#smallness - Hello Poetry

I am afraid. I am so small, the world so vast. I am no one. ~ butterflies in my stomach

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Aug 13, 2025

Aug 13, 2025 at 9:46 AM UTC

girlinflames

Butterflies

I am afraid. I am so small, the world so vast. I am no one. ~ butterflies in my stomach

5

Show me a world In which I’ve slowed myself down To the point where I can see my own point of mind My own line and where it ends And when

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Nov 8, 2018

Nov 8, 2018 at 12:29 PM UTC

colmistoirm

Receding

Show me a world In which I’ve slowed myself down To the point where I can see my own point of mind My own line and where it ends And when

5

My love for you is defined by smallness. The time before I miss you when you leave. The space between our lips. The connection of our hearts, No matter where we are. How long before I reach out to touch you. The space between our skin. What we see in our future, Aligned to destiny. From how we feel now to eternal bliss. The difference in our thoughts. Shock of coming happiness, Shrinks to ever present. My love for you is infinitely close. Together in every dimension. Time, space and spirit. Two souls once divided, Together in one heart.

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Aug 18, 2018

Aug 18, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC

not_thepoet_hewantstobe

Our Love Is Infinite Smallness

My love for you is defined by smallness. The time before I miss you when you leave. The space between our lips. The connection of our hearts, No matter where we are. How long before I reach out to touch you. The space between our skin. What we see in our future, Aligned to destiny. From how we feel now to eternal bliss. The difference in our thoughts. Shock of coming happiness, Shrinks to ever present. My love for you is infinitely close. Together in every dimension. Time, space and spirit. Two souls once divided, Together in one heart.

18

through little roads tired car pokes on the track to Ordinary Joe's gatecrasher, purple shuttered, fort between two white picket fence houses tucked up half-pint box out of line on the line in cold, squeezed, lemonade sweet spring ambrosia to the lip of deep green blanket children sit on, play on running around shoes and socks thrown on sidewalk hot as frying pan crack an egg/hear it sizzle dotted trees all the same side to side rooms hide in cramped spaces like cubbies slips of lip like butter roll off snake tongues daggers pointed circus act on display or an animal in the zoo that doesn't fit in this topsy-turvy slide-show called life hackneyed stares glued in place on childish faces like a match of heads or tails cupped hands carry quarters for crank candy jars at mall, or pick-up sticks snatched from floor

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Jul 22, 2018

Jul 22, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC

Ash_slade

through little roads

through little roads tired car pokes on the track to Ordinary Joe's gatecrasher, purple shuttered, fort between two white picket fence houses tucked up half-pint box out of line on the line in cold, squeezed, lemonade sweet spring ambrosia to the lip of deep green blanket children sit on, play on running around shoes and socks thrown on sidewalk hot as frying pan crack an egg/hear it sizzle dotted trees all the same side to side rooms hide in cramped spaces like cubbies slips of lip like butter roll off snake tongues daggers pointed circus act on display or an animal in the zoo that doesn't fit in this topsy-turvy slide-show called life hackneyed stares glued in place on childish faces like a match of heads or tails cupped hands carry quarters for crank candy jars at mall, or pick-up sticks snatched from floor

22

Think of mole rats, spiders, mites even, crawling underneath your feet without knowledge or care that you may be thinking of them. Think of you, conscious animal fretting your mid-twenties or a mortgage and think of your family, all blood and genome and thicker than ******* molasses. Think of the microscopic living things which coexist to make you, animal accident, a living thing. Bacteria boiling your stomach, microbes bailing from your bottom lip. Kiss. Think of love, in all its devices, tedium—conquest even. The smallness of our thoughts, little whispers skimming the surface of the pond. Do you think of what comes after?

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Jan 26, 2016

Jan 26, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC

christopher-hendrix

Smallness II

Think of mole rats, spiders, mites even, crawling underneath your feet without knowledge or care that you may be thinking of them. Think of you, conscious animal fretting your mid-twenties or a mortgage and think of your family, all blood and genome and thicker than ******* molasses. Think of the microscopic living things which coexist to make you, animal accident, a living thing. Bacteria boiling your stomach, microbes bailing from your bottom lip. Kiss. Think of love, in all its devices, tedium—conquest even. The smallness of our thoughts, little whispers skimming the surface of the pond. Do you think of what comes after?

24

I don’t like how the skin below my eyes gets cold after I’ve cried and my tears have dried. I don’t like how, when I listen to a sad song, my eyebrows scrunch together and touch the frame of my glasses, and I can feel the hairs bristling against it. I don’t like how my mascara comes off in clumps and takes my eyelashes with it, and I see the white tips where they were rooted in that precious skin that rims our eyes. I don’t like how the heart-shaped, helium balloons that my parents got me for Valentine’s day float at the top of my ceiling and look like demons crawling across the ceiling when the light’s off. I don’t like how I can’t be all one color, so I buy skin-colored nail polish and skin-colored lipstick, so that if I can’t blend into anything, I can at least blend in with myself instead of being a walking commodity of incongruities. I don’t like how I can’t just pull bones out of my body and give them to people. I don’t like how I can’t walk into rooms and fill up every nook and cranny with myself. I don’t like how I can’t expand and crowd into all the air around me everywhere I go, so that I never have to walk into a space and feel emptiness or smallness, because that chair refuses to wrap itself around me and the floor doesn’t soak up between my toes and the ceiling fall down and cover me like a blanket.

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Oct 27, 2015

Oct 27, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC

SilverSpoon

I Don’t Like...

I don’t like how the skin below my eyes gets cold after I’ve cried and my tears have dried. I don’t like how, when I listen to a sad song, my eyebrows scrunch together and touch the frame of my glasses, and I can feel the hairs bristling against it. I don’t like how my mascara comes off in clumps and takes my eyelashes with it, and I see the white tips where they were rooted in that precious skin that rims our eyes. I don’t like how the heart-shaped, helium balloons that my parents got me for Valentine’s day float at the top of my ceiling and look like demons crawling across the ceiling when the light’s off. I don’t like how I can’t be all one color, so I buy skin-colored nail polish and skin-colored lipstick, so that if I can’t blend into anything, I can at least blend in with myself instead of being a walking commodity of incongruities. I don’t like how I can’t just pull bones out of my body and give them to people. I don’t like how I can’t walk into rooms and fill up every nook and cranny with myself. I don’t like how I can’t expand and crowd into all the air around me everywhere I go, so that I never have to walk into a space and feel emptiness or smallness, because that chair refuses to wrap itself around me and the floor doesn’t soak up between my toes and the ceiling fall down and cover me like a blanket.

7

corrupt me-- through judgement slicing through my naked flesh, and expensive machinery around my neck; remind me-- of every insecurity until it engraves into my conscience and scars blur hope the future brings. defeat me-- for I am small; vulnerable and a prisoner to those words stamped onto my arched neck with your shoe.

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Dec 2, 2014

Dec 2, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC

ramisa-r

Society

corrupt me-- through judgement slicing through my naked flesh, and expensive machinery around my neck; remind me-- of every insecurity until it engraves into my conscience and scars blur hope the future brings. defeat me-- for I am small; vulnerable and a prisoner to those words stamped onto my arched neck with your shoe.

19