Muted Jul 4
i long for pleasant days.
days that feel like new beginnings,
days when i feel as if i am floating,
when each and every
fiber of my being
feels content with letting go,
tying loose ends,
shedding dead skin.
when my body no longer
feels unworthy of
occupying a space in this dimension,
when my brain no longer
allows toxicity to occupy a space
within it.
i long for moments of silence.
solace for my soul,
a place for the skeletons
in my closet to
rest their dust-covered heads.
i long for happy summers.
when i no longer fear
the thought of love.
when i no longer imagine love
as an ugly weed,
devouring a flower bed.
when i no longer imagine you
resting in someone else's.
The touch
is stronger
than the hold
And the feather
travels further
than the wing
(The landing
Is harder than the fall)
Poetic Surgery, Copyright © 2018,  All rights reserved.
stopdoopy Jun 2
Letting you go to be happy.
A worthy cause in my heart.
If only it didn't hurt so,
but I can let you go.
We can remain how we were
I can be happy this way too.
On that day,
I became a pearl
instead of a rose.
low key steven universe/irl inspired ok bye
Lyn Senz 2 Jul 2016
She looks away
once a well
now a shell
a can, a hand
unopened

and the lawyer tells her
she's okay
but she barely hears him
anyway
there's nothing left
to say

her bluster
where did it go?
and leave her there
so all alone
letting them crush her

'we knowed some thugs
they sold some drugs'

now she's never going home

2011 Lyn
fyi I plagiarized my own poem 'so old'
to make this one.
Avantika Singhal Oct 2015
There's a virulent disease
inside him. It pervades every
where. It invades him. The
toxic cells exist in every nook
and crevice. He starts wondering
whether his soul and body will
suffice and live through the
brutal treatments that await.
Radiotherapy or chemo. A
part of himself could be lost in the
pomposity and elaborateness
of the machines used to do so.
He lies on the bed, surrounded
by the ostensibly loved ones
who mourn now and who hated
him once. He looks back at
his life and feels that getting
back to his healthy, strong self
is a chimera. Days pass and his
bed is his sanctuary. The reports
from the doctors arrive and he is
all but stationary. He finds the
concept of reports funny. They
determine life and death in a
second and after that, life could
be jubilant or miry with hopelessness.
The reports clearly indicate that
"cancer was not detected". He
scoffs at the elaborate medical
language and sits back and
relaxes, concluding his close
call with death and an emotional mess.
Not letting the intimidation and
sinister nature of the diseases get to him.
Blink twice for yes
Once for no
Tell me
Did you ever stop
and think
You wanted more?

From this life you call
The big
Aluminum door
Not letting anyone through
Doesn't make it easier
To walk the floor

It's not like your parents
Are dead
Yet you haven't called them
Mom
And Dad
Since you were 10

You were always busy
But only in your head
The rest of the world
Missed you
They called and left you
Blind voicemails

This is Kathy and this is John
We were worried about you
Dear
Disappear
Don't call
Don't invite yourself

It's not the choice I made
It wasn't an offer
It's not agreeable
It's pathetic and
Inescapable

I don't paint vanilla skies
And cherry blossoms
I don't ask about the weather
Or even your grandson
I don't even ask about myself
Maybe I should

Maybe I should.
It's strange to not feel happiness for years. It's simply, strange.
Alyson Lie Jun 2015
When my sister played Clair de Lune
I’d go into her room and sit on the floor
with my ear to the side of the piano
so close that the sound would fill my mind
with the image of the long, coiled strings
vibrating, glowing golden in the darkened box.

I could hear my sister’s feet dampening
and undampening the pedals, muting the
strings, then letting them ring, resonating,
one note overlaying another, could hear
the creak of her piano stool and smell the
smell of wood dust, like old sheet music,
and my ear would pulse, almost hurting
from the sound of the hammers striking steel.

And I would begin to imagine things,
different things each time:
my aunt in a blue flowered house dress
standing in her kitchen holding a jar
of homemade pickles, her thin white hair
always in tight pin curls.

Or I’d be alone, in a long, softly lit hallway,
the walls covered with wainscotting and
lavender striped wall paper yellowing
near the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway,
a solarium, and beyond that a balcony
glimmering in sunlight.

Or I’d be in a field with small, white flowers
bowing with the weeds rhythmically
and sensing that I was
loved by someone.

And it would be that my sister’s
fingers were pounding deep into
my chest, and always, always
by the end of the piece
I’d ask her to play it one more time.
by letting myself to dream
I know, I have to do something
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