"comfor" poems
Vanilla. Nation's favourite. In fact the world's favourite
flavour. So very versatile. From Mr. Whippy's with a
cheap chocolate flake, next to a warm apple
crumble, on a pancake or in a milkshake.
From hot days by the sea side to the
perfect ending of Sunday lunch
and every occasion in betwe-
en. The creamy, comfor-
ting deliciousness
I once fell
in love
with.
But now I prefer the
irresistible, amber, nutty explosion
of Butterscotch. My tongue [mind] craves it!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
You always read about anxiety as a thing you get when you're about to talk to someone you like, or about to go up and speak in front of a bunch of people, and for the longest time I thought my thoughts on anxiety, my anxiety was different from everyone else's, weird.
But I was fortunate to come across a poem, a kind of rant,
that decussed the same issue I was in. And sure, I'm not saying that anxiety doesn't involve getting nervous, or sweaty palms when doing something so small, so simple, but yet it can feel like the biggest thing in the world at the time, because yeah, that can be anxious anxiety, but what I'm talking about is the kind of anxiety where you stay in bed for 4 days straight because you're scared of what will happen if you get out of the comfor of your own room, you know making up a thousand different scenarios of how bad things could turn out.
Anxiety isn't just nerves or scared to do something so little, no anxiety is where you're scared of life itself, scared of living. Anxiety is a mental disorder, and I wouldn't wish it apon the worst of people.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 5:18 AM UTC
My room
is a work of art
on the unvacuumed canvas
lies heaps
of U.C.S's
(unidentified clusters of ****
heaps that are only destroyed
during nights ... ... .. . . .
that are fueled with anxiety
or
just pu re
r
estles snes s .
These imperfect shapes
scattered
in comforting patterns
my compiled life
in pieces .
But I'm st ill restless.
The artist
is
never truly satisfied with
her
work
the mes s of my life
tossed comfor tably to the ground
until i am provoked by ... ... .. .
...
Each Article
I nd i v i dually held
Set in place
Stumb
ling upon
Lost object s ... . .
forgotten fabrics that
held you unquestionably.
a nostaliga
art
revealing things
you were probably already looking for .
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
Amara is sleeping.
She's dreaming.
Not dreams of her future,
But of her many pasts.
She's dreaming of a time
Before time mattered so much.
Days before roles.
Before acts.
Before stories.
Vignettes of time before
Captains, kings, or allegiances.
When loyalties owed only to friends
In the shape of paws
And Stars Sent from the stars.
And then from the stars,
A star fell
And a second past emerged from the rubble.
Shea, Lilacs, and Azure Mist.
She dreams of when she ran away.
Away from this past.
The first.
But not the last.
Amara's dreaming of her fresh start.
A third past.
The promises,
The oaths,
The rules that came with,
The mistakes she wouldn't make,
And the slips she would not repeat.
Then allegiance arose.
Fealty to Duty, Honor, and Glory
.But no stranger to human weakness,
It ended in broken promises,
Tarnished honor,
And a second flight.
She fled from pain
But found neither comfor
tNor relief.
And she forgot long ago
Why she ran a second time,
To spend an Era alone.
Then her demons came.
A fourth, and uncertain life.
When the Hero in Black
Cast them out.
But the Hero could not banish them forever.
Too soon to be spared,
The Child of Dark Hair
Followed.
Amara is dreaming
Of when she swore
Never returning.
Promised herself freedom.
And explored the world of the demons.
Twice she made the promise.
And twice she broke it.
Now she is awake.
The sole survivor of her visions.
She is cold
To know only she is left
To remember the dreams.
She fell from the stars.
She ran from the mist.
She broke the promise.
And in many ways,
She killed the Hero in Black.
Only she remains
To remember the colors
Of her four pasts
Within eleven dreams.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC