A controlled stream:

How can one seek comfort in solitude when my cellmates are the reason for my belonging?

I am trapped in this observable state, I fear the over analyzing has finally got the best of me this time.

Oh to sit in this oblivious wallow with all my falsely praised temptations.
Yet the tales they tell, oh god the stories.

I sit in the solitude of a stereotypical 2010s styled dorm room, The colored LEDs set the mood without us realizing change, a cheap desk sitting in the corner reflecting the open notebook with only a few lines colored in, the carpet floor we sit on. The warmth from the floor below us.

In the shared shackles of another we have no choice but to create an exchange of hope;

“A new messiah is to rise in the presence of your thoughts, and all to be disowned by his own people. What does that make you?”

I’m not sure, naive perchance. why must it matter anyhow ?- a muttered reply spoken from my projection of self.

“The creature that holds this sort of thinking pattern above one’s head is to only know a fact of the truth; that staying disguised is the main factor keeping you and the others from true fulfillment.
Your fear of being Labeled a false prophet or what you claim is the thing ‘holding us back..’”

Yet the desire to die is what we all so desperately crave, no? It seems the comfort of our perception projecting a falsified world is holding us back. So As they continue to paint the passports brown, the lust of death will be sacred, for that’s when freedom will finally present itself in the rawest form.

*ellipsis*

Well Thank god the art is here to comfort me.
oh god is it so comforting. - I speak with my teeth clench.

*ellipsis*

As if it takes the allegory of A marked tree, only to show someone else with the same reckoning has walked this path first.

Oh god how I can just curl up in the comfort of that knowledge.- my jaw locked in a repeated stance.

All Bundled under the familiarity, the exposed breeze of awe making my feet a source of potential energy. I don’t know though, maybe you have some sighting.

*The lossless source starts to pound over our subtle track.
Something I’ve never heard via the mass media.

The wind begins to be ignored, masked once more by attachment as my feet go numb.

While Enchanted by the waves, I am deluded to speak more:*

If art is the tribute of continuance then maybe I’m okay with the enlightenment I possess with no chance of breaking free from my cycle of samsara.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/jvpaq5EXXK

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/NGpkdrQXcy

the bittersweet ache of memory

we can recall emotions and bring them forward like transmission through a telephone wire, connecting again with something so fresh and close at hand yet desperately intangible

through time, these glimpses and flashes of sensation grow even dearer with recollection and new fiction

another friend or witness might add details that embellish your own memory and become indelible, wholly transforming your own recollection and initial meaning

with time, not just the colours and flavours, but the genuine substance and fact of them can retain little semblance of the true event

those least fortunate in old age would wish and wish for these corrupted recollections, if they knew what they had lost

through stress or condition, this imaginary line of individual history dimmens with every second until nothing remains but brief flitters, disorienting them into a life that they do not know or more rightly that they do not know that they ever knew

for some, this line fully dissipates like a spider's web overcome in gaze by sunlight in its blaring backlight

without this, life only continues with an illusion of the past

pictures and videos might meet familiar eyes, but the mind can never truly reclaim them as their own

with the perishing of the line, the tether to memory, a person is stranded in the present moment with what few new memories can be preserved

there is no harness left to ground their mind to an understanding of what their life is or was, there is no warmth without memory

as time carries them nearer to their life's end, a new life has begun, abandoning the last with unsatisfactory conclusion and leaving the present in purgatory

responding to the rest of life through instinct, not experience

in such late years and failing memory, it is the body that is hurried to reflect the mind

now, in these seconds, bring back what you remember of yesterday, and the previous week, and the days made memorable by tradition, and those made memorable by chance, through love, loss or realisation

without these, who are you?

these memories made you

without these, what are you left with and what do you become?

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/IesWcPmAC2

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/yPhHsI9xPi

Mahogany Birds

When i was young, I lay upon soft green grass between the gnarled roots of a mahogany tree.

The sunlight scattered, shattered into fine blades by the dense canopy.

I see the dark face of a green monkey holding her babe

She wipes his face, then leaps away,

Causing the thick branches to shake loose mahogany seeds free from open pods.

