#lossofself - Hello Poetry

Tired, sweating, I lay in my bed. Worried, the doctor —the monk— said I'd got the plague. My face, filled with dread. It didn't take long for the buboes to appear, swollen with dreams. I knew the cure, who didn't? I knew how to save —or to be saved— from that dreadful plague. But would I do it? Should I do it? Only cutting the bumps open could save me. He looked at the mayor. He didn't speak, but he did nod. I wanted to scream, to beg for my true life to be saved. But I knew it was useless. I was hopeless. The monk approached, slowly, seriously. Then he started cutting: one dream, another dream, all of them thrown into a bin. My essence drained, the plague was fleeing and my dreams were lost— and my self with them.

0

May 22

May 22, 2026 at 2:31 PM UTC

Shattentraumer

A terrible plague named dreaming

Tired, sweating, I lay in my bed. Worried, the doctor —the monk— said I'd got the plague. My face, filled with dread. It didn't take long for the buboes to appear, swollen with dreams. I knew the cure, who didn't? I knew how to save —or to be saved— from that dreadful plague. But would I do it? Should I do it? Only cutting the bumps open could save me. He looked at the mayor. He didn't speak, but he did nod. I wanted to scream, to beg for my true life to be saved. But I knew it was useless. I was hopeless. The monk approached, slowly, seriously. Then he started cutting: one dream, another dream, all of them thrown into a bin. My essence drained, the plague was fleeing and my dreams were lost— and my self with them.

40

Hi, I'm little girl, you're a dreamt dancer, a once hopefully ballerina, in a music box that was built at an early age. bigger life will be reflected back to you, but not for you. This is my wife, This is my mother, young woman, why are you here? why did you let them do this to you? I call her Honey. We call her Mom. "no, wait, I'm know me remember who I am/was," you say. Honey! Where is... Mom! Can you... , far from the path now. a maze of thorns and always sickening surprises. must get the dose right, must make sure the carb count is right, must check that the blood sugar is right for the son who can't do it himself. life's toss of a coin, suspiciously rigged perhaps? superstition? i don't know, but you're cornered, back to the wall, no railing. must do all the paper work, must support all of his dreams, must do all of the planning, mustn't have time for yourself, your life. must continue. HONey! I need you to... Mom! Look at... where have you gone, dreamt dancer? oh, to the Graveyard. inside the mind where wild thoughts and hopes and adventure go to pass. no support, only frayed webbing leading to nowhere, or to venom, sister, brother, "friend". only you now. and me I guess. unwilling, but an understanding therapist. an angry observer and a tired voice. the daughter to the mother. Well, what the **** do you want me to do, HONEY! Mom! Come here! you're tired, I know. painful sleep and long nights dedicated to other people along with your mind. your body, your bones are load bearing. it's an incalculable weight when caring for others. Insert Your Name Here: HONEY! HONEY! HONEY! I don't know, HONEY! HONEY! Mom! Mom! Mom! Hey, Mom!

0

Oct 5, 2024

Oct 5, 2024 at 12:12 PM UTC

micah-elise

Identity Theft

Hi, I'm little girl, you're a dreamt dancer, a once hopefully ballerina, in a music box that was built at an early age. bigger life will be reflected back to you, but not for you. This is my wife, This is my mother, young woman, why are you here? why did you let them do this to you? I call her Honey. We call her Mom. "no, wait, I'm know me remember who I am/was," you say. Honey! Where is... Mom! Can you... , far from the path now. a maze of thorns and always sickening surprises. must get the dose right, must make sure the carb count is right, must check that the blood sugar is right for the son who can't do it himself. life's toss of a coin, suspiciously rigged perhaps? superstition? i don't know, but you're cornered, back to the wall, no railing. must do all the paper work, must support all of his dreams, must do all of the planning, mustn't have time for yourself, your life. must continue. HONey! I need you to... Mom! Look at... where have you gone, dreamt dancer? oh, to the Graveyard. inside the mind where wild thoughts and hopes and adventure go to pass. no support, only frayed webbing leading to nowhere, or to venom, sister, brother, "friend". only you now. and me I guess. unwilling, but an understanding therapist. an angry observer and a tired voice. the daughter to the mother. Well, what the **** do you want me to do, HONEY! Mom! Come here! you're tired, I know. painful sleep and long nights dedicated to other people along with your mind. your body, your bones are load bearing. it's an incalculable weight when caring for others. Insert Your Name Here: HONEY! HONEY! HONEY! I don't know, HONEY! HONEY! Mom! Mom! Mom! Hey, Mom!

