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#paininwords
i don't like being stared at, or glorified, or looked at like i'm just a showpiece— almost like a mannequin? like i'm supposed to do your bidding, or abide by your ideals. i don't like being looked at the way one would look— when they're judging you for the smallest of hook, the tiniest of details. no, you're just aggravating— there's nothing romantic about that stare. kinda like— the difference between being seen and just looked at on the surface. what is wrong with my brain, why can't you seem to judge that? i wouldn't despise it if you were to give me the longing glances, or the ones filled with care, the kind where i know they wouldn’t just drift top to bottom— like fingers on a shiny sphere. don't objectify me. i know my worth, even though i forget it sometimes. it's a vulnerability i intend to show. i’m not the prettiest— that still doesn't give you the right to know. i hold the discomfort, i hold my identity. feels like shattering, the moment a wrong glance or a finger touches any part of my skin. it's complex. i don't think you'll understand it. i'm a human— not a model, not an art piece held up for judging. you know they’d look at the one you love the way you do at me right now, when i tend to swerve. the severity of it— you wouldn’t know. what it's like to be criticised, judged, given looks everywhere you go. i still don't understand why i face them. more than half come from lust, and barely a few from the place of love. i don't shake hands, afraid of what i’ll touch, what you’ll feel— and later think about. god, i shiver at the mere thought. too much. i could be worshipped, held by the right hands, but the wrong eyes, and the wrong views— they almost always **** up this land. can't walk, can't talk, can't laugh, can't show. if i'm to exist like a stone, why can't i hurl back and simply clone all that you’ve done and all that you’ve said? i've got those stares creeping up my skin, like slithering worms underneath my shin, smothering me from the inside, like being smoldered in heat. i feel like i might melt, or worse, fade away into nothing. perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a choice, if i'm to disappear. for it is this feeling that sears, within and carries a scream. sheer mockery, provided the serenity with which you return that gaze. i hate you, i hate each one of you that's made me feel bare, and not the way i'd want to be emotionally with the one whom i hold tender, but the way— the way— the way— oh please, let me just disappear. don’t look at me if you only wish to see me as an object.
0
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 12:59 PM UTC
poeticaofisshues
i've got those stares creeping up my skin
i don't like being stared at, or glorified, or looked at like i'm just a showpiece— almost like a mannequin? like i'm supposed to do your bidding, or abide by your ideals. i don't like being looked at the way one would look— when they're judging you for the smallest of hook, the tiniest of details. no, you're just aggravating— there's nothing romantic about that stare. kinda like— the difference between being seen and just looked at on the surface. what is wrong with my brain, why can't you seem to judge that? i wouldn't despise it if you were to give me the longing glances, or the ones filled with care, the kind where i know they wouldn’t just drift top to bottom— like fingers on a shiny sphere. don't objectify me. i know my worth, even though i forget it sometimes. it's a vulnerability i intend to show. i’m not the prettiest— that still doesn't give you the right to know. i hold the discomfort, i hold my identity. feels like shattering, the moment a wrong glance or a finger touches any part of my skin. it's complex. i don't think you'll understand it. i'm a human— not a model, not an art piece held up for judging. you know they’d look at the one you love the way you do at me right now, when i tend to swerve. the severity of it— you wouldn’t know. what it's like to be criticised, judged, given looks everywhere you go. i still don't understand why i face them. more than half come from lust, and barely a few from the place of love. i don't shake hands, afraid of what i’ll touch, what you’ll feel— and later think about. god, i shiver at the mere thought. too much. i could be worshipped, held by the right hands, but the wrong eyes, and the wrong views— they almost always **** up this land. can't walk, can't talk, can't laugh, can't show. if i'm to exist like a stone, why can't i hurl back and simply clone all that you’ve done and all that you’ve said? i've got those stares creeping up my skin, like slithering worms underneath my shin, smothering me from the inside, like being smoldered in heat. i feel like i might melt, or worse, fade away into nothing. perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a choice, if i'm to disappear. for it is this feeling that sears, within and carries a scream. sheer mockery, provided the serenity with which you return that gaze. i hate you, i hate each one of you that's made me feel bare, and not the way i'd want to be emotionally with the one whom i hold tender, but the way— the way— the way— oh please, let me just disappear. don’t look at me if you only wish to see me as an object.
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87
I am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames, paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo, a verse that never becomes a chorus. I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs, quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles; paramount and omnipotent. My tears are potent, but never that important – imported; as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home. No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle — I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still, I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing. I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.
0
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 5:20 PM UTC
OddOdysseyPoet
The Gallery No One Walks Through
I am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames, paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo, a verse that never becomes a chorus. I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs, quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles; paramount and omnipotent. My tears are potent, but never that important – imported; as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home. No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle — I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still, I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing. I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.
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