"reaffirms" poems - Hello Poetry

You know the type. She's probably called something like Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra. and you find her in the sort of novel where she's outdone by someone called something like Jane. Agnes. Lucy. She's remembered in criticism as Trivial. Silly. Foolish. She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold. She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her. She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine, whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end, Rational. Independent. Brave. She reaffirms the heroine as someone who learns and grows while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror. The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl, the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books and wants to believe the stories. Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror, chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries, looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know. I know I'd be one of the silly girls, not the heroine, out there, just surviving. I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet - what's so wrong with the silly girls? What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves, or love the wrong people or love their clothes? What's wrong with the girls who are brave but not rational, independent but trivial, selfish but practical? What's wrong with those girls, because I always find myself preferring the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.

0

Jan 9, 2018

Jan 9, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC

anothergrace

silly and frivolous

You know the type. She's probably called something like Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra. and you find her in the sort of novel where she's outdone by someone called something like Jane. Agnes. Lucy. She's remembered in criticism as Trivial. Silly. Foolish. She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold. She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her. She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine, whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end, Rational. Independent. Brave. She reaffirms the heroine as someone who learns and grows while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror. The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl, the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books and wants to believe the stories. Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror, chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries, looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know. I know I'd be one of the silly girls, not the heroine, out there, just surviving. I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet - what's so wrong with the silly girls? What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves, or love the wrong people or love their clothes? What's wrong with the girls who are brave but not rational, independent but trivial, selfish but practical? What's wrong with those girls, because I always find myself preferring the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.

36

did it work? I give a useless tug on my skin, done to reassure me instead it reaffirms to me: I am, again, inconsolable. is the mask I wear today sealed on tight? too tight? does it hurt to pretend so much? does it seem clear to anyone else that there are loose ends I've yet to tend to? backdoors I've overlooked? transparencies? can they see through me? I bare my teeth. canines, canines from the days of carnivores. am I that carnivore? in my genes I am. and in practice? inconsolable, uncontrollable barely a threat in her form. this question comes to me under many guises: an old man asking me: are you that of practice or are you that of genes? a professor lecturing: are you that of cultivated identity or that of inherited form? my concerned friends crying: who are you? is your mask anything like you? and then i wake. it's a terror turned nightly chorus. recurring nightmares, doctors offer. i admit i know the content of my dreams to be unfounded: in life there are no physical masks that do the jobs my terrors depict. no veil to hide the contours of each flawed personality, no mask to others, just me, weeping-in-the-bathroom, never-myself me and those attempted favours to be like one another i'll be like you so you'll like me i'll like you because i'm like you so the body charges on in this society like a mirror cross your left leg when she crosses her right, fold your arms when she's folded hers, raise your hand to say hello, raise your hand to say goodbye a kiss on the right cheek, a kiss on the left, one more on the left this is how you show love and a greeting all at once fold your arms over each other, this is sympathy, this is greeting, do you take comfort in this too? so you learn to speak with your arms, and you learn to speak with your legs, and you learn to speak with your face, and you learn to speak with your head. soon your eyes are apprentices of acquaintances, learning to borrow looks like library books, take on others' stories like they've read them end to end. so in the middle of this process you learn to effectively say: i see you, i hear you, i perceive you. and in these attempted favours, at the end of your night terrors, is the parrot that they want to see. the parrot that you argue, can't really be me.

