#my poetry Tumblr posts

  • I see your smile -

    something that once brought light to my world

    but now it only brings misery and more water into my world

    until my head dips under and I sink down, down

    until I cannot breathe.

    I cannot bring oxygen to my lungs.

    I feel myself slowly drowning.

    One thing after another slowly sinks me lower.

    I’m struggling to find my way back to the surface,

    I talk to friends, hug family,

    but no matter what I do, it’s like every action puts me lower.

    I reach out to my brother but he’s a horrible person.

    He pushes my head below the surface.

    Then I retreat into my bubble but my head pushes me lower,

    even lower than my own brother had.

    So then I reach out again,

    but everyone thinks that my brother is god-sent

    that he is just an angel sent from above,

    so they also push me down,

    questioning why I don’t talk to him,

    not even caring about what he’s done, telling me

    forgiveness is the key to happiness.

    But why would you forgive someone

    who’s willing to do such awful things to you

    and then tell you

    “we were both in the wrong?”

    I was not in the wrong.

    You were.

    And now here I stand, tears in my eyes as I try to catch my breath

    but I have no gills.

    I have no way to breathe.

    So instead, I drown.

    I drown in my own mind,

    in my family,

    in my life that seems to only bring me down.

    Here I am, falling… falling…

    until there isn’t enough time to reach the surface.

    So I will drown…

    and I will hope that it is a quick, painless (as possible) death.

    #personal #drowning in stress #drowning in sorrow #my life#about me#my writing#creative writing #writers of tumblr #writeblr #poets of tumblr #my poetry#my poem#poetry#poem
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  • types imagine knowing what to say.

    changes it to

    closes my eyes. imagines knowing what to say.

    thinks ‘i love you’

    closes my eyes and tries to imagine knowing

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  • Drops of Life

    I feel the tapping on the surface. Carrying the code to speak to me from its warm touch. The steam that fills my lungs as it escapes what seems to be solid beings. Yet it remains in pure form, ever changing state and degrees. Filling the vessel and taking its shape. Ever flowing and needed to survive. Hitting one with power and surging through as the storms rage in. Yet the therapy we feel when we allow it to swallow most of our being. Head raised above or as we stand, letting it create ripples upon our texture. We embrace it, the constant necessity. Continuing on as the drops mask our sorrows, drowning away the tears. Becoming part of the cycle, for is not water life? 

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  • Lying Lovers

    lying lovers lay together

    lying to themselves

    one lying lover

    leaves the other

    laying all alone

    wishing they hadn’t

    lied all along

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  • i thought was a leader in free world redemption,

    i’ve gotten wayward and unwanted attention.

    nobody knows the road, everyone digs for hope

    we just hope we don’t walk alone,

    but alone is the only way to inner resolution

    so she said “hop on my train and learn some new ways

    to love yourself”

    to love yourself?


    i know it seems hard but you got all the weapons you need

    to keep fighting

    to keep thriving

    to keep biting

    to stop hiding


    you need time to heal yourself

    you need self love to feel yourself

    paint pictures, write, find some help

    read something new on a shelf

    most importantly

    love yourself

    find the things you always dreamed to do

    and love yourself

    find some homies, buy new shoes

    just just just love yourself


    please.

    love yourself

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  • Esa noche que entre besos nos quemamos, se tatuó en mis recuerdos y el pasado.“

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  • Kinda a girl

    There is a story about a goddess who was beautiful.

    There was not a soul who did not envy her.

    I’m not that kinda girl.

    I’m pretty, sure, but I’m not that kind.


    Freyja cried red gold.

    I cry plain, and I’m not an envy to anybody.

    Could be.


    Instead I shaved my head in defiance of something.

    Instead I bound up my chest until it hurt to breathe and kept my head high.

    Instead I refused to be that kinda girl.

    I refused to be any kinda girl.


    Freyja did to, in a way.

    She was pretty, and she was also kind and strong and felt more than anybody as a form of her own rebellion.

    Boulder.

    Sound familiar?


    I’m not that kinda person, lovely and happy and innocent.

    Bitter.

    That’s what I am.

    I’m not the kinda girl that goes through tragedy.

    I’m the kinda girl that creates it.


    So fuck that.

    I’m not any kind of girl because I’m green eyes set into hard stone

    And I’m only kinda a girl.


    Kinda a girl makes you a menace.

    #my poetry#poetry#lutece dubravac #guess i got a tag for my own writing now #new poets society #this is not a #‘not like other girls’ manifesto #this is a ‘nonbinary’ manifesto #nonbinary
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  • Where do you walk Love?

    Do i search for you in front of my eyes?

    Looking into the crevices of antique shops

    and broken stones along the path?

    Do you travel just beyond my reach?

    Or do you walk behind me?