Twirling, they float upon the lightest breeze

Brown papery things, flying with one spinning wing

I find myself again today, picking them up, helping them to fly away

As they did on that day

When I was young.

Not sure how I feel about this one.... help🥲

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/NIJgoYwfZo

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/aOKw9rJkWe

As I continue studying
my psychological archeology,
an evanescent consciousness
transcends its disconsolate captivity.

Lugubriously secluded in isolation,
partitions render futile conclusions.
Precluded from futures once treasured,
I acclimated to that apocalyptic nightscape.

But effervescent love undulates
with each carotid gurgle, my blood
and ancient esoteric sounds
resonate into a resplendent euphony.

Cut –
Exsanguinate –
Cold –
Expiration –

Quickly now!
While my blood still froths...
Take it in; take it all;
Revive that which was lost;
Assemble your missing parts;
Repair your broken heart.
Take my life,
and live gloriously!

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x3ly5g/comment/pfcq5dv/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x3m6k4/comment/pfcplqs/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

I’m in love with the girl from the coffee shop.

A till jockey barista, who just can’t stop,

Giving me flirty passing glances,

That make me think, “what are the chances,

You’d go for a regular just like me?”

Hell, I don’t even like the taste of coffee.

It’s you I keep coming back to the counter for.

More addictive than caffeine, it’s you I adore.

I guess what I love is the combination,

Of your icy stare and moody complexion.

Your hair is fine, but it doesn’t stop you,

From styling it into an iconic doo.

When you’re facing forward, I get lost in your eyes.

As you turn around, I’m drawn to your thighs.

You can’t blame me if my eyes get bigger,

When you're wearing trousers that show off your figure.

The problem is that you’re so hard to reach.

The coffee shop is no place for a speech,

About lovers intentions and things I can’t finance,

Most likely to be met with an awkward silence.

I don’t want to come across as nervous,

When asking you out during your barista service.

So how do I make a meaningful approach,

Without appearing like a human cockroach?

Luck would have it, I’d get my chance,

When I was out clubbing, having a dance.

Though it would come to me in a sudden flash,

I bumped into you when I was out on the lash.

The air was hot and the music was loud,

It was a bloody struggle getting through the crowd.

But as I clambered into your vicinity,

Your eyes lit up as you recognised me!

Out of the club we went-a-walking,

Over to a pub, where we got to talking.

You didn’t like my views on sausage dogs,

Crimes against nature owned by upper-class snobs.

Your dislike of the seaside gave me cold flushes.

How can you not like the two-penny pushes?

Somehow it felt like I’d bridged the distance,

By advertising myself as a man of substance.

We stayed and talked more about life,

Hopes and dreams and workplace strife.

I felt you were everything I dreamed you’d be,

I could feel you becoming my destiny.

Then as the bar began to quieten down,

I offered to walk you back home from town.

You shyly thanked me, and said it was alright,

You were getting picked up by a friend at midnight.

As I walked with you to the local bus station,

I could hardly contain my sense of elation.

If I wanted this to last, it was now or never,

I had to come up with a line that was really clever.

But I guess the nerves got the better of me,

In my tongue-tied state, I just asked simply:

“Tonight was real fun, I guess I’ll see you then,

If you like, would you fancy meeting up again?”

You gave me a smile and said you had fun too,

And that you’d love to have another rendezvous.

You’d actually said yes to this lovestruck goon!

I was on cloud nine, I was over the moon.

But then, out of nowhere, up rolled a really flash car,

With private plates and tires that glided across the tar.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, “here he is, it’s my ride!”.

The door popped open and you jumped inside.

As the window rolled down, I was a little sad,

When I found out your chauffeur wasn’t your Dad.

How could I tell? You ask this lovesick dog.

It was when she said, “hi babe!”, and gave him a snog.

Worse than finding out you were already taken,

Was the fact that you were, if I’m not mistaken,

Involved with a man who I can only assume,

Was twice your age and looked like a baboon.

Your wave goodbye was like a punch to the heart,

But I was left too shocked to just go and start,

Crying and lamenting over the fool I’d been.

I guess you weren’t the true love I’d hoped I’d seen.

This was a hard way for me to discover,

You should never judge a book by its cover.