0

Aug 9, 2018

Aug 9, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC

ultraviolet

the anthropomorphism of people pleasing

did it work? I give a useless tug on my skin, done to reassure me instead it reaffirms to me: I am, again, inconsolable. is the mask I wear today sealed on tight? too tight? does it hurt to pretend so much? does it seem clear to anyone else that there are loose ends I've yet to tend to? backdoors I've overlooked? transparencies? can they see through me? I bare my teeth. canines, canines from the days of carnivores. am I that carnivore? in my genes I am. and in practice? inconsolable, uncontrollable barely a threat in her form. this question comes to me under many guises: an old man asking me: are you that of practice or are you that of genes? a professor lecturing: are you that of cultivated identity or that of inherited form? my concerned friends crying: who are you? is your mask anything like you? and then i wake. it's a terror turned nightly chorus. recurring nightmares, doctors offer. i admit i know the content of my dreams to be unfounded: in life there are no physical masks that do the jobs my terrors depict. no veil to hide the contours of each flawed personality, no mask to others, just me, weeping-in-the-bathroom, never-myself me and those attempted favours to be like one another i'll be like you so you'll like me i'll like you because i'm like you so the body charges on in this society like a mirror cross your left leg when she crosses her right, fold your arms when she's folded hers, raise your hand to say hello, raise your hand to say goodbye a kiss on the right cheek, a kiss on the left, one more on the left this is how you show love and a greeting all at once fold your arms over each other, this is sympathy, this is greeting, do you take comfort in this too? so you learn to speak with your arms, and you learn to speak with your legs, and you learn to speak with your face, and you learn to speak with your head. soon your eyes are apprentices of acquaintances, learning to borrow looks like library books, take on others' stories like they've read them end to end. so in the middle of this process you learn to effectively say: i see you, i hear you, i perceive you. and in these attempted favours, at the end of your night terrors, is the parrot that they want to see. the parrot that you argue, can't really be me.

38

A singular rose to say that you caught me from the start Two of them would say that you too love me such Three would mean three words that come from my heart Five stalks would shout, "I love you very much!" Six would spout six words that I always have said "I love you, I miss you" is the message that they would give Seven is the infatuation that I take to bed Nine would want us together for as long as we'd live Ten roses would state the absolute obvious When they say that you are nice and so very pretty "My treasured one", said eleven so filled with purpose Twelve would cheekily suggest, "Will you be my steady" Thirteen deemed to be unlucky for some But roses represent that you are secretly admired Fifteen is given with a face so glum Apology is offered for what had transpired Twenty would mean that I'm so much into you Four more added to say that you're always on my mind Thirty three reaffirms of my love so true Thirty six would cherish all our moments in kind Forty would mean genuine is my love and it's all I've got I would genuinely love you if only you would let Fifty of these flowers absolutely seem like an awful lot But its worth to say that my love is free of regret Ninety nine would cost but it'll say my love is forever A hundred says that I'll remain forever devoted One more joins to mean that you're my only love, ever One hundred and eight is the big question that needs to be answered Three hundred and sixty five roses represent the days in a year They mean that I can't stop thinking of you every single day I wish to give you eternal love that would span forever On nine hundred and ninety nine roses these words would lay

0

Aug 29, 2014

Aug 29, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC

ryn

Roses

A singular rose to say that you caught me from the start Two of them would say that you too love me such Three would mean three words that come from my heart Five stalks would shout, "I love you very much!" Six would spout six words that I always have said "I love you, I miss you" is the message that they would give Seven is the infatuation that I take to bed Nine would want us together for as long as we'd live Ten roses would state the absolute obvious When they say that you are nice and so very pretty "My treasured one", said eleven so filled with purpose Twelve would cheekily suggest, "Will you be my steady" Thirteen deemed to be unlucky for some But roses represent that you are secretly admired Fifteen is given with a face so glum Apology is offered for what had transpired Twenty would mean that I'm so much into you Four more added to say that you're always on my mind Thirty three reaffirms of my love so true Thirty six would cherish all our moments in kind Forty would mean genuine is my love and it's all I've got I would genuinely love you if only you would let Fifty of these flowers absolutely seem like an awful lot But its worth to say that my love is free of regret Ninety nine would cost but it'll say my love is forever A hundred says that I'll remain forever devoted One more joins to mean that you're my only love, ever One hundred and eight is the big question that needs to be answered Three hundred and sixty five roses represent the days in a year They mean that I can't stop thinking of you every single day I wish to give you eternal love that would span forever On nine hundred and ninety nine roses these words would lay

32

Every so often he swings through town and makes his way into my bed, broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone, which is most. I appreciate the infrequency with which he comes to visit, my door kept ajar, my heart kept comfortably closed, as he strolls in in his designer sneakers or boots, the noncommittal conversation flowing freely between us. Once I recall he rolled over, his hand sliding up my forearm, wrapping himself around my frame as I pulled out my phone to show him a photo, and he noticed his number wasn't saved, guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his permanence, or lack thereof. I like the way he laughs and the rare moments when we exchange something deeply personal about ourselves, complicated words and phrases transplanting simplistic nonverbal communication. He is handsome without being too **** he is smart without being argumentative; he is wealthy without being ostentatious; he is shy without being withdrawn; he is a lot of things, my finely filed fingernails not even beginning to scratch the surface of his otherwise intriguing layers, having tied my own hands behind my back. I need the way he doesn't need me, and him I. Sometimes I need his body heat, the gentle weight of a man's arm hanging on my curvy hip. There are moments when I need one of our witty but empty texting conversations, simple enough to read after too much Bordeaux. I need the something that exists in the nothing that he brings me.

