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"anemoia" poems
It’s like a splitting sensation. Like a thousand screws are twisting within you. He went quick and painfully. And although he didn’t suffer much it still brings me no comfort that he’s gone. left, away, "In heaven." F—k that. He’s gone and I can’t fix it. He died. No one to hold him. No one to pray with him to the god he so loved. No one to call his wife, no one to call his kids, No one to do anything for a man terrified. F—k that. Don’t tell me it’ll get better. Don’t tell me it’ll get easier. Don’t tell me he lives a good life or believed in the lord in heaven. Don’t tell me he’s happy now He’s was happy then. So let me cry my memories out until he raises again. He’s in a box, on display, like tissues in a kindergarden classroom. F—k that. Let me cry. Let me live. Let me eat until I ache. Let me yell and punch and scream about how I loved him and how he’s never coming back. We’re all disposable, like those tissues I suppose. But that doesn’t help. It never does. So leave me alone stop talking to me and let me get over him.
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May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 10:59 AM UTC
Candlewood
Public display of Sonder and Anemoia.
It’s like a splitting sensation. Like a thousand screws are twisting within you. He went quick and painfully. And although he didn’t suffer much it still brings me no comfort that he’s gone. left, away, "In heaven." F—k that. He’s gone and I can’t fix it. He died. No one to hold him. No one to pray with him to the god he so loved. No one to call his wife, no one to call his kids, No one to do anything for a man terrified. F—k that. Don’t tell me it’ll get better. Don’t tell me it’ll get easier. Don’t tell me he lives a good life or believed in the lord in heaven. Don’t tell me he’s happy now He’s was happy then. So let me cry my memories out until he raises again. He’s in a box, on display, like tissues in a kindergarden classroom. F—k that. Let me cry. Let me live. Let me eat until I ache. Let me yell and punch and scream about how I loved him and how he’s never coming back. We’re all disposable, like those tissues I suppose. But that doesn’t help. It never does. So leave me alone stop talking to me and let me get over him.
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i. my favourite days are the ones where the air doesn't seem quite clear, but out of focus, backlit with haze. the grass gets dusty and the trees blend together like old oil paints. it's these days that it seems the world is saying "leave this place, you don't belong." i sleep the best on those days. ii. the sepia film layered over old photos makes me nostalgic for something my lifetime will never know. but it's familiar, smiling faces with blushing cheeks, dust and dirt lining sun-creased foreheads. it's comforting, calming, restful. it makes you wish for that simplicity. how kind a colour can be. iii. dust covering riddled boxes, coating worn wood, cloaking drapes mirrors, mannequins, rocking horses. an attic is a place my heart feels the strangest. everything seems haunted and in it, i am also haunted. each dirt-laden item carries an event that led to its demise. the wardrobe's mirror cracked and a new one filled in. the jewellery box did not grow with its contained collection. the doll sat too peacefully in the corner of that room and found itself sitting just as quietly beside the wardrobe. iv. i will always wish for the feeling of an open road on a warm day. the sun rests its legs on the edge of the horizon, the clouds paint themselves with watercolours, the crickets and cicadas tune to each other. that complete content will always be my favourite. v. sometimes i wish i knew where i was going, knew where i was supposed to arrive. however, the knowledge that i will eventually arrive somewhere is intensely satisfying and comforting, even in its uncertainty.
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Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 11:08 PM UTC
claire-elizabeth
anemoia
i. my favourite days are the ones where the air doesn't seem quite clear, but out of focus, backlit with haze. the grass gets dusty and the trees blend together like old oil paints. it's these days that it seems the world is saying "leave this place, you don't belong." i sleep the best on those days. ii. the sepia film layered over old photos makes me nostalgic for something my lifetime will never know. but it's familiar, smiling faces with blushing cheeks, dust and dirt lining sun-creased foreheads. it's comforting, calming, restful. it makes you wish for that simplicity. how kind a colour can be. iii. dust covering riddled boxes, coating worn wood, cloaking drapes mirrors, mannequins, rocking horses. an attic is a place my heart feels the strangest. everything seems haunted and in it, i am also haunted. each dirt-laden item carries an event that led to its demise. the wardrobe's mirror cracked and a new one filled in. the jewellery box did not grow with its contained collection. the doll sat too peacefully in the corner of that room and found itself sitting just as quietly beside the wardrobe. iv. i will always wish for the feeling of an open road on a warm day. the sun rests its legs on the edge of the horizon, the clouds paint themselves with watercolours, the crickets and cicadas tune to each other. that complete content will always be my favourite. v. sometimes i wish i knew where i was going, knew where i was supposed to arrive. however, the knowledge that i will eventually arrive somewhere is intensely satisfying and comforting, even in its uncertainty.
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