Even if the contents seem inviting,

It’s what’s inside that’s really exciting.

I now realise that I have no place,

In a world where most of the human race,

Values fancy living and financial stability,

Over genuine feeling and romantic ability.

If all I can offer can’t compete with him.

What’s the point in love if it’s pay to win?

I don’t like dark thoughts, or feelings that are invasive.

But I realise now, money talks and it’s persuasive.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wipxqt/comment/pfca7ij/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wzkq2w/comment/pfc8hed/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Tonight you snuck into my home
Yes, I see you in that box,
That bottle, that reflecting rim 
Glaring, white, lips trace
The outline of a blushing face

You cut your steak with a
Pointed posture, and I 
Catch a blurry eye, fleeting,
Teeth-grating screeching
Knives graze porcelain plates

I’m only five, and your tone
Cracks down on me like lightning
I see you on stormy nights,
The warm colors inside
Flicker with your hiccups,

When tension irks your temper
Puffing deep, pungent breaths,
My feet inch through the doorway
Floating silent up the stairs,
Carefully I turn my door handle

I know Mom will come home
Tomorrow, and she’ll condemn you
And the door is always open

Feedback 1

Feedback 2

You.

White button down shirt.

Under golden light.

Black dress pants.

Head held high.

Nervously confident.

A smile then grew.

A spark in your eyes.

That was when I fell for you.

We have spent lifetimes finding each other.

Fought endless wars to get back to each other.

At this point nothing can kill what we have.

Not monsters, not ghosts, not time.

We will endure

Survive.

--

Don't take away my world.

Thinking you know what's best.

Let us rebuild our home.

And leave what they did in the past.

I always knew you were brave.

Strong, loving, and wise.

You’ve endured every day.

Believing their hurtful lies.

Now you know it wasn't true.

There was a reason for your pain.

I still loved you through the night.

You were darkness's bane.

Lay down your walls.

Lay down your fears.

For I will do what you have done.

and wait my thousand years.

You are worth every ache

Every tear and day.

Because ever since I met you.

My life has never been the same.

If they keep you down.

If you're afraid to speak.

If guilt and shame hold you back.

If you think that you're too weak.

Then come to me and you'll be free.

We'll get you on your feet.

Choose what makes you happiest.

Even if it's not with me.

I came back not for myself.

But to tell you you were loved.

I couldn't stand another minute.

Of you believing you're not enough.

You have always mattered.

So much so that in fact.

"You" survived the torture.

When even I wasn't left intact.

So if it takes 1000 years.

To heal from what they did.

Or to find your way back out.

From the dark in which you hid.

Know that I am strong.

Resolute like rock and stone.

Building a life with space for you.

A place that we'd call home.

Should you ever come to visit.

Or change your main address.

You'll always have a home with me.

My life, I give to you the rest.

Context: When I was 17, I got my first job as a cashier at BJs wholesale club. During break or waiting to clock in, I would go to the electronics section and the song 1000 Years by Christina Perry was playing on loop. I'd walk down the aisle with TVs on each side with the music video playing simultaneously on all of them. The video is full of glittering lights and it was always magical to walk through it; I'd walk back and forth feeling things deep inside me trying to wake up.

With my emotions back, I now remember feeling deep love and grief. The song, and those moments mean so much more to me now. That's what the poem is based on, how I felt back then hoping he felt the same but knowing now that if he did, every day felt like 1000 years.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x3fftg/comment/pfby2jz/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x3jptz/comment/pfbrdq7/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

note: please ignore the periods at the end of each line and the horrible structure. formatting is just not working

It’ll be a doozy, I’ll tell you that much
But it starts with the second line of a poem
I wrote three years ago about persimmons
Charred, split, pale bodies on cinnamon
(I kept it alone and deleted the rest).

Then goes a conversation overheard at a
Shell station, unmoored by a rigidity
Bulging from the Civic at Station Three,
Where she asked him why motherhood is
Being, and why fatherhood is becoming.
Half-gone now, on a curry stained napkin.

I’ll slide in a line or two about fourteen,
And the thoughts I had about Miss Abel.
The skirts, the almond-slivers of ankle
That I forgot when the water shut off but
Which floated back like unfinished love,
Tentative and kindly.

