"unlearn" poems
recently
I got a little older,
learned a lesson or two,
like how loving someone
could never be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
like how nothing
would ever be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
how can I accept
that the miracle of love
isn’t really a miracle at all?
how can I wrap myself
in someone’s arms
when I know
that there isn’t any sort
of poetic loving involved?
how do I unlearn
the romantic thoughts
that taught me
about the fireworks,
the butterflies,
and the fluttering fingers
in the dark.
and accept that
maybe kissing
won’t be as spiritual as I thought.
maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine.
how do I unlearn my innocent heart
who lulled me into a false sense of hope
for a lover who would call
the way my body moves
art.
a lover who would feel
the poetry
in every word
I spoke in the dark.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:37 PM UTC
this is a poem about how you sleep,
how your body grew cold like a corpse in a mortuary.
how it felt wrong to reach out and touch you.
did you know that you turned away from me
every time i tried to face you?
did you do it on purpose?
maybe you were afraid i would be able to see
you were dreaming of her,
that i would read it on your face.
lines by your mouth like obituary,
like roadmap, her bedroom,
the destination, mine, a pitstop.
loving you was like attending a funeral service for myself
and sitting in the front row. no.
loving you was like watching you pick out a casket
and call it practice. ****
i know how sensitive you are about death.
i know it still hurts.
i know how everything hurts.
i am sorry for just being another thing that hurts.
i think i'm afraid to let you forget that you used to want me.
like if i can somehow dig deep enough,
wound you into remembering me.
i keep weapons-grade nostalgia in my back pocket
for the days i can feel myself slipping from your consciousness.
i was born with scar tissue where skin should've been.
but this isn't about me.
this is about the way you sleep
like you're waiting for someone to close the lid,
cover you in dirt, and read a psalm.
this is about the way i tried to sing your pieces back together,
and the way my voice gives out
when i read the things you write for anyone other than me.
lover, friend, stranger,
i just wanted to show you how to love your darker parts.
i never meant to become one.
i am so ******* selfish.
but i swear i am trying to unlearn the steps.
and you used to think my two left feet were charming.
i am out of time in more ways than one.
i keep stepping on your toes.
i can't seem to stop tripping you up,
hoping that you'll fall back into whatever this was.
- m.f.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
“You’re the elephant in every room now. I used to think you were the monster under the bed, but you’re not supposed to fall in love with the monsters. Not even when they kiss you like they mean it. I’m lying down in a field of apologies for you, and they all sound the same. I’m sorry this felt like a flying through a windshield. I’m sorry I didn’t stay to clean up the mess. I’m sorry all we had to show for this was a crime scene love affair. I’m sorry you stopped touching me. You’re living in my head for now, and we treat each other better this time. On the bad days, I think I see you in the supermarket or strolling down the sidewalk or in a car speeding by, and then I realize for a second that it’s still about you. Even when it isn’t, it is. Even when I’m not thinking about your name, everything around me is still singing it. Like a song I can’t get rid of. Like a song I want to unlearn. Like a song that will always belong to my voice no matter how hard I try to burn it away.”
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
An earth sized boulder
dislodged with the thunder
Unleashing catacombs
of terrestrial darkness
lay compressed beneath it
for a thousand years
The hidden ancients
heard its soul hold forth;
their rumbling silence
― laid bare ―
They heard its voice
rises up with the ears
of a new-born fawn
Beguiling roots,
solid as a rock,
hold together
like dark matter
A soul weight
beyond measure
shouldering the torn
of a divided heart
Heaviness ...
O' the heaviness ―
just a platitude for
what you feel
when it all comes
tumbling down
to the ground
Venerable
times immemorial:
an urging silence
pushing down
to the grave,
trying to unlearn
the things
never known
about the hearts
we leave behind
Jesse Stillwater
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
Life is nothing more than madness.
Probably there is no karma, no right, no wrong.
It's all a bunch of mechanic or random probabilities fighting against emotions, which are simply chemical reactions happening in our brain. Often good people get bad things, bad people get good things.
Simple: no meaning, no reasons.
We have these curious habits to give life some meaning just because we want some sort of reward for our efforts.
We put effort in things because inside and deeper each one of us is a dreamer, even the most skeptical man on earth.
But we should go through madness first, to get rid of our inner-fake-dreamer, to unlearn the ********* we have been told from birth and to re-learn how to dream properly, with the help of a less magic but different truth.
