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i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Mon Apr 07, 2014 10:22 pm

oh god this one started as a joke but first post anyway beca use i think it's actually kinda okay in a weird joke-not-joke way

why did the chicken cross the road?
to get to the 'other side.'
but i don't suppose you can blame him
not after his wife had died
not after his daughter had just walked out
with that slow and confident stride
not after his friend had spoken so calmly
and then it turned out he lied
not after all those long, long hours
where he cried and cried and cried
it's easy to see why he would wish
to get to the other side

not after he spent so many days
just staring at the wall
when he cried so hard he ran out of sobs
curled up into a ball
not after he couldn't find a thing
that was worth it all
so no, i don't think you can blame him
but you could've stopped his fall

maybe it could have been stopped
maybe if someone had tried
maybe if someone had said
'i'd be heartbroken if you died
and if you need to talk with me,
your secrets i will hide'
and maybe he wouldn't have felt the need
to go to the 'other side.'

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Re: i write poems too

Post by you're not my supervisor on Tue Apr 08, 2014 9:43 am

Did you just write a poem about a chicken committing suicide?

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Tue Apr 08, 2014 8:00 pm

yes

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Re: i write poems too

Post by you're not my supervisor on Wed Apr 09, 2014 8:45 am

Cool.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Fri Apr 18, 2014 12:45 am

Fears
when we were children,
our greatest fear was of the dark
or rather, what could be in the dark.
we saw the shadow of the monster in the corner,
the bony hands tapping against the window.

now we see that fear as silly
the shadow was but a coat upon its hanger
the hands? outstretched branches of a tree.
now we fear being an outcast
that no one will accept us,
and if so, we must change so that they will

later we will realize we were wrong
that changing ourselves was not the answer
that being yourself was more important
than lying, and being surrounded by lies
then, we will fear failure, we will fear disappointment
we will fear everything there is to fear

and finally, in the end
we will laugh
because what we should have been afraid of
is nothing.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by you're not my supervisor on Fri Apr 18, 2014 12:02 pm

Very inspirational.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Mon Aug 18, 2014 2:18 am

i cannot keep my tongue from lying--

from saying the 'yes' they all expect to hear
and not the 'no' they dread.

i cannot make it keep the 'not' it always takes away
while leaving behind the 'i'm okay.'

i cannot stop it saying 'nothing'
when words cannot encompass just how everything
is
wrong.

no

i cannot keep my tongue from lying, but
i do wish its lies were true.
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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Mon Aug 18, 2014 2:47 am

i am counting down the days until you are gone.
i hope that then,
it will end--
and all will have just been a bad dream.

but
i
know
i
am
lying.

even if i pretend
even if i surround myself with my own deceit
i will be reminded of you
in small
terrible
ways.

my mother will speak your name
and i will pretend not to hear it.
my father will pass the phone around
and i will say as little as i can
and pretend you are just another distant relative
i speak to now and then.

and if i cry,
then it will be in the dark
while all is sleeping.
i will forget it when i wake--
or tell myself i have.

really,
i do not want you to be gone.
i wish you were never there to be gone.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Tue Aug 26, 2014 11:31 pm

it has been too long since i have felt safe inside myself

too many hours have passed
since the monster found a way through.
or
perhaps,
it was always there
and words
brought it to life.

it has been so long that
i can no longer tell
where it is,
whether it has become me
or i have become it.

and yet

i know--
i feel it sink its claws into my heart
its teeth into my soul
but i bite my lip and close my mouth
until my tongue is gone.

until--
i cannot ask for rescue.

until--
they cannot see through the fog.

until--
i am less afraid of the darkness
than turning on
the lights.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Thu Sep 04, 2014 2:52 am

enclosed

we are held in delicate bags of skin in which
we click clack click against ourselves,
broken shards of bones and thoughts
and hopes and dreams and loves
making melodies inside us

but we tread softly so no one hears
the music of our pieces
and wonders what is enclosed.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Thu Sep 04, 2014 3:00 am

i remember

i remember my childhood
when i was invincible and
i could rule the world if only
i tried.

i remember my innocence
when i trusted you and
i did not doubt
anyone's intentions.

i remember my ignorance
when i believed that i
was fine and

nothing
was
wrong
with
me.

i remember my peace
when i was not lying
and i was not crying and
all was right and

i
thought
i
could
forgive
you.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Sat Sep 20, 2014 3:47 am

dawn
you woke me when the sky was still dark
and told me we were going to see the sun come up--
even though i could already see its light in your eyes.

bare feet sounded soft footsteps
even as blades of grass prickled our toes
and cold, wet air filled our lungs.
the fog surrounded us until i was not sure
where the horizon was, but you were.
so we sat and waited,
dew wetting our hands and legs,
the tree's t h i c k branches stretching overhead,
little clouds of breath escaping from us in
bursts

until finally--

the first golden ray
split
the sky

and you turned to me with a smile and said
'good morning.'