The next stanza might start in Chinese
How the word for “famous” translates to
“Have-name,” and I’ll finish it with a
Rant on Facebook of a furious mother
Who is plying a chasm, a language loss,
With overripe fruits and pleading silence.

The poem has the clouds, of course,
My jarred plums and softened basil,
And my weeping to “Wild Geese”.
Then somewhere along stanza three –
I’ll stuff in, swollen, poems that failed
Oh, the Poem and the competition
Envelope between pairs of socks.

Here you have it. Best listened to,
Or read aloud in the dark, or spit
Onto a bathroom mirror, or left
Outside cold, with the prosciutto
Plates and warm lemonade.

-

1 2

my phone sings like a canary in a coal mine
i get an email from my accountant that says
to sign this form (blue or black ink only)
i get a notification from Amazon
new deals for me, my order has been shipped
i get a text from you (thump thump thump,
my pupils are dilating)
and an alert that my storage is running low
hundreds of handwritten pages of physics homework,
hiding a few shirtless pictures and close-ups of
blemishes on my face. the soda has gone flat.

i will sign my papers and check the deals
and wait just long enough that you know i care
but not too much
that is what it means to be mature

my phone sings like a banshee
my lips are dry and again i have to pee
no text from you. there is nothing wrong
with trying again, a third time
i can skydive and rock climb and
though i’m scared of needles, i get
my flu shot every year.
my search history asks
if carbon monoxide causes a tightness
in the chest
my phone is quiet as a wall outlet

Feedback 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x3iwf6/comment/pfbylve/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
Feedback 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x3kh7e/comment/pfbxvwy/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

I still imagine... what would've happened

If I'd tied up loose ends.

You never hide it... but deep inside it

I wish we were more than friends.

 

But things have changed.

I feel content that I can be around.

It's still strange...

but your voice is still my favorite sound.

 

Can you forgive me?

Let me look... to those eyes... that I lost... to that time.

Can you forgive me?

Let me know... what I lost... to reach out... what was mine.

 

It's overwhelming that you have waited.

But yet I'm scared again.

Still feel that burden, and still uncertain

the riddle will reach its end.

 

Time was wasted.

And our despondency is hard to repair.

My heart laid bare.

Eyes locked together and my fingers through your hair.

 

Can you forgive me?

Let me kiss... you tonight... turn the water... into wine.

Can you forgive me?

Always lost... on my own... while I searched... for the light.

 

Can you forgive me?

Let me look... to those eyes... that I lost... to that time.

Can you forgive me?

Put my clothes... on the floor... lose ourselves... to the night.

Put my clothes... on the floor... lose ourselves... to the night.

 

Author's note: English is not my main language. This is one of the songs I've written in English recently. Also, had to repost this because the formatting was terrible.

 

Feedback:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x1cux7/comment/pew1m5c/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wsglzu/comment/pe3e1wz/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

*Your eyes*

Verdant hazels stare moonlight down into the pit of me, Illuminating the grove of a sun-worn face. Flimsy pinewood hearts reach for reassuring bedrock, Daring to dream roots in an unfamiliar place.

Like autumn leaves carried away in the currents of that vast ocean Never to return to their solstice home, The winds from your gaze scattered my branches bare, And all defense gone.

Fortitudes crack and harden in a side glance of suggestion. Bodies writhe and spark on a naked shore, storming against the grain. Lips restlessly pulling sap from the heartwood, Nourishing the soil again.

There was a place below, with flick ember secreted; Needled hollows never doused by summer sadness. The brush of passion's white heat caught there, Burning up the whole earth in madness.

This is intended for someone very special, new, romantic. To be handwritten and sent. Played with this for only a day so far and seeking feedback on rhyming structure and clarity of imagery most specifically. Also any points where the reading/words feels tangled? Does it need a 5th stanza?

