Hello Poetry

I’m the princess of typos a mistress of mistakes the duchess of defects a lady of lapses the empress of errors Let’s keep things informal you don’t have to bow I carry as many erasers as the law allows From now on, you can call me ‘Your highness,’ unless they start dusting off the guillotines. My written French is, at best, imperfect, I make grave mistakes. Mixing up things like my é (aigus) and è (graves). “Without the mistakes,” the TA shrugged, “you had one of the highest marks.” “Baiser-moi,” I whispered, disappointedly. I thought I’d written a solid paper on omega balances and oxidative stress measurements. Now that I’m in med-school I’ve so many things to learn. Did dinosaurs like doughnuts? Do squirrels tell nutty jokes? But it’s Sunday, I’m not learning anything today. I am, in fact, languishing in free-hours. It’s an unnatural scene - no pencils, no books, no studying student’s ***** looks. Pencils are having a heyday, in Paris, this year - they’re finally chic! I’ve always been a pencil girl (did I mention typos?). I know everyone says that now but it’s true, I swear. Making the Girl Scout Sign “Agh! I need a pencil,” someone said in class, just yesterday. I pretended not to hear them and griped my #5 mechanical-pencil a little closer and tighter. . . Songs for this: The Spot - Your Smith Decide to be happy - MisterWives . . 🎄🦌 It's that time of year - Here's a Christmas Playlist 🎄🦌 https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_16.mp3

0

Nov 15, 2025

Nov 15, 2025 at 10:36 PM UTC

anaisvionet

the princess of typos

I’m the princess of typos a mistress of mistakes the duchess of defects a lady of lapses the empress of errors Let’s keep things informal you don’t have to bow I carry as many erasers as the law allows From now on, you can call me ‘Your highness,’ unless they start dusting off the guillotines. My written French is, at best, imperfect, I make grave mistakes. Mixing up things like my é (aigus) and è (graves). “Without the mistakes,” the TA shrugged, “you had one of the highest marks.” “Baiser-moi,” I whispered, disappointedly. I thought I’d written a solid paper on omega balances and oxidative stress measurements. Now that I’m in med-school I’ve so many things to learn. Did dinosaurs like doughnuts? Do squirrels tell nutty jokes? But it’s Sunday, I’m not learning anything today. I am, in fact, languishing in free-hours. It’s an unnatural scene - no pencils, no books, no studying student’s ***** looks. Pencils are having a heyday, in Paris, this year - they’re finally chic! I’ve always been a pencil girl (did I mention typos?). I know everyone says that now but it’s true, I swear. Making the Girl Scout Sign “Agh! I need a pencil,” someone said in class, just yesterday. I pretended not to hear them and griped my #5 mechanical-pencil a little closer and tighter. . . Songs for this: The Spot - Your Smith Decide to be happy - MisterWives . . 🎄🦌 It's that time of year - Here's a Christmas Playlist 🎄🦌 https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_16.mp3

35

in bed, shrinking to the smallest space my skin and bones will allow. in bed, with my sorrows growing, sprawling out in every direction, all for the world to see. how can i go and fade quietly when my hurting is a loud, lurid spectacle under flashy, purple lights?

0

Feb 23, 2022

Feb 23, 2022 at 8:53 PM UTC

femininedeath

tatiana

in bed, shrinking to the smallest space my skin and bones will allow. in bed, with my sorrows growing, sprawling out in every direction, all for the world to see. how can i go and fade quietly when my hurting is a loud, lurid spectacle under flashy, purple lights?

2

i tire myself out. i bite on my heart and spit it out — press my fingers on the dents, the teeth marks, the parts that are supposed to hurt. and i watch as it breaks into a thousand glasses. dreams. futile daylights. i watch, ever so quietly. i watch, unfeeling.

0

Feb 23, 2022

Feb 23, 2022 at 9:15 PM UTC

femininedeath

the wednesday i languished

i tire myself out. i bite on my heart and spit it out — press my fingers on the dents, the teeth marks, the parts that are supposed to hurt. and i watch as it breaks into a thousand glasses. dreams. futile daylights. i watch, ever so quietly. i watch, unfeeling.

