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Anya Apr 14
An outlet. All I need is an outlet. To get it all out, out, out. So I can shout, shout, shout.
Shout that I’m worth it, not useless
That I can get something, anything done
Because I can
I can
I know I can
It’s just a matter of happening
Because I can
I can
I know I can
I’ve just got to do it
If I can write a story, if I can translate a piece, if I can draw or read the right things
But its all an if
And ifs dont make dreams come true
Ifs dont truly promise anything, anything at all
So here I am
Her I am
Feeling guilty and useless and-no no no
I don’t like the self pity and I disagree with it
I also hate how I keep insisting I am the problem
But I am
So what
So what so what so
I must do somethough though
Something to vent and let it out
So write
                   Or draw
Do something as long as its something or even nothing is fine
Please calm down
Can I though?
And outlet, I need an outlet,
And now we’ve come full circle
                 Back to poetry
Anya Apr 12
Most of what I wrote here is from two
or three years ago
Two years ago when I was the girl
who dripped anxiety like a leaky faucet
And poured all the excess into her poems
like little sticky notes detailing the confusions
and little joys of life

Now,
Now I'm still a confused, anxious girl
but maybe I can fake it better?

Or maybe I really have grown
So that I no longer need the multicolored sticky notes
Dotting my life
Where I can hold it in
or let it out more constructively

Constructively?
Is poetry not constructive?
Or is it my biases again
idk idk idk

I spoke to an old friend the other day
I have a poem about them
There's another girl I never speak to
but back when I wrote about her she was my friend

I don't know where I'm going
and these poems remind me where I've been

For that matter I don't know where I am
Not enough
Not where I should be
Yet
But yet has yet to arrive and
       seemingly
n
        e
                  v
                             e              r                    
                                                                ­will
...
I'm rambling aren't I?
Well,
The gist of it is
I am somewhere else, not where I was
Nor am I where I should be where I want to be where I ought-
I have a poem about ought don't I?

For those of you who've actually made it to this point in the poem
I applaud you
Because I don't know where I'm going
or where I am
But my poetry seems to be showing me where I've been

Stop
STOP
Enough says the me that insists everything must be productive
There's no point
There's no point!
You're not a poet,
You're just a girl who is supposedly an adult
Ha
Ha ha
What a joke

Is the self deprecation necessary?
             Is it though?
                 Or is it simply a tool to hide my anxiety
                             under a blanket
Can't I just appreciate what I have? Who I am? But
I'm not good enough
            not nearly good enough

The other day I wrote a sorry essay
        apologizing for all my shortcomings

Don't get me wrong
I love my self                       You'd better too    love yourself that is   It's important
But                 I don't seem                              good                     enough

Sigh

Yes, I verbally said the word sigh
I'm still rambling, aren't I?
Because I don't know where I'm going
nor where I am
But I do now know where I've been
      and I suppose it's just a matter of moving from there

I may take baby steps,
                 like a waddling penguin
But so long as I know where I've been
I can keep on moving
so that I can grow

One day my wings will open huge and wide
One day
One day I will no longer be that anxious little girl
One day
Why not today?
Because today's not that day
But, one
                 day
It'll happen
and if it doesn't...

I guess I'll still be chasing that one day
Because I don't know where I'm going
or even where I am
But I do know where I've been because I write about it in little sticky notes called poems
This started out as a reflection, it wandered around a bit, and it finally turned into a piece about the importance of poetry.
Anya Apr 12
“Then you should have let me die”
My father’s words to my mother in a fit of frustrated rage at something so small I hardly remember it now
Ah, I think the conversation went something like this,

                                                        She gave him his dosa
                                          “Where’s the chutney to dip?” he asked
                                                       “No chutney. The coconut isn’t good for you”.
                                          “Why...don’t you know how hard it is for me? How could you do this?!”

No, that was a different conversation, but they all embody the same thing
My father’s struggle with his tumor        after tumor                          after tumor
And as chemo pelts the tumors like wrecking *****, my father’s spirit is equally as exposed to the onslaught
Like wisps of smoke, fragments of his struggle leak out into our house, our family

My mother carries the weight, coupled with her own baggage
She simply tightens the buckle on herself, almost choking but standing ever more upright, a towering hyperion
While praying
She prays
                  He prays
                                   They pray
Falling back to childhood, to their hope, their trust in God
The hope that keeps them alive through the sheer force of their will
I’ve noticed that “God”

Is like a medium
A medium of belief in yourself and hope for a better, brighter future
A medium I stubbornly refuse to use, calling myself an atheist, the rebellion within I suppose
“Well it’s all the same” mom says

Maybe so
Maybe I will one day rely upon that medium, deeply, simply to retin the hope that someone is there for me, even if that someone is myself masked as an external “God”