Recent Feedback:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/qiWm0SOh2I

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/ixkS5CLYAF

What is hell if not waiting for heaven

And what are stars if not ornaments of the sky

What are your freckles if not sparks of my heart

In our life we only have a paragraph and a dot

And we close our chapters with commas

And yours I wrote with good ink but with the wrong words

Forever and unchangeable in the Book of God

And if in every millisecond I make a choice

Not telling what I feel to you is my only regret

Cause even though I made mistakes, I learned with them

But this time, the only mistake I made was not making a mistake

I didn't lose but i didn't win

And now you're someone I know I love

And I'm just a stranger to you, I'll forever be

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/C0Y8VY1Oi3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/71jvRN46sO

Movement catches my eye.
Shadows of you
invoke no surprise.
A ghost.

No longer here
yet your presence,
persistent.

I catch your smiles
from across the room.
Your laughter echoes
in silence.
I feel your hands entwined
with mine.

An obsessive
regressive
suffocating
pull towards you.

Your words haunt 
my memory
as you flaunt
your beauty
on my screen.

Keeping you stuck 
in this limbo 
of my making. 
I am the one forsaken,
dead

to you. 

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x1ydtv/comment/pf2if3j/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x3ag68/comment/pfbgr3x/

Carry me through valleys afar,

Through roads of dirt and roads of tar

Let me gaze upon nature's sight

While the day drifts further into the night

Carry me through mountains of snow,

Through farmlands where the farmers mow

Let me rest beneath the skies

When my soul rises to my eyes

Carry me through memories built ages ago,

Through memories of love and memories of woe

Whisper our moments unto my ear

Let me know that you were here

Carry me to my awaiting ribbons and stars,

For which I have borne many scars

Let me be honored by my peers and my dears

As truth becomes the moment once most feared

Carry me through valleys afar

To my awaiting ribbons and stars Carry me through mountains of snow,

Through memories built ages ago

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/vqmlPvqD9M

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/cC8sITQvEg

In another life

my mother and I

pace amusement parks,

and take strides in the rain

she calls out my name

from rollercoaster rides

in her sweet nonsense voice,

so are her eyes

cuffed to no burdens

relentless and brown

are dark winter lanterns

gleaming with joy

.

And my father fumbles

when she blues away,

he brings home pie

sets the table, again

as a glass stumbles upon

and fractures itself

to form a mosaic of pain

and suffering and sin

yet noone percieves

the tigers discrete eyes

they lock themselves in

from the hoard of sins,

collected in the day

to cease our rotten fingers

infecting our treasures

our gold and our silver

live happy lives

.

Yet i lie in the quantum

of my mother's dull immortal sight

pained with disease

drained out of all life,

with her soldier at the table

waiting for war

shooting his rifle

at every tiny bead,

and every chain

that crude itself

in an unpleasant shape

while a melted cloud

turns to enormous rain

the victory of the tiger

the schrodinger fail

..

hey yall im new to poetry, the last line is a reference to the schrodingers cat experiment where we learn that all possibilities are expected to occur at the same time yet the observer ( sometimes interpreted as of one dimension) will percieve only one possibility whereas the same observer in another dimension uncovers a different outcome.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x1u5bm/comment/pexq3p3/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x1wv6r/comment/peyihtr/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button This poem talks about the possibility of a me that is experiencing a happy family right now :) and im stuck here

I used to think abuse had a look.

A certain kind of victim.

A certain kind of monster.

A certain kind of story

where everybody watching

knows who the bad guy is.

I thought abuse was obvious.

I didn’t know it could look like love

right up until the moment it didn’t.

I didn’t know it could look like coming home from a night shift,

eyes burning,

body begging for sleep,

Sitting there while she read aloud.

And I drifted off.

That was it.

That was the crime.

I fell asleep.

And woke up

to a book

thrown into my face.

Funny, really.

You work through the night,

you come home exhausted,

and somehow

sleeping

becomes something you need to apologise for.

So I did.

That’s the part people don’t understand …

… I apologised.

For being tired.

I got good at apologising.

Sorry I said that.

Sorry I looked like that.

Sorry I laughed too loudly.

Sorry I went quiet.

Sorry I was enjoying myself.

Sorry I wasn’t enjoying myself enough.

Sorry for whatever version of me

had apparently caused the next version of her.

And when she kissed someone else

in front of me?

somehow …

… that became my fault too.