    Tapping on my shoulders

    and laughing,

    as I am too late to 

    turn around?

    #poetry #poets on tumblr #new poets society #poetsofinstagram#my writing#my poetry#my poem#new poetry #new poets corner #writing #writers on tumblr #writing inspiration#writerscreedchallenge
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  • A beast lies coiled within my chest.

    Talloons claw up, raking against my breath.

    Slowly the tail makes its way to my mind.

    Climbing up into my throat, to silence me

    as it goes 

    into the brain.

    The line between the two,

    heart to mind.

    Beating in false tempos

    faster, faster.

    My hands ripple across the stones.

    letters atop each boulder.

    Trying to say what I feel.

    I fall off again, dashing into the

    silver lakes of the laptop. 

    The tail  latches onto my spine.

    Laughing as it shatters my will.

    Still I rise each morning.

    Trying to control this ancient shell

    as it lumbers into the vacant crowds

    that surround me.

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  • Autonomy

    You and them and l and we

    Atoms and molecules

    Connecting

    A string of reasons

    We are different

    And the same

    And unable to reason

    For our singularity

    You touch

    Ripple effects

    Rings pushing out

    From your being

    And you fight

    For your right to be

    Unaffected

    As you touch and push

    And breathe in and out

    The same atoms I do

    No man is an island

    No one is a rock

    No person is solitary

    No one is ever truly alone

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  • The panic of daily breath,

    stagnant air becomes heavy.

    It seem wrong. 

    Actions you know are not right.

    Other hands fastened to my limbs.

    Destroying instead of building.

    The Family asks

    “What is Wrong,

     again?”

    I lie again,

    saying nothing.

    Because I can not find the right answer.

    I wish to scream,

    at all the people.

    Masked faces with masked minds.

    Still looking down at me.

    Yet, i smile my clown face behind my mask.

    Put on my floppy red shoes 

    and let the world laugh at me

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  • Grab his hand, rest your forehead on his shoulder, close your eyes.

    It’s a cold night.

    Focus on his heartbeat.

    Now leave this world.

    Game over.

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  • I’m sorry it isn’t poetic to tell you how exhausted I am from constantly feeling you in my bloodstream, that I have a habit of watching time dance across your fingertips in a silence this skin will always covet. you always come back to me when you’re drunk on the light of the moon and your hands start to reflect the patterns in the skies, but the loneliest I’ve ever felt was that one time I accidentally looked into your eyes for too long.

    I have no problem feeling lost and still loving you.

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  • i did a project about a week or two ago for my creative writing class- telling us to write a recipe for something that wasnt edible- in the format of a poem. i mightve went off script a little bit, but nonetheless wanted it here to keep, as all my poetry archives are <3333




    make some tea


    make some tea and

    put the kettle on the stove

    but notice that the kettle is still sitting

    in the sink,

    untouched for weeks

    you havent thought about comforting yourself

    with the warmth

    of a drink

    in quite a while


    wash the kettle out and

    leave the other dishes to rot

    and, feel guilty,

    and then do the dishes

    because nobody else is around to do them for you


    place the kettle on the stove

    burnt coffee still sitting at the bottom of the burner

    spider web left in the small cracks

    without a spider.

    it mightve been the one you killed in the bathroom and then

    cried over


    set the wet kettle on the stove and then

    notice, your hands,

    placing the kettle down.

    scarred and charred and disgusting and

    wet.

    dry your hands on your sweater

    foamed a layer thick with the dust of the closet

    and go wash your

    disgusting hands


    start the stove

    water dripping from your fingertips onto your socks

    and


    okay. right.

    remember that you need water to drink, actually.

    so silly to forget,

    really.

    so turn the stove off,

    and grab a yellow cup from the cupboard thats cracked

    from when you dropped it at 8 years old and your mother

    yelled at you

    and made you glue it back together

    sit down and think about how you miss your mother

    and wonder why, exactly, you miss her

    and feel the guilt from that thought press along your ribcage

    think about how you always made her tea she didnt drink

    because she always said it was too sweet

    it stung her throat

    and then


    remember the tea

    thats right

    i was making tea, wasnt i?

    tea


    you open the cupboard and

    you dont have any tea anymore

    and now scold yourself for going through the tea already even though you

    just went to the store a week ago


    or

    was it two?

    maybe three weeks ago?

    maybe you havent left since a month and a half ago

    when you misplaced your car keys and didnt have the

    will to search for them.

    maybe coffee will do?

    but coffee reminds you of your father and


    oh, no

    not coffee today.

    ill just make the tea

    that i got a week ago at the store.



    pick up a new cup from the dishes you just washed

    and fill it halfway

    and tip some of the extra water out

    because, surely you dont need to drink that much?

    and pour some more out

    the rest of it

    because you dont really deserve this tea, do you?