“I knew then that the Lord wanted me to help people”
He said, an old man in his 80’s, clearly displaying signs of the vicissitudes of life
Couldn’t walk, cooped up in a room 24/7
Yet here he was, not blaming, nor resentful
But in tears not because of his own struggles, plight
But because the Lord gave him a chance to “help people”
He had an opportunity to improve diabetes treatment
Efficiently collect blood
“help people”
Because the Lord allowed him to get into college late to “help people”
That was his miracle

Even if no one was in time to help him

Like the teachers in Chennai, India we saw while visiting family three summers ago
Forgoing a well paying job at a government school, money and comfort
To teach somewhere where they believed they’d make an impact on young minds

Little children growing up to become scientists like the women promoting mushroom growth
To increase the village’s protein intake and empower women
Easily grown at home, it’s not meat, it’s a mushroom

The man who forged ahead to build a canal for the village, a pioneer starting a movement of innovation

An old woman in her late 80’s helping a single mother  keep her job

No cash at my dad's favorite bagel shop, the owner who allowed me to pay later

Simple little things, it’s the little things that hook you more than any superficial bait
And place you on a cloud of warmth

I belong

People can be so terribly kind
To a stranger, to an acquaintance
                                        to a friend, or even
                       to a foe
Yes, there are wars being fought, people dying every second

But as I look up at the hazy blue clouds drifting lazily along outlined with flecks of gold almost like a halo
The humming breeze caressing my cheek, the scent of dew drifting by
I couldn’t feel more glad to be alive
So, please don’t say you wish you were dead

Just open the window and gaze at the ever changing sky
    Whether temperamentally torrential
Or a lazy, hazy, pink or blue
And relish that single moment you are privileged to be a part of
Shared by countless others around the world

But although the seemingly endless sky may cover everyone
At that moment, at that place, at that time the sky and all its magnificence is
All yours
Anya Dec 2019
Most of my poetry on here is from 2 years ago
Back when I was
                     - not depressed -
But covered in a blanket of social anxiety and under confidence
which could have easily been mistaken for such

Each of my poems from then
involves the romantic dreams of a naive young girl
searching for a purpose, searching for her purpose

Each of my poems from then
ends in a query  
                          - as if -
I didn't think I could possibly be right
and I was still trying to find my way

Each of my poems from then
involved an intrinsic indecisiveness
from a time when my every word every glance every action
was blanketed and wrapped into a burrito of -
"am I doing this right?"
"what should I do?"
"Should I even be...?"

But now,
It's two years later and about time for me to get my ***** together
It's come for me, whether I'm ready or not
Time to leave my bubble and take my first step
time for applications
I'm not nearly as experienced, wise, nor knowledgeable as I could, should, will be
But I better get my act together and look like
I AM
Anya Dec 2019
Thud-thud-thud thud thud-thud
Me and my silver owl glasses
And the silver car with the broken hood from when I ram ram
Ramed into the light grey garage and the pale
Blue fire hydrant
And now it goes thud-thud-thud
Thud thud-thud
And me and my owl glasses
Squint up at the sky while the car goes thud-thud
Thud thud-thud
And my skin basking in the sun’s glow,
Rudolph’s luck it was only his nose!
And with a little jingle,
Time to take the baked potato out
Bright red and ready to peel,
Leaving behind an ugly little thing,
In her silver owl glasses and thud-thud silver
Car
With the dented hood
This came from a really weird mood.
Anya Dec 2019
A severe conflict rages within me
Torn between,
Something rip, rip, condemning
And idleness
The kind of idleness where you’re alone within a storm
Perfectly aware that soon enough you’ll have to follow the currents
And flying debris
But for now,
Just for an instant,
You are still and around you is silence
Not
A calm before a storm
But a calm within a storm
The eye of the storm?
A singly moment when you’re able to stand still for just a
Just a single moment
And take a deep breath before you’re flown away
Anya Sep 2019
Elegy, elegy, elegy
The words pop out at me, framed by the strokes of...expressionism was it?
Honestly, I don’t know
The minimal art history I was exposed to
Has gone, been erased leaving me the white board
To scrawl something else hastily before-

I wonder why I read it,
Is it perhaps to affirm to myself
That I’m worth something?

No, that can’t be right
I do of course love myself, I have healthy amount of self love
I suppose then, it’s confidence at stake here
...maybe?

That whether I manage to memorize all the terms
Whether I can keep my hands from straying to another tab
That whether I can kick away the ball that is distractions and addictions and every self created villain in my fairytale

Determines who
I am and how
Much I’m worth

Is false

Because

I

Love me I do
I really do

But,
I still have to get out of this rut
I still have to do better
Then, maybe
One day I’ll
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