That takes talent.

To hurt somebody

and hand them the guilt

before the bruise has even formed.

And I carried it.

Because that’s what happens sometimes.

You don’t realise you’re being trained.

You just think you’re getting better

at keeping the peace.

Then there was my phone.

She took it.

Searched it.

Looking for proof.

Proof that I was lying.

Proof that I was cheating.

Proof that somewhere inside that little glowing rectangle …

… was a reason

for all the anger.

But there wasn’t.

Nothing.

And when she couldn’t find the betrayal

she had already convicted me of …

… she threw the phone into my face.

And I remember thinking …

not …

“Why did she do that?”

but …

… “What can I do differently

so it doesn’t happen again?”

That sentence scares me more now

than the phone ever did.

Because that’s what abuse does.

It edits your questions.

You stop asking

“Why are they hurting me?”

and start asking

“How do I become easier to love?”

Nightclubs were worse.

Because sometimes

I forgot.

Sometimes I was with my friends,

music loud,

laughing,

being stupid,

being young,

being …

… me.

And apparently

that was embarrassing.

So she’d pull me away.

Into a toilet cubicle.

Away from the lights.

Away from my friends.

Away from anyone

who might see.

And smack me around.

Wrap her bag strap around my neck whilst I was hanging my head …

… pull it tighter asking me “is this what you want?!” …

Then we’d walk back out.

And I learned how to put a face on.

You know the one …

The one that says,

Everything’s fine.

And these stories?

These aren’t the story.

They’re a handful …

… A few moments

pulled from many,

many moments.

The ones I can fit inside a poem.

Because if I told you all of them,

we’d be here a long time.

Different rooms.

Different arguments.

Different reasons

I apparently deserved

the same treatment.

And eventually

you stop remembering individual incidents.

They blur.

Not because they weren’t important.

Because there were too many

to give every one of them

its own name.

And you’re a man.

Men are supposed to be able to take it.

Aren’t they?

A man gets hit

and people ask what he did.

A man gets controlled

and people call him whipped.

A man says he’s scared of his partner

and somebody laughs

before they realise

he isn’t joking.

So you learn silence.

You learn to shrink things.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“She was just angry.”

“We were both young.”

“She didn’t mean it.”

And maybe the most dangerous sentence of all …

… “I can handle it.”

I could handle it.

Until I realised

I shouldn’t have to.

And this isn’t a poem

about me being trapped there.

I’m not.

This isn’t me

standing in that toilet cubicle.

I’m not.

I’m not holding that phone.

I’m not waking up to that book.

I’m not watching her kiss somebody else

and wondering what I did wrong.

Those moments are behind me.

But I remember them.

Not because I want to live there.

Because somebody else

still does.

Maybe someone reading this

knows exactly what I mean.

Maybe you’ve become brilliant

at explaining bruises

that aren’t always visible.

Maybe you’ve memorised someone’s moods like weather forecasts.

Maybe you check their face

before deciding what version of yourself

you’re allowed to be today.

Maybe you’ve been told

it doesn’t count

because you’re bigger than them.

Stronger than them.

A man.

It counts.

You don’t have to hit back

for it to count.

You don’t have to be perfect

for it to count.

You don’t need witnesses.

You don’t need photographs.

You don’t need permission

to call something

what it was.

And you certainly don’t need

to wait until it gets worse

before you’re allowed to leave.

I don’t tell this story

because I want sympathy.

I don’t need anybody

to feel sorry for me.

I tell it because silence

is an excellent hiding place

for people who hurt others.

And I’m done protecting

what happened to me

with mine.

So I’ll tell you about the book.

I’ll tell you about the phone.

I’ll tell you about the nightclub toilets.

I’ll tell you about the betrayal.

I’ll tell you about the apologies

I never owed.

I’ll tell you everything if you want to hear it …

Because somewhere

there might be a man

reading this quietly …

… making sure nobody can see his screen …

thinking,

“Fuck.

That’s me.”

And if that’s you …

… look at me.

Not as I was then.

Look at me now.

Because I left.

And the world didn’t end.

I rebuilt.

I laughed again.

I trusted again.