35

You swore you'd love me until the end of time But now the end is getting nearer And I still don't even see your face When I look into the mirror What now I see is shadows Cast from shaky lights above Where your little voice cries out "What once was here was love"

0

Sep 15, 2024

Sep 15, 2024 at 11:40 PM UTC

AylaGrey_poems

Lost

You swore you'd love me until the end of time But now the end is getting nearer And I still don't even see your face When I look into the mirror What now I see is shadows Cast from shaky lights above Where your little voice cries out "What once was here was love"

8

Here I am bleeding again Taken aback by mortal fear. Staring at faith Staged by hope-- Pouring rain on visceral cage– The sound of deep Calling to deep. Repressed feelings buried by Time. Epitaph reads on the forgotten Grave: "Here lies the child now grown. His hopes and dreams Dashed to pieces. This is where the child died." I often hear the Mystic Keeper Calling from night And tradition calling from Artificial light As I run through scorched Barren Fields of doubt, Walking barefoot over these Coals Crouching low To hide my eyes As I run And as I hide From what has already been revealed-- The tombstone says it all. When I am out on the water Lost in the Channel fog I often see fleeting glimpses of White cliffs of hope Like the white cliffs of Dover Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea. But they often turn out to be Withered white Seeds of religious platitudes. And then there is the ready Reflection Of the looking glass That often tricks the Beholder. For in it truth is not seen. What is seen is graffiti of soul Hiding the crumbling Cracks of age– The threshold where Sanity meets its end. Isolation has become A shining steel blade Cutting deep Into the heart of hearts. Nothing lives after amputation. Depending on emotional Prosthetics-- Phantom pain When nothing is There. But in the midst of these Devastations I am learning to take-- Howbeit reluctantly-- The hand of trust and grace; Allowing Hope to build A fortress for dreams… Set boundaries better Than no control at all.

0

Feb 28, 2017

Feb 28, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC

DanielTucker

Phantom Pain

Here I am bleeding again Taken aback by mortal fear. Staring at faith Staged by hope-- Pouring rain on visceral cage– The sound of deep Calling to deep. Repressed feelings buried by Time. Epitaph reads on the forgotten Grave: "Here lies the child now grown. His hopes and dreams Dashed to pieces. This is where the child died." I often hear the Mystic Keeper Calling from night And tradition calling from Artificial light As I run through scorched Barren Fields of doubt, Walking barefoot over these Coals Crouching low To hide my eyes As I run And as I hide From what has already been revealed-- The tombstone says it all. When I am out on the water Lost in the Channel fog I often see fleeting glimpses of White cliffs of hope Like the white cliffs of Dover Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea. But they often turn out to be Withered white Seeds of religious platitudes. And then there is the ready Reflection Of the looking glass That often tricks the Beholder. For in it truth is not seen. What is seen is graffiti of soul Hiding the crumbling Cracks of age– The threshold where Sanity meets its end. Isolation has become A shining steel blade Cutting deep Into the heart of hearts. Nothing lives after amputation. Depending on emotional Prosthetics-- Phantom pain When nothing is There. But in the midst of these Devastations I am learning to take-- Howbeit reluctantly-- The hand of trust and grace; Allowing Hope to build A fortress for dreams… Set boundaries better Than no control at all.

60

His love is like a unknown depth, that strangles till she's blind. The truth that he hides in glass and nails, is embedded in her mind. It chokes her essence, cages her sanity, as his lovers come into view. Now when she sees her reflection, it's of someone she once knew. His wicked games of dark deceit, truly drive her mad. Why it is she chooses to stay, the answer seems so sad. They lay intertwined and intimate, on sheets of silky blue. He whispers words of loyalty and love, that she knows in her heart aren't true. His love is like a demon she craves, it draws in every breath. Even though he breaks her so, to leave him would mean death.

0

Jul 24, 2014

Jul 24, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC

awesome-annie

He Cheats

His love is like a unknown depth, that strangles till she's blind. The truth that he hides in glass and nails, is embedded in her mind. It chokes her essence, cages her sanity, as his lovers come into view. Now when she sees her reflection, it's of someone she once knew. His wicked games of dark deceit, truly drive her mad. Why it is she chooses to stay, the answer seems so sad. They lay intertwined and intimate, on sheets of silky blue. He whispers words of loyalty and love, that she knows in her heart aren't true. His love is like a demon she craves, it draws in every breath. Even though he breaks her so, to leave him would mean death.

5