If we decide to go through madness we need to know we may not come out sane from it, and sometime we will have left just that little bit to keep going and survive. If we succeed we will understand that there is nothing to win, nothing to lose, that is all about perception and everything is a cyclic succession of experiences to use wisely.
- Manuela Camporaso
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 7:34 PM UTC
sometimes it's hard
just to pick up a fork.
i find myself too weak, arms too limp.
excuses
upon
excuses
piled like a house of cards,
one breeze and i’ll blow away with it.
you won’t be able to catch me,
to stop me,
i can’t even do that myself.
my heart is heavy,
stomach empty,
i still struggle to eat daily but i’m trying.
i do it just to spite those voices in my head
when i should be doing it for me, but
it’s hard to block them out
when they sound a lot like my mother.
sometimes it’s hard
just being alive,
hard to get out of bed when
the weight of the world is pressing down on you.
hard not wanting to die
when the sweet release of these demons is all you find yourself
thinking about,
dreaming about anymore.
dreams of floating through the sky
like the clouds passing;
i’m jealous of the way they hang there, gracefully.
i want to be just like them but
i can’t trust myself not to
fall
back
down
to earth.
i’ve done it too many times before.
i’ve got to remind myself that
recovery takes time.
i’ll never unlearn the calories in a raspberry
but at least now i can drink a glass of orange juice
without shedding a single tear.
sure it’s laced with *****
but don’t worry. it’s not a problem
it’s a coping method,
one you might not approve of but one that works, see
over time the scars on my arms have faded.
heart less heavy,
stomach still empty.
well, not completely empty.
but that’s progress right?
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:22 PM UTC
The swell of your feverish hands over mine.
Sweat soaking into my skin.
I’m clutching every part of you I can grasp,
Every part of you I can fit into my palm.
We’re sitting beneath the hollow tree,
Beneath the ocean of a sky,
Beneath the screaming black-billed cuckoos.
We don't say a word because we don't need to;
Just silent prayers burned between us,
Scarred into pale, malnourished bones.
I look at you as your sloe-eyed gaze
bores into the mountains of clouds swimming above us.
I want to kiss you,
But all I can do is lay my head on your shoulder,
Wishing I could build a home out of your collarbones.
I don't ever feel safe anymore.
Except when I’m forgetting everything, with you.
At dusk,
I tried to unlearn the way the gold in your skin,
Possessed your face in scintillant rays of spots.
I could count each one if I had the time,
But you’re already turning your spine stuffing back away from me,
And skipping back home
Without the bother or concern to look back.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
I was taught that being stubborn
is a virtue that every young boy should have,
that to decide how you govern
your life and your path.
I was taught that being stubborn
is simply a way to be,
that wanting and yearning
provided my journey's fee.
I was taught that being stubborn
was a sign of respect, of pride.
Unlearn all that'd been thought
and learn all from inside.
I was taught that being stubborn
would create a wall around me,
a nocturne of darkness
for which only i could see.
Now i am alone, all stubborn and virtuous
wishing for a chance.
but this disease is cure-less
Through no other circumstance.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:29 AM UTC
A teary farewell at the Airport,
Fake 'good'bye's from heavy Hearts,
Bags filled with memories from the Past,
Cruising over the seven Seas,
A new journey with emotions Galore.
A land promising a colorful Future,
fulfilling every need and Desire,
In exchange of a simple Contract,
Unlearn the ways of the land I Belong,
For I am the square peg in the round Hole.
Burning the midnight Oil,
Stale bread and a cup Noodles,
Celebrating festivals through a tiny screen,
a fake smile masking every tear,
Where's the silver lining amid the toil ?
Oh how the hard work has flourished,
certified successful as defined by society,
smiling at the acquired Possessions,
To realize materials never smiled back,
I am now the round peg without a Soul.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, ****** like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
with love. At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded
down starch halls with the other unnested throng
in wheeling baskets. You tip like a cup; your head
moving to my touch. You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel. They want to know
the facts. They guess about the man who left me,
some pendulum soul, going the way men go
and leave you full of child. But our case history
stays blank. All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although
I never spoke a word. I burst empty of you,
letting you see how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me
and I turn my head away. I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize
your need, the animals of your lips, your skin
growing warm and plump. I see your eyes
lifting their tents. They are blue stones, they begin
to outgrow their moss. You blink in surprise
and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin,
as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in
such sanity will I touch some face I recognize?
Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms
fit you like a sleeve, they hold
catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms
of your nerves, each muscle and fold
of your first days. Your old man's face disarms
the nurses. But the doctors return to scold
me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told
them something to write down. My voice alarms
my throat. "Name of father-none." I hold
you and name you ******* in my arms.
