Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
#societalpressure
Pieces of me F  l  o  a  t  i  n  g S      i           n                k                     i                          n                               g Hiding below the surface Keeping them submerged takes effort Drains energy Makes the pieces feel like a secret                                        wrong                                        shameful What if I lose them Buried deep Out of sight Out of mind Never to be seen again The fear seems foolish sometimes                                                               but terrifyingly real To be always incomplete Never able To put the pieces back together What if my self didn’t need to fragment For others’ comfort Their easy understanding And acceptance Wholeness is hard to imagine Especially for the pieces that started to s                                                                       u                                                                         b                                                                          m                                                                           e                                                                            r                                                                             g                                                                              e                                                                                  before memory began What a wonderful dream though To always have access to all of your parts and pieces To in fact not have pieces To just be One person                           Complete                                              And whole
0
Nov 5, 2021
Nov 5, 2021 at 5:59 PM UTC
What if I lose them
Pieces of me F  l  o  a  t  i  n  g S      i           n                k                     i                          n                               g Hiding below the surface Keeping them submerged takes effort Drains energy Makes the pieces feel like a secret                                        wrong                                        shameful What if I lose them Buried deep Out of sight Out of mind Never to be seen again The fear seems foolish sometimes                                                               but terrifyingly real To be always incomplete Never able To put the pieces back together What if my self didn’t need to fragment For others’ comfort Their easy understanding And acceptance Wholeness is hard to imagine Especially for the pieces that started to s                                                                       u                                                                         b                                                                          m                                                                           e                                                                            r                                                                             g                                                                              e                                                                                  before memory began What a wonderful dream though To always have access to all of your parts and pieces To in fact not have pieces To just be One person                           Complete                                              And whole
Continue reading...
47
They arrive soft, curved like question marks, hands clutching wonder, eyes wide as open windows. But Society arrives too— arms heavy with blueprints, breath reeking with should and must. "Here," they say, their voices not unkind, just certain. "This is the shape you become." They point to the rigid mold: The angles of achievement, the cold lines of expectation, the polished surface of conformity. "Fit," they murmur. "Fit is safety. Fit is success." Small hands tremble, pushing clay not theirs. Fingers; meant for mud pies and starlight now scrape against prescribed edges. Tears fall, not of sadness first, but of effort— of trying to force a circle into a square hole. The mold is heavy. It carves away laughter, flattens curiosity— demands stillness where wings should beat. Why? The unspoken cry hangs in the air, a fragile bubble. Why must I be this shape? You who carved it— can you even bear its weight yourselves? The answer is silence—or worse, a sigh disguised as wisdom: "It's just how it's done, child." So the soft clay hardens, fractured from straining. The question mark snaps straight. The open window shutters close. And Society nods, admiring the fractured replica. Another child shaped, another soul splintered, another brick laid in the wall of the Status Quo—
0
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 6:48 AM UTC
The Sculptors of Small Souls