0

Mar 2, 2015

Mar 2, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC

megb42290

Contact Info

Every so often he swings through town and makes his way into my bed, broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone, which is most. I appreciate the infrequency with which he comes to visit, my door kept ajar, my heart kept comfortably closed, as he strolls in in his designer sneakers or boots, the noncommittal conversation flowing freely between us. Once I recall he rolled over, his hand sliding up my forearm, wrapping himself around my frame as I pulled out my phone to show him a photo, and he noticed his number wasn't saved, guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his permanence, or lack thereof. I like the way he laughs and the rare moments when we exchange something deeply personal about ourselves, complicated words and phrases transplanting simplistic nonverbal communication. He is handsome without being too **** he is smart without being argumentative; he is wealthy without being ostentatious; he is shy without being withdrawn; he is a lot of things, my finely filed fingernails not even beginning to scratch the surface of his otherwise intriguing layers, having tied my own hands behind my back. I need the way he doesn't need me, and him I. Sometimes I need his body heat, the gentle weight of a man's arm hanging on my curvy hip. There are moments when I need one of our witty but empty texting conversations, simple enough to read after too much Bordeaux. I need the something that exists in the nothing that he brings me.

61

the cracking concrete stairway practically reeks darkness this is the entrance to the labyrinth. step by step constantly downward until the sliver of sun that you always thought would be visible has finally disappeared and left nothing but the blinking of the dim artificial light broken by time. the warmth you surely felt outside has been leeched away leaving a constant chill to raise the hairs on your arms every time the ghost of a subway train emerges from the depths of the tunnels to all sides. crude steel and fissured tiles paint the portrait of the lives that have passed through here the tracks making no distinction between foreigner and local as they dole out their fates. and every rushing train blurring the shadowy lights of the tunnel reaffirms your suspicion that this is a vessel through a vortex in disguise as a breaking down train. and as the doors slide open once the wheels lock and screech in agony until the momentum is stopped, take caution for the city you exited from into the subway may not be the same you’ll enter here.

0

Jun 8, 2016

Jun 8, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC

maryk

subway series no. 2

the cracking concrete stairway practically reeks darkness this is the entrance to the labyrinth. step by step constantly downward until the sliver of sun that you always thought would be visible has finally disappeared and left nothing but the blinking of the dim artificial light broken by time. the warmth you surely felt outside has been leeched away leaving a constant chill to raise the hairs on your arms every time the ghost of a subway train emerges from the depths of the tunnels to all sides. crude steel and fissured tiles paint the portrait of the lives that have passed through here the tracks making no distinction between foreigner and local as they dole out their fates. and every rushing train blurring the shadowy lights of the tunnel reaffirms your suspicion that this is a vessel through a vortex in disguise as a breaking down train. and as the doors slide open once the wheels lock and screech in agony until the momentum is stopped, take caution for the city you exited from into the subway may not be the same you’ll enter here.

15

*tearing every inch of me apart piece by piece until i've lost the different halves of me the days go by, i lose myself a bit each time oh, where does it all go? where does your body go if you never return home?* --- people are young, that much is true but i know for once that i'm older than you and when i look into your eyes i see my fears reflected back to me the fear of dying young and living too old because dying when you're young reaffirms your dreams and dying when its all said and done gives you a legacy who is my soul? i may never learn could be built from the shadows on planets far away from earth could be constructed from the cracks chipped off of asteroids, a visual representation of the void i'd argue that it doesn't matter where each part of me comes from this universe --- *i want to glide along a cosmic wavelength feel myself move through multiple dimensions if space-time is a continuum then why am i stuck in a vacuum, forced to live a life of singularity?*