    acting as if you need comfort like some child

    telling yourself you need to be consoled

    for something

    and you cant even think of what

    your ugly arms and disgusting hands and your

    rotten neck

    and then decide that, yeah, maybe,

    because of how horrible you are

    and all these days spent alone with yourself in between these warped walls,

    you could spare some comfort

    to make up for it


    so

    find another cup

    a new one,

    and fill it

    to the brim

    and open the kettle and finally,

    god, what took you so long?

    fill the kettle.

    and shut the kettle lid.

    and think about how your home, now, is sort of like

    that kettle lid

    and how its not a home

    and never will be a home because

    you live in it

    thats what your mother said, wasnt it?

    never a home with such a wretched thing

    so that kettle lid is like your

    house, instead

    but its not yours

    they left you here, a while ago-


    stop thinking.


    twist the stove nob and listen to the blue fire thrum underneath

    rhythmic clinking as it starts itself up

    and place your hand on the side of the metal pot to feel it vibrating

    step away and watch as it

    steams and whistles with the heat trapped inside

    bubbling

    open the cupboard to grab the tea box while you hear it boiling over

    and ruining the stove

    with the home of the spider you didnt even have the heart to bury, of course, and maybe if you just had a bit of-


    oh.

    ha. youre out of tea. yes.

    of course youre out of tea

    did you forget?


    maybe they took it with them when they left

    so they could make tea the proper way that they had wanted all along

    not too sweet

    how could you of forgotten?

    how could you of-

    and theres not even-

    theres nobody around to drink it

    only warm homes with warm people and silly warm placemats

    have some warm drinks to warm their stomachs

    tea is for those with a stomach to hold it

    you grab your stomach and feel the crater in the middle

    that you havent filled


    so think about how, well, that’s plenty ruined now

    isnt it?

    all that trouble and waste and


    remember how you have that

    kitchen drawer

    with instant coffee?

    and all the emergency forks and plastic and

    the tea bag you ripped open and set in there a year ago because

    you didnt want to drink it after all, then,

    and while the water is still losing itself over the edge,

    open the drawer and

    look

    look at that lone tea bag

    hold it up like a prize

    knuckles that crack as you squeeze

    go to the kettle, triumphant

    a spark of hope

    hope

    and burn your hand as you touch the handle

    and drop the kettle

    and as half of it pours out of the lid onto the floor and in between your

    sock toes

    stand there and watch it


    and dont cry.

    so simple

    such a simple thing and you

    shouldn’t be crying

    but cry anyways and then

    press your thumb into the burn mark on your palm

    and feel it

    and dont bandage it yet.

    remind yourself that good things never happen when hope gets too heavy


    and then go to the bathroom where you killed the spider and bandage it

    wind your arms around yourself and squeeze

    bury your nose into your collar

    and quietly sneeze the dust away

    take a moment to just stand.

    pick up the kettle

    and throw away the tea bag you left on the floor


    pour the water in the cup you broke and

    think about the coffee and

    sit down in your house with your disgusting neck and the dead spider and your immobile knuckles

    bury your face into your red palms and cry

    and sniff into your sweater


    breathe in.

    drink your warm water and

    its cold.


    but if you go into your room and stand in the doorway

    and watch the small figure underneath it shift

    slide your socks off with your pinkie

    pad over and

    cold, shivering

    dip into the blankets

    and breathe in softly as you feel the figure settle against the crater in your ribcage

    youll wont of needed the tea

    you dont have to make tea later

    and you dont have to drink it now

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  • Guardami. Cosa vedi?

    Uno sguardo spento, lontano, dimenticato da sé. Stenditi qui accanto e raccontami del perché non ti dissolvi in questa notte fredda. Le 2:33, dovremmo essere già lì, nel mondo che desideriamo, eppure eccoci.

    Non siamo soli, chissà quanti sono sdraiati in mezzo alle coperte, accanto alle mogli, da soli, con i figli, che si rigirano e girano nella testa. Senza spiccicare parola.

    Li senti? Piangono.

    Perché?

    Luci accese si vedono dalla finestra, qualcuno passeggia, macchine che sfrecciano per strada.

    Va tutto bene?

    Abbracciami, te lo dico io, “andrà meglio”.

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  • Stesa sul letto.

    Una mano lontana, quasi per toccare un viso assente.

    La mente spenta, collassata, piange.

    Gli occhi persi nel buio, cercando te.

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  • Un momento di affanno

    Un lento respiro

    Occhi vitrei

    Il petto pesante

    Ansia

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  • image


    ———

    Trashfirepoet • 1:23 a.m.

    2018

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  • image

    something gentle today. i appreciate the kind words on my other posts 💖

    #poetry#poem#my poetry#my writing#writing #my tags change every time bc i can never remember what i put for the last post
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  • on projector films without sound.

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