And now that's that. There is nothing more
that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before
and could not speak. I tighten to refuse
your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers. You bruise
against me. We unlearn. I am a shore
rocking off you. You break from me. I choose
your only way, my small inheritor
and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
4k
Because i'd rather avoid you, delete you, ignore you
because the last thing I wanted to was to find myself in the middle of the night before a full day of MEChA activities and workshops writing you a ******* tragic melancholic pathetic love poem
which makes me angry and sad at the same time
talk about intersectionality
because it's hard to survive
and I want to live
and feel loved
and I feel you take me for granted
and in order to honor the love I have for you
I need to let you go
until I can love you as a friend
you taught me to love you without limits
and that's so hard to unlearn
because I learned to wait, to listen, to save, to not expect, to serve, to accept
because I refuse to go on and pretend this love doesn't exist
because I can't be your best friend
comadre, sister or whatever the **** you call it
because you make me feel little, ugly, betrayed, silenced, guilty, unwanted, dependent, anxious,
and because you always expect a reason from me
mientras como de tu plato hondo de soledad y silencio
because I want you to cry like I cried
feel what I felt
believe what I believed
know what I once thought I knew
because I need me whole
and you taught me to love me in fragments.
Because I love you, and love like that is so hard to unlearn. Any theories for that?
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Marooned land-locked
on island earth
Born with an orphan’s
unknowable ache
Born with an empath heart
– always feeling too much –
mystic receptors wide awake
in a highly sensitive soul
It’s as if I've walked along
forever alone,
one step at a time,
lost in a restless nebula
from the earth to the moon
Consciously dreaming
to steal away,
bearing the weight of the sky,
upwards over the mountain,
away from these chains
that bind
The maelstroms echo
behind silenced, probing eyes
with an unsated thirst
to be wanted
dead or otherwise:
Never understanding
the reasons why,
spinning around in my head;
where "once upon a time"
was hidden,
buried alive
A lifetime spent trying
to unlearn the things
I wish I’d never
sought to know,
clinging to the love
I've touched in my life
evermore enwombed
in my heart
Passing milestones:
walking another barefoot mile
passing so many locked doors
without keyholes
– way outside the lines –
Choking on all
the latent words
lay fallow,
left unsaid
Always looking for
something dreamt
but seldom manifest
Growing so tired and weary
with no one standing by my side;
no one to lay down beside me
to take a rest for awhile
Just another chapter
in a timeless same old story;
another dark star
burned – out
– vanished –
into the utter obscurity
of a sky so close and yet
so far away...
Jesse Stillwater ... August 22, 2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
My heart is tired,
It waits for you in dark corners where even the moonlight can no longer touch it.
It counts the days that way,
Missing you.
It asks me how many phases it must witness before you come back,
I don't know how to say you won’t.
My heart still remembers the first time I met you,
It still thinks I write poems about your laughter which became the only metaphor I wanted to write about.
It told me that your eyes were the safest place I ever found myself in,
And between those late-night drives and nights that turned into mornings,
I realized my heart was right.
My heart needs to learn how to let you go.
To take your goodbye, say thank you- and leave.
I need to make it understand that you are an eternity it was not meant to keep.
And the harder it tries to make you stay-
The bigger the cracks you will leave.
My heart is stubborn.
It has tried to keep oceans and galaxies-
Has tried to capture sunsets and sunrises,
But you are more than that-
Yet it still tried to keep you.
My heart needs to unlearn your name,
Because it has given you all my metaphors.
And when I write,
It’s you, it’s you, it’s you and
I miss you, I miss you.
Oh God I miss you.
Heart forgive me, he is not coming home.
Heart forgive me, I don't know how to tell you we are not what he wants anymore.
Heart forgive me, I was too late.
Heart forgive me, I wanted him to be it- too.
Heart forgive me, loving him was never wrong.
My heart is not sorry,
It will never apologize for being
Too open
Too fragile
Too soft
Too big
Too broken,
Because it has held so many wonderful infinities,
It has been home to so many memories.
How can it be sorry?
When it has lived countless of lives.
My heart does not regret you.
It needs to do a lot of things, but for now the only thing it seems to want to do
Is- love you.
Soon, it will hang your portrait in its gallery of almost-
Almost.