0

Dec 7, 2016

Dec 7, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC

solarsystem

On Planets Far Away From Earth

*tearing every inch of me apart piece by piece until i've lost the different halves of me the days go by, i lose myself a bit each time oh, where does it all go? where does your body go if you never return home?* --- people are young, that much is true but i know for once that i'm older than you and when i look into your eyes i see my fears reflected back to me the fear of dying young and living too old because dying when you're young reaffirms your dreams and dying when its all said and done gives you a legacy who is my soul? i may never learn could be built from the shadows on planets far away from earth could be constructed from the cracks chipped off of asteroids, a visual representation of the void i'd argue that it doesn't matter where each part of me comes from this universe --- *i want to glide along a cosmic wavelength feel myself move through multiple dimensions if space-time is a continuum then why am i stuck in a vacuum, forced to live a life of singularity?*

27

They say with time, comes grace But I was born graceless And the hourglass only reaffirms That nothing, no one, will change that now I saw your light dissipate Fade out into the void of nothingness I tried my damndest to keep it flickering For as long as my unsteady heart could I have grown weary, battered by the war I've waged against gravity for years But it looks like I have finally won As I watch you drift further from the ground Your light was a beacon to these brown eyes I followed it like a second Northern star They say the valiant don't stowaway in lost bliss But I've never claimed to be the valiant sort

0

Oct 25, 2016

Oct 25, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC

chris-thomasrf

With Time, Comes Grace (Beacon to Brown Eyes)

They say with time, comes grace But I was born graceless And the hourglass only reaffirms That nothing, no one, will change that now I saw your light dissipate Fade out into the void of nothingness I tried my damndest to keep it flickering For as long as my unsteady heart could I have grown weary, battered by the war I've waged against gravity for years But it looks like I have finally won As I watch you drift further from the ground Your light was a beacon to these brown eyes I followed it like a second Northern star They say the valiant don't stowaway in lost bliss But I've never claimed to be the valiant sort

16

Chills abound enliven the skin The quiet is pervasive Yet you still listen Mist of your breath Reaffirms existence The placidity of warmth Is yielding to friable ornaments underfoot How is it that the smell of the impending decay Is so intoxicating?

0

Oct 19, 2015

Oct 19, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC

sirene

Reception of Volos

Chills abound enliven the skin The quiet is pervasive Yet you still listen Mist of your breath Reaffirms existence The placidity of warmth Is yielding to friable ornaments underfoot How is it that the smell of the impending decay Is so intoxicating?

9

* fountains arise once ye'll sow to a faith as strong as truthful mountains high 'n' rivers flow to walk alone the very fruitful there's no fast there's no slow to a shinin' light as beautiful where gardens are roses grow to understand the one blissful as there's no beauty that doesn't testify 'n' no truth that doesn't firmly confirm even less there's no atom that could defy as every time, all occasions 'n' in any term just go witness 'n' seek clearly to clarify how everythin' 'n' everyone justly reaffirms *..love always... عرفان بن يوسف © AH 05/08/1436**

0

Dec 19, 2015

Dec 19, 2015 at 4:46 AM UTC

irvan

..witness...

* fountains arise once ye'll sow to a faith as strong as truthful mountains high 'n' rivers flow to walk alone the very fruitful there's no fast there's no slow to a shinin' light as beautiful where gardens are roses grow to understand the one blissful as there's no beauty that doesn't testify 'n' no truth that doesn't firmly confirm even less there's no atom that could defy as every time, all occasions 'n' in any term just go witness 'n' seek clearly to clarify how everythin' 'n' everyone justly reaffirms *..love always... عرفان بن يوسف © AH 05/08/1436**

17

I don’t want to save you But if a simple nod reaffirms your existence or my smile averts the imminent chatter in your head or my kind words negate the plunder of you from Rogue tongues Then let me navigate with you Thru this unforgiving world to nestle in the comfort of being rain for you all over again

0

Dec 15, 2015

Dec 15, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC

ladyofire

The Plunder of You

I don’t want to save you But if a simple nod reaffirms your existence or my smile averts the imminent chatter in your head or my kind words negate the plunder of you from Rogue tongues Then let me navigate with you Thru this unforgiving world to nestle in the comfort of being rain for you all over again

20