"unattach" poems
it's like a string gets cut
a piece of hair breaks by the will of your fingers,
or the will of your scissors,
or just all on its own
what has grown into a never ending strand of canned up regrets
forgets its necessity and splits non-aggressively,
progressively but passively
half sinks, the other floats.
not a friend notes the difference,
but you know it's there -
or rather not.
you are one hair shorter,
one tear bolder,
it's getting colder but
you wear a little less.
take a look at all the mess
you made, trying to take care of dying hair -
it's all dead anyway.
trust that it knows when to leave.
trust that you'll known when to grieve
and when the sieve has done its grimy work
someday, it might still hurt.
but you don't need to make sure
it's tucked in every night
bed story and light
rub it's back, "it's all right"
it's all right
do not bite the hand that feeds you
or feed the thoughts that bite.
it's all right.
the string stretched out too tight
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
Manifesting are the worries you constantly put out
Infecting the mindset of the joyful.
Why are you so inconsiderate??
Play nice.
Stop being the sucker,
You can only drain so much from a person.
Like a leech,
You won't unattach until you are full and feel fulfilled for
your own pride and needs.
-LDP
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
Here's to:
Shakey beginnings
and bitter ends
Peace pipe inhale
We bonding for the feel of it
We love the thrill
Of finding things
That undress our spirit
We love it so much
We made a skill of it
Peel another layer back
Unattach yourself
From comfy facets
We we weren't
willing to unravel
but
We did
what we had to
Sappy for a sec
Let me react gradually
Without the need to rush things
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 11:46 PM UTC
My poems are about me,
About the world I created,
About the world that ceases because of me,
About the poverty of my belongings
And the richness of expectations.
That's why I write:
To put the blanks between the bricks,
To keep the sky at sight
Despite every ceiling,
To make of the bitter taste of despair
A pleasant journey.
Poetry is the slow death
Through immortality,
To unattach from life,
Making me less alive,
But eternal.
I love from dying bit by bit
For it is the closest to me I'll ever be,
The maximum to get from life;
The world is a world of ends,
Our wills reminds us of that,
As the sun or the constant now.
Poetry is to exercise the intensity through calm,
The transformation through the steady,
The moment through time,
To vanish every weight through the supreme weight.
Poetry is the victory
Of ink over men,
Of the possible over the real.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 8:57 PM UTC