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Sat Sep 20, 2014 4:04 am

whole
i find i fit very neatly into the lines of my mother's hands
as she runs them through my hair.
her voice has never sounded odd to me--
not the r that isn't quite right, not the z which might be j--
rather, it seems to be part of me,
so even when there are too few words in her sentence it still feels whole.

my sister and i have crafted a language without words
where one grunt means something that the english language we speak does not quite fit.
she braids my hair as we drive to church and i know when i speak the first part of a pattern we have made,
she will complete it.
'your face is pretty,' i say, when she talks about the trees.
'thanks,' she says.
'you're welcome.'
and together we are whole.

my father snores when he sleeps, but there is something calming about the rhythm
and the silence when i finally have a room to myself feels empty.
in the dim light i would sometimes glance at his face to make sure he was still there;
a foolish thought perhaps but the sight brought me some comfort
and courage, to pretend the shadows on the wall did not look like monsters.

he laughs a loud laugh that i recognize him by even when his face is out of sight
because the sound of it has slipped into the cracks of my skin
and made me whole.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by you're not my supervisor on Sat Sep 20, 2014 11:01 am

You should publish these!

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Sat Sep 20, 2014 5:49 pm

thank you <:

(i can actually recognize my dad by his laugh tho

like we were in my brothers room at cornell waiting for my dad to show up and then we heard some people talking below and we like 'is that him????' and then we heard him laugh and it's just like 'YEP THAT'S HIM')

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Wed Oct 22, 2014 1:00 am

patchwork
im not okay

im confused and upset and i dont understand

how can you just leave like that?

did you even care?

does anyone even care?

whats the point if the person i felt most comfortable spilling to left?

whats the point why dont i just die

im crying and im shaking and i cant breathe come back please

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Fri Jul 10, 2015 2:29 pm

sacrifice
you started giving yourself away when you were young.

it started with your fingers, to your mother,
to the strings of the violin, the keys of the piano;
to writing answers to questions written on the whiteboard in marker that was starting to dry up, to working out math problems in the margins of the test paper.

next was your tongue, which you gave to your brother,
so you said 'yes, okay' and never 'no,' so you never spoke first;
because children should be seen, not heard, because it wasn't like you had anything worthwhile to say anyway.

you gave your arms to your sister,
to fetching glasses of water and snacks and other items;
to do as you were told when you were told to do it, to give other's wishes priority over your own.

you did not give your heart away all at once, but in bis and pieces, to many different people.
some returned the piece and some did not;
those who did handed you a worn-out thing that could not be used anymore, that could not be yours anymore.

you are not entirely sure who you gave your mind too,
to suffocate in blankness and boredom and dissatisfaction, to think thoughts you did not think for yourself (or did you? you weren't sure);
but you were warned that sacrifice might be the last.
you did not care.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by you're not my supervisor on Sat Jul 11, 2015 10:30 am

aww

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Wed Aug 26, 2015 1:34 am

the river didn't care.

we all set off from the same shore, at the same time,
with boats that we made ourselves or with help from
other people, our mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers.
the water was dark and deep and the current fast
and none of us knew how to swim but anyway
we went.

the river didn't care.

some of us had boats that stood tall and proud
with masts that were oak trees, sails white as
snow fallen in the morning in the quiet forest.
they had rudders and knew where they were going,
planned out stops along the way, had a
destination in mind.

the river didn't care.

some of us were fishermen who set off
with a goal that was distant and intangible,
more of a thing to wave off passersby, tell them
'no, there is no need to worry, i know where i'm going'
and then resign to floating along for some more hours.
they stopped at a port when it struck them to
and set off again on a whim.

the river didn't care.

some of us were (i was) floaters on a boat
as frail as autumn leaves, as crackling snapping dry fire
beneath children's boots as they laughed and stomped
along the sidewalk, without aim, without reason.
we didn't have a destination like the others did,
no sense of direction. vague ideas but nothing
more, drifting towards land and then away again.
next time, always next time, repeated like a mantra
to remind ourselves that we had been born on the land,
that the boat was not the warm embrace of a mother.
still we felt like children of the river, still
we never left its waters.

the river didn't care.

all of us started to notice holes the further we got,
some sooner than others, some never noticing
until it was too late to do anything (not that
anyone ever could, but hypothetically speaking).
gradually the water rose, pooling around ankles,
knees, waists, torsos, shoulders, necks, until finally
the river closed around silently, steadily.
some left rocks behind or wrecks behind and some
disappeared with nothing but a gentle ripple
that dissipated before anyone ever saw it.