Up where the moon belongs-
Until it learns to stop looking for you-
For now, my heart- is yours.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, ****** like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
with love. At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded
down starch halls with the other unnested throng
in wheeling baskets. You tip like a cup; your head
moving to my touch. You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel. They want to know
the facts. They guess about the man who left me,
some pendulum soul, going the way men go
and leave you full of child. But our case history
stays blank. All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although
I never spoke a word. I burst empty
of you, letting you learn how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me
and I turn my head away. I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize
your need, the animals of your lips, your skin
growing warm and plump. I see your eyes
lifting their tents. They are blue stones, they begin
to outgrow their moss. You blink in surprise
and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin,
as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in
such sanity will I touch some face I recognize?
Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms
fit you like a sleeve, they hold
catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms
of your nerves, each muscle and fold
of your first days. Your old man's face disarms
the nurses. But the doctors return to scold
me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told
them something to write down. My voice alarms
my throat. "Name of father-none." I hold
you and name you ******* in my arms.
And now that's that. There is nothing more
that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before
and could not speak. I tighten to refuse
your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers. You bruise
against me. We unlearn. I am a shore
rocking you off. You break from me. I choose
your only way, my small inheritor
and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
3.1k
Arise then...women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts!
Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly:
"We will not have questions answered by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage,
For caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country,
Will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."
From the voice of a devastated Earth a voice goes up with
Our own. It says: "Disarm! Disarm!
The sword of ****** is not the balance of justice."
Blood does not wipe our dishonor,
Nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil
At the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace...
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God -
In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a general congress of women without limit of nationality,
May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.
2.7k
oh such few words are minded,
no bravery apart
from the homosexuals
as skeletons in the chronicles of Narnia
being discovered among
the skeletons of tyrannosaurus rex
making a bed with its wheelchair able
paws - and the flag of the Cymru
fire-breathing turtles before excavation
and the myths of the mandarin too;
now tell me the sub-human plot with the
Normans when the anglo-sax reigned
to teach me to unlearn english
to avoid assimilation,
like you taught your former colonial subjects
to integrate and to alievate keeping assimilation:
which you taught to unlearn the mother's
tongue and learn a discrimination
against furthering the multi-cultural project...
which you taught to integrate and
keep at loss a sacred soul of never assimilating
akin to jew...integrate i must,
assimilate i care not for should i be totally
albino or asserting bleached with peace:
albino oder beteuern gebleicht mit frieden.
integrate i must to utilise the coinage
but to assimilate i must turn into a reggae african
with roots in the Caribbean than the Ivory Coast...
and god willing i will not claim to be
an arab's brother to settle karma over
uplifting the curse over Mecca with ibn Saud's
clock-tower; burn!!!
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
A pencil is of dreams,
the Sandman sings sweetly on graphite.
Unlearn your rules,
unleash your light.
Dance on rhythms of pentameter
and sing melodies that twinkle
on the tip of your tongue,
alliterative opera and assonance
played among the bass that is literature.
Sometimes you must ignore the pain
in your hands,
let callouses build and relish
in blood filling your blisters.
Pain here means progress.
Sweep agony away for the sake of day then sink into the ink of night.
Float on clouds of fantasy and write.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC
Black is white and white is red,
Whose to care when we are dead?
Yellow is pink and pink is blue,
Has the hatred gotten to you?
Is it silly to enlarge the pain?
It's just a skin color just the same;
What some people think is real,
Is imaginery madness, that's the deal.
If the same eternal God almighty,
Molded us all and none are shoddy,
Why should we decree it's wrong,
When someone sings a different song?
Where the tree roots take deeply hold,
Makes children think they only fit the mold,
Parents shape and tell them horrendous lies,
So out they go to make others suffer and cry.
Unlearn this and that along your way,
Determine your own future, this I say,
Remember that shades of colors are grand,
When the muriel created we all share and
understand.
Can't we hope and pray, this is so,
We all are color blind, don't you know?
To live and love by actions and deeds,
To save humanity by planting these seeds.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
I want to say thank you now
for every poet here
who dares to use their voice
in prose
to face their deepest inner fear
that we alone are not enough when that is just a bald faced lie
cuz we were born just perfectly the truth
and we will be more so when
eventually we die
we just forget this incoveinent truth
because
they
clipped our wings to stop our fly
embedded in deep messages
and told to us as wicked lie
and when I think about this now
it really makes me shrug & sigh
and every now and then ya know
it overwhelms
and then my spirit has enough to cry
****
deeper sigh....
I believe,
we hear a voice of broken generations
we hear deep within our mind
and that voice it could be one or many
and man that thing can be so ******* mean unkind
but we can unlearn deprogram change
and what you think inside we'll find?