1

I’m in a limbo. A state of equivocality. Everything hangs in the air, but I try to chart my daily course as I normally do. Times are tough. Uncertain, too. Notwithstanding, I’ve taken more than I can chew. I’m in too deep. I’m in a dark place. You see, I was the golden child. A beacon of light. Envy was nothing new to me. I rarely espoused it, but was the oft object of it. Little Miss Perfect – always so put together. Always has her things together. I have Midas Touch, they say. I’m on a plane higher than my peers – on a dais atop the average twenty-two year-old. I can do no wrong. Only upwards from here. So they say. So I thought. Today, my days bleed into one another. Sunday? Monday? What difference does a name make? I run on two hours of sleep and three thirty-minute naps a day. I don’t wake up to my 5 AM alarm. Nor sleep through it. It throttles to life as I hurriedly read tomorrow’s later’s assigned readings. I might get some sleep in. I rarely do. Finish your readings. Finish your work. Finish your classes. Eat in between. Objectively, I’m in a good place. Roof over my head. Food on my plate. More importantly, safe. No 40-degree thermometers and sputum litter around. This makes me feel worse. Ungrateful ***** Little Miss Drama Queen. A million would **** to be in your shoes. I’m in a limbo – my brain encased in a cloud of humdrum trepidation. Filled to the brim with silent thumps of dread. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s not as if I did not try to do better to feel better. I do – I always do. My lists abound. #SelfCare’s always on top. Thump. Thump. Thump. They do little to quell my panic room of a mind. Sometimes I wonder if this is how watercolor pigments feel. They are always so vivacious off of the manufacturing press. The reds are constantly vibrant and the blues are consistently resonant. But they fade when water comes into contact – even meshing into an ugly grey on the canvas when they touch the other diluted hues. I’m in a limbo – no sense of past, present, and future. Everyday is a low frequency static hissing at my ears. Wonder child soddened by the somber. I’d build a rocket, they say. I’d own the world, they say. All I am is tired nowadays.

0

Jul 29, 2021

Jul 29, 2021 at 5:25 AM UTC

AngelaMercado

Languishing

I’m in a limbo. A state of equivocality. Everything hangs in the air, but I try to chart my daily course as I normally do. Times are tough. Uncertain, too. Notwithstanding, I’ve taken more than I can chew. I’m in too deep. I’m in a dark place. You see, I was the golden child. A beacon of light. Envy was nothing new to me. I rarely espoused it, but was the oft object of it. Little Miss Perfect – always so put together. Always has her things together. I have Midas Touch, they say. I’m on a plane higher than my peers – on a dais atop the average twenty-two year-old. I can do no wrong. Only upwards from here. So they say. So I thought. Today, my days bleed into one another. Sunday? Monday? What difference does a name make? I run on two hours of sleep and three thirty-minute naps a day. I don’t wake up to my 5 AM alarm. Nor sleep through it. It throttles to life as I hurriedly read tomorrow’s later’s assigned readings. I might get some sleep in. I rarely do. Finish your readings. Finish your work. Finish your classes. Eat in between. Objectively, I’m in a good place. Roof over my head. Food on my plate. More importantly, safe. No 40-degree thermometers and sputum litter around. This makes me feel worse. Ungrateful ***** Little Miss Drama Queen. A million would **** to be in your shoes. I’m in a limbo – my brain encased in a cloud of humdrum trepidation. Filled to the brim with silent thumps of dread. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s not as if I did not try to do better to feel better. I do – I always do. My lists abound. #SelfCare’s always on top. Thump. Thump. Thump. They do little to quell my panic room of a mind. Sometimes I wonder if this is how watercolor pigments feel. They are always so vivacious off of the manufacturing press. The reds are constantly vibrant and the blues are consistently resonant. But they fade when water comes into contact – even meshing into an ugly grey on the canvas when they touch the other diluted hues. I’m in a limbo – no sense of past, present, and future. Everyday is a low frequency static hissing at my ears. Wonder child soddened by the somber. I’d build a rocket, they say. I’d own the world, they say. All I am is tired nowadays.