(we had passed many before and sometimes
we realized what those great jutting stones meant
and sometimes we didn't. and sometimes
we drifted past someone's grave and never even realized it.)

the river didn't care.

after us, more children, eyes bright with tall tales
of the lands beyond, further down the river,
that they could reach if only they built their boats
and set off from shore with all the others.
some of them built sturdy boats and others
built boats as delicate as daydreams, flights
of fancy beneath a blue sky, on top of an emerald
field.

they all set off from the same shore, at the same time,
and none of them knew how to swim, but anyway
they went.

and
as always
the river didn't care.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by you're not my supervisor on Wed Aug 26, 2015 11:47 am

Nice!

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Sun Sep 27, 2015 3:49 am

a hate letter to someone who will never read it

see;
the problem with hating you is that
i can't hate you, because
there's no reason to hate you.
(not you, as you are now,
in the present;
the you of years past
i hate even more than i did before).

see;
the problem with hating you is that
i'm not allowed to hate you, because
you had good intentions
and so somehow that makes zero
equal one, makes all the bad
go away, makes what you did
forgivable.

(it doesn't.)

(it still hurts and no one ever
tried to make it stop hurting
because your good intentions
meant it was all okay.)

(so everyone just ignores
the hole in my head
and the part of my brain
where you carved in your initials with a knife.)

see;
the problem with hating you is that
i hate hating you, because
i'm so tired of empty resentment, of
the need for retribution that i can never
fulfill.

because once upon a time, i
loved you, and so that just made
what you did to me even worse.

because once upon a time, i
loved you, and i wish that
i could again, and i
hate that too.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Tue Sep 29, 2015 2:23 am

you forget

i.
you forget the day.
some part of you recalls wednesday;
it must be wednesday, because
you slept an hour later today
(it didn't feel any different)
and because your mother told you
about your piano lesson later today.

some part of you recalls september--
9 goes first on the line that says 'date.'
it's been long enough that you remember
15 instead of 14, though sometimes
if you're absentminded enough
you look down at your paper and see
that you made a mistake.

some part of you recalls that it's past the twentieth,
but nothing definite. was the twenty-seventh
yesterday? or the day before that?
is today the twenty-seventh?

you don't put down the date.

ii.
you forget the order.
some part of you recalls
sitting at the table, legs crossed.
the black metal was cool
in the shade of the canopy,
the paper cup hot and steaming,
a tea bag bobbing inside.

some part of you recalls
walking down and seeing koi,
orange and white and black
and beautiful, sleek and swift.
someone made a joke.
you don't remember it.

some part of you recalls
walking down further
(so it must have been after
that, then. it must have been.)
and your feet turning brown
because you'd worn sandals,
and the road faded out
into forest floor and you
kept on walking.

you write down the events of the day
because you're afraid you'll forget if you don't.

(it's not important for you to remember
but it's important for you to remember.)

iii.
you forget yourself.
some part of you recalls
that this is you, that the hands
you see in front of you belong
to you and only you, no matter
the silly jokes your sister makes.
after all, they do move when
you want them to.

some part of you recalls
that this isn't good, that
feeling slow and heavy and
slightly off-center, just
slightly disconnected
isn't how you're supposed to feel.

some part of you recalls
that you've felt this way before,
and you can function just fine.
it's a little weird, of course,
and you don't quite like it,
but you'll live.
when you wake up in the morning
you'll be back to normal.

you don't say a word about it
and just eat your dinner.

iv.
you forget them.
some part of you recalls
that this train of thought
is the sort of thing that led you
to open up that message
and read it, over and over,
and hate it. that's why
you deleted the message.
you don't know why you
feel bad about getting rid of it.

some part of you recalls
that you're being an idiot,
that over and over again
they've told you that you
matter, that you are
important, that you are
going to be something.
of course, if they're
all in your mind, you
don't see why they
wouldn't say that.

some part of you recalls
talking and laughing and
joking freely, cursing at losses
and cheering at victories.
surely, you can't make up
something like that.
but if your mind is tricking you,
then you can't really trust
your ability to rationalize.

you don't talk, for a little while.
you're scared.

you don't know what of, really.

v.
you forget so much
that if it weren't for muscle memory,
your heart might stop beating.

you forget that that's a bad thing.

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Re: i write poems too

Post by no mom its ironic on Tue Sep 29, 2015 2:28 am

aka i have a shitty memory and sometimes i get really stressed about it and that's fun

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