It’s just that He
Answers our prayers
While brushing His teeth.
It’s just that He
Answers our prayers
While brushing His teeth.
And maybe heartbreak doesn’t always feel like the world ending,
Maybe it’s more like the dread you have when watching a scary movie, when someone is walking to their death and you want to do everything to stop it from happening but you can’t. No matter how many times you watch it you still feel the need to do something different, to change the result.
How badly we want to stop and tell the person on the screen that nothing good is waiting for them inside of the house, on the other end of the phone, in the basement,.. or on the other side of love.
Maybe heartbreak doesn’t only feel like pain, but also helplessness knowing that maybe there was something you could have done, something you could have been better at, something that you could’ve said more, but just like in the scary movies you can’t go back and change anything.
You are simply stuck with no response to your messages and images of the one you thought was yours holding someone else, while calling them the same nickname they called you.
And sometimes you’re just stuck on your own wondering why you feel so small.
- And they will say “wherever you want them to be is where they’ll be” , but just because it’s pretty doesn’t mean it’s true.
Im not sure what to do anymore
It sounds tragic, I know. I know how insignificant the suffering of my inner most self is.
I look at my reflection, and feel that it is not mine. The mirror looks back and doesnt recognise me either.
Yesterday I woke up with a weight inside myself so heavy, that I almost fell through the floor the second my feet met it.
The black dog was barking all night. I am tired. My eyes are dry, everything is blurry. But sometimes I think it is better this way. The world seems softer when you cant see it well.
I dream of my future some days. I hope for my future some days. Others, I simply want to become so small that I can crawl inbetween the cracks in the floorboards.
I feel sorry most days. Why I cant be the light I once was. But I remember that the darkness is something inside myself. Inside. I ask it to stay there. To not leak out into my mothers home when I cry.
So long as the darkness stays here. Where I can contain it, contend with it. The black dog, the hopelessness, the hole in the mirror.
I say this only because it needs to be said.
Sadness thrives on silence.
I am tired of letting it live in me.
I am not a gentle woman
Everywhere you have made me bleed
Blood has turned to venom
The moon is full tonight,
silvery in the spread of the sky,
of heart matters
as the heart itself lingers
in the half-world ( the astral plane )
trying to home in
on the beacon - the beat
I feel I should know, but don’t.
The moon is full
and it elicits an inherent want
to transcend, to ascend
to the level where telepathy
outlines the path to you –
wouldn’t that be something?
is your heartbeat - and I once thought
it’d make a fine lullaby.
Let me watch the moon
for a bit longer,
as come morning, I’ll wake up
and end up pouring caffeine
into a single cup
©️ Anna S., 2020
a weight has been lifted
but who pikced it up
before celebrating the release of your burden
and see why you are certain
how does the life mold fit
when you never worked the fittings
and bring on living
i wonder if we’ve ever breathed the same air ever drawn the same portion of the world into ourselves and i wonder if so if it’s possible to still taste you on it - i know we’ve drank the same water because we’ve cried the same tears and i know our flesh is forged from drops that once shared a single body - a lake cool and clear a river wide and wild a mountain’s frozen peak we’ve danced in the same cloud so many times before i can still feel the memory of those moments now when we view the world and each other from afar
a short little poem! very loosely inspired by brokeback mountain because I Am Gay <3
the absence of juniper in your hands
brings temptation to lightly smile upon
the lips of fallen angels, who grace her
only with what stands before the
throne of a King to please you
in silence, you scream to me in metaphors that
reminisce of days that are to come, that are to
whir, that are to sing in streams of dangerous
passion upon the scars that stand for pain-
such pangs of elevation that steal from me
a dream that never was
fallen and empty, ephemeral - a cadence
you could taste upon my foreign lips
as though effervescent lusts could
stagger the serenity from deep within
crawling and erasing that which aids
the destruction of eternal days,
this maddening feeling of sacrifice
a waste to sword your felony
or else, repress sad magic
contained within the black.
Love songs aren’t the same anymore.
I use to think of you,
And the way it described parts of our story,
Or just the way I felt.
Just to realize that just like a love song,
It lasted a few minutes.
That can be replayed over and over again,
But the never the same as the first time.
What I hate more than anything is feeling worthless to the one person who means the world to me
this is a tragic circus,
hopping through the hoops again.
through circle and through circle,
you old familiar foes.
circular outlines of the bubbles
bubbling up the throat,
the regurgitated bile.
the turning churning washing machine
of clothes that will never clean.
the shiny glass edge of
my little snowglobe home.
the happy fishbowl of four walls,
the existence of moments, pegged up to dry.
this tiring pantomime of insanity will drag on,
and i will complain, eloquently,
and you all will clap. all eleven.
so maybe i hang my towel,
if fatigue permits that phrase correctness.
hang my neck. i sound like you, now.
worming into my words. parasite.
love. another on the pile of mistakes, then,
into the well so i may wallow
and let my body fold and tumble.
you taught me well.
your words did not cut deep enough,
so is my skin too thick,
or is there simply not enough of me to be sliced?
what is there left of me to wound?
by the soreness of her eyebrows
and the turning, churning of bile
clawing at the walls of her cradled tummy.
silly psychosomatic sickness.
i never understood that, when i got sick.
i assumed i had to continue about my moments as always;
a physical sickness felt no different to the other,
no more difficult, and yet
i could suddenly lounge in bed until my muscles melted away
and not be screamed at.
But it grew too maudlin, so a clearing.
Through the barren branches like stencils
over the sky, a gaping mouth of light in the distance,
opening onto a grassy cloud
where the raindrops taste of fine wine, and the trees,
they whisper in tongues,
and dangle plums, and the sun smiles at us
because we did not forget him.
but then i catch your voice on the wind
and i am no longer holding the sweet lady’s hand.
how do we put our anger into poetry?
i want to say asshole, i want to say
fuck you, and all the vulgar violent words.
i want to spit fire. i do not want it
to be pretty, because it is not pretty,
the resentment, the bile, the dreariness.
you see, i push the pain down
as far down as it goes
and it crawls its way back up
and i spit venom at everything that loves me.
that was why i always dressed up for the strangers, you see?
you never got that.
i am a trifle to be admired from afar,
the radioactive china off which
all would dine and all would die.
so i make myself a thing of beauty
and shine, and the pedestrians look on in awe
and for a moment i may be adored.
sometimes i think i am a tumour,
bottling and building and swelling,
ready to burst. who will hurt most
when metastasis begins? so we
kill ourselves and call it apoptosis.
and i fool myself into believing
that isolation is protection, prevention.
Now the cardboard monoxide
like chamomile and the men walking
with their necks bent sideways.
Laughs until he dissolves
and his pain and joy are strewn
long behind him on the freeway
as i sprint and sprint and sprint
into the gaping light,
and it is your warm, gentle embrace
holding me under the water.
“My heartbeat knows no name but yours, beating its melody like the hooves of a horse.. each beat racing towards the sound of your voice, and the moon doesn’t leave me a choice.. when I reach the shores of your heart I swim in the ocean beneath the stars of forever, forget you not cause I can forget your face never. Pitter, bum bump, littering soft beats by the dozen at feet of a sweet stallion.. so valiant.”
Kiss me for saying this but I want to ride horses with you - eUë
Plague in the Water 9.25.2020 callalilypoetry
-Notes from this pandemic (a draft)
I slowly tasted her lips,
For I knew that would be the last time.
That lips this soft would touch mine.
That the taste of honey will,
Fadeaway with time.
Leaving the faint sensation,