EVERYTHING.
Ma Cherie © June 2018
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
he said, “stop apologizing.”
it’s a bad habit of mine.
I apologize even when
I know I’m not at fault.
he said, “stop apologizing.”
I didn’t even realize I was.
it’s an automatic response that
I’ve been programmed to use.
he said, “stop apologizing.”
I tried to notice when it happened,
but it’s not an easy habit
to unlearn after years of training.
he said, “seriously, stop apologizing.”
I said “I’m sorry.”
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 10:19 AM UTC
You were the greatest neuronal reorganization to ever happen,
of course I don't know who I am anymore.
What was plastic seems changed to stone in a gargoyle brain and beneath a microscope the shimmering glia spell out your name over and over in little green lights, fossilizing the neurons that say:
Him.
The earth has an edge. Nobody wants to fall off.
So call me Homer, because the gods themselves could not convince me my situation's a sphere there's far too much fear in this flattened plane that understands only primitive desires and just wants you near.
Everyone knows the romanced brain could be mistaken for a ******* addict's.
But perhaps if you look more closely into my eyes you will see my irises have turned stormy, that cyclones of energy are becoming patterns that scribble and scribble arcane suggestions for a new cartography. A new story. A new being.
Supplies needed:
One strong pencil.
Enough oxytocin to unlearn an addiction.
Enough optimism to overcome an affliction, my diction is code for the way you kissed me and it underlines every sentence like the way a voice rises when asking a question.
I have so many questions.
And even though the notion of who I will be when I am not you terrifies me, like Cathy and Heathcliff I will not be doomed to roam the moors, already I know there's endlessly more, and with or without you the best is yet to come. Just as they say. No, I don't know what's in store. But I think that's okay.
Turn golden, Grey Matter, light up 'til you burn.
Reboot.
Restart.
Rewire.
Relearn.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Let's talk about this jazz club
that lives in my cellphone
in 1950 something with Chet Baker
back from the dead.
Let's toast to random notes taking flight
into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with.
Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
"I thought your search was over."--"So I thought."--
"But you are seeking still."--"Yes, even so:
Still seeking in mine own despite below
That which in Heaven alone is found unsought;
Still spending for that thing which is not bought."--
"Then chase no more this shifting empty show."--
"Amen: so bid a drowning man forego
The straw he clutches; will he so be taught?
You have a home where peace broods like a dove
Screened from the weary world's loud discontent,
You have home here, you wait for home above:
I must unlearn the pleasant ways I went,
Must learn another hope, another love,
And sigh indeed for home in banishment."--
2.2k
i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me; if you dust off my skin enough, you'll see traces of the sighs we exchange — spilling down gracelessly, they bruise a fragile skin. i have mastered the art of naming them after wild lilacs.
maybe for once, i can say that i am soft enough to grow flowers on my wrists. my lungs. my sternum — all the parts of me that hurt.
but i know too well all about screaming in barren lands. i have thrown my poems in a forest fire. i have forgotten how to breathe without hands around my neck. i have wished to fall on a sword, way too many times to still call these open wounds as bruises — these bruises as flowers — these flowers as soft.
i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me — kindly, and yet, how can i tremble over gentle things? maybe pain isn't what it always is, and i wish to unlearn this language — the mother tongue, whose every word i know by heart. and maybe one day, when it sighs my name, i finally will stop sighing back.
but now, this bed is caving in under all these lilacs and glassy, distant eyes. oh, such a classic case of a girl gone mad at the sight of sunbeams on dying flowers — aching in silence, as she watches it all.
i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me. and outside, the sun rises in vain.
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 7:20 AM UTC
My homeland!
You have been watching your crippled borders
with wistful looks for gloomy centuries
Soon we will wipe your bloodred tears
after heroic and holy adventures
Yet you are in a deep disappointment
because of the hands lent to the unscrupulous
But never unlearn the destiny ever:
history is always betrayed,
talents are envied,
virtues are misused...
They love politics, not the history,
'Cause they have a historical fear
and it reminds them how they had been abused...
I have found even their "sumptuous" justice
which is carried in their ***** bulky pockets...
My dear,
It is very near,
In Karabakh, the stars will twinkle in a joy
50 million times I will mention your name
and to Jıdır we will be running bare feet.
The echoes will fill the preconceived ears
In Shusha, I will call you,
In Tabriz, we will meet...
Sep 29, 2020
Sep 29, 2020 at 6:00 PM UTC