11

A cottage left languishing looks diffidently at me with a welcoming eye. A carriage abandoned lends its hesitant hand to offer me a seat. Breeze of a lost past turns the page of a forgotten chapter; Time sets the clock back A vanished glory comes echoing in silence.

0

Feb 14, 2020

Feb 14, 2020 at 8:15 AM UTC

noren-tirtho

Echoes

A cottage left languishing looks diffidently at me with a welcoming eye. A carriage abandoned lends its hesitant hand to offer me a seat. Breeze of a lost past turns the page of a forgotten chapter; Time sets the clock back A vanished glory comes echoing in silence.

11

I’ve been cold since December The trees groan and ache in the wind, just like these old bones Passed down from mother to mother Until they finally reached me Do these bones hold art? Do they hold forgotten names? What storms have beheld these stories? Why do they grow cold at the growing shadows? My home has been cold since December Winter weather penetrates the walls, chilling These Old Bones Where has this cold come from? Why does it seek me to embrace it? But most importantly If I do embrace it, what will happen to me then? My soul’s been cold since December It knows that it was the month I was born in It knows I shouldn’t have lasted this long It knows these old bones are ready to collapse Why have they waited this long? Who are they waiting for? Who is going to come to collect me? Why have I been born if only to die? My heart’s been cold since December No, since before that Not even the summer sun can thaw loneliness I have frostbite in my chest What would happen if I just took it out? Could anyone dare to love me then? I’m not asking for much; just asking for a friend Perhaps if I take out my heart, then my wounds may finally heal My life’s been cold since forever To say it hasn’t been that way for a long time would be to lie It’s not just the winter sun that lacks heat I have nothing left to live for Where would I be if I was worth anything to those around me? Where would I go if everything I touched didn’t wither and die before me? Who would love me if I could be loved? Who could love These old bones?

0

Jan 20, 2019

Jan 20, 2019 at 7:35 PM UTC

Nothing-New-To-Say

These Old Bones

I’ve been cold since December The trees groan and ache in the wind, just like these old bones Passed down from mother to mother Until they finally reached me Do these bones hold art? Do they hold forgotten names? What storms have beheld these stories? Why do they grow cold at the growing shadows? My home has been cold since December Winter weather penetrates the walls, chilling These Old Bones Where has this cold come from? Why does it seek me to embrace it? But most importantly If I do embrace it, what will happen to me then? My soul’s been cold since December It knows that it was the month I was born in It knows I shouldn’t have lasted this long It knows these old bones are ready to collapse Why have they waited this long? Who are they waiting for? Who is going to come to collect me? Why have I been born if only to die? My heart’s been cold since December No, since before that Not even the summer sun can thaw loneliness I have frostbite in my chest What would happen if I just took it out? Could anyone dare to love me then? I’m not asking for much; just asking for a friend Perhaps if I take out my heart, then my wounds may finally heal My life’s been cold since forever To say it hasn’t been that way for a long time would be to lie It’s not just the winter sun that lacks heat I have nothing left to live for Where would I be if I was worth anything to those around me? Where would I go if everything I touched didn’t wither and die before me? Who would love me if I could be loved? Who could love These old bones?

42

The centre of me aches. My circle is full, There's no space for you But yet you push Encroaching on my depths. Tangible. Languishing. The need for warm drinks on chilly nights. The arm on a shoulder after a weep. The ache from a belly laugh so hard you cried. A space I didn’t know needed filling. I’ve lost you before I had you. You’re not mine to keep. The centre of me aches. My circle is full, And yet you’re there, pushing.

0

Jan 15, 2019

Jan 15, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC

DawnJupiter

The centre of me aches

The centre of me aches. My circle is full, There's no space for you But yet you push Encroaching on my depths. Tangible. Languishing. The need for warm drinks on chilly nights. The arm on a shoulder after a weep. The ache from a belly laugh so hard you cried. A space I didn’t know needed filling. I’ve lost you before I had you. You’re not mine to keep. The centre of me aches. My circle is full, And yet you’re there, pushing.

17