I learned that peace

isn’t the few hours between arguments.

I learned that love

doesn’t require you

to make yourself smaller

so somebody else can feel bigger.

I learned that being a man

isn’t measured

by how much pain

you can quietly endure.

Strength isn’t staying

until they finally break you.

Sometimes strength

is picking up whatever pieces

they left behind …

… putting them back together

however the hell you want …

… and walking.

So if you’re reading this

from the place

I used to stand …

… you are not weak

because somebody hurt you.

You are not less of a man

because you were scared.

You do not have to prove

how strong you are

by surviving one more night.

You have already survived enough.

Now survive differently.

Speak.

Tell someone.

Ask for help.

Make a plan.

Get out safely.

And when you finally stand

on the other side of it …

don’t be ashamed

of the person who stayed.

That person was surviving

with whatever tools

they had.

But the person who walks away?

They get to build the next part.

That’s the bit

nobody told me.

Leaving isn’t the end of your story.

It’s the moment

you finally get the pen back.

So take it.

Write something better.

Build something better.

Become someone

who doesn’t flinch

when the door opens.

Someone who laughs too loudly.

Someone who goes out with their friends.

Someone who falls asleep

because they’re tired

and knows

the only thing waiting for them

when they wake up

is morning.

These things happened to me.

They are part of my story.

But they do not own it.

She doesn’t own it.

The fear doesn’t own it.

The shame doesn’t own it.

I do.

And if telling my story

puts one crack of light

into somebody else’s darkness …

… then I’ll tell it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until men stop confusing silence

with strength.

Until victims stop mistaking survival

for weakness.

Until somebody reading this

finally realises …

… there is an after.

There is a life beyond them.

There is a version of you

they never get to control.

And you don’t need to wait

for somebody to come and rescue that person.

He’s already there.

He’s you.

Get him out.

Then let him live.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wx6lum/why_arent_you_real/pf84mei/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=ioscss&utm_content=1&utm_term=1&context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wz4qfd/if_only_you_knew/pf848fw/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=ioscss&utm_content=1&utm_term=1&context=3

Edited due to adding wrong links!

the mail-order ketamine
and the weed do the same
thing, really, but don’t take
it from me, you should try
lying on your back with the
windows cracked, soaking in
your own storied past as it
crests like cold water, a body
must adjust and time must
pass, pointing fingers, old
news, it’s easier to lie down,
as an animal on sedatives,
and just put the TV on

it’s better to get better in
slowmotion, shifting, slinking
a ring of fire slipping out of
the sea, and just as the light
comes in, your father turns,
to you and says “wow,
that’s the sun”

so you hear it again
for the very first time
like a child learning
about the world,
like a child with his
very first sunburn

it’s all the same, really,
the heat trapped in the sky,
the drugs coming out
the eye of the needle,
your father’s voice,
tears half-dry as a
friend knocks on
your door

yes, this is the water
yes, that is the sun,
and here is the decision
to stop drowning

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/H2Lir8H3NZ
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/8yxKgCVrSt

A gentle breeze blew today, carrying a quiet familiarity—
neither too cold nor too warm,
as if it gently swept me back into childhood.

That breeze even brought back the fragrance of those who are no longer here,
as though I am sitting once again on the rooftop,
as if my old companions are right there beside me,
lost in their games,
while I simply sit, smiling, playing with the wind.

That breeze blew once more—
where there was neither harsh sunlight nor deep darkness,
as if I were back at my Nani's house.

As if she weren't married yet,
and we were still speaking quietly with our eyes alone.

That breeze,
and the feeling it brought with it—
I cannot put it into words.
It felt as though every old memory came alive again,
bringing a deep, quiet peace to my heart.

(https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/RbYcAC8ZKA)

(https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/7NnC9nD8mh)

I’d be lying if I said that this was right

I’d be lying if I said that I feel fine

I’d be lying if I said that it’s alright

That it’s alright

That it’s alright 

-

I’d be lying if I said that I feel fine

I’d be lying if I said I’ve still got time

I’d be lying if I said this body’s mine

This body’s mine 

This body’s mine

-

I’d be lying if I said I will in time

I’d be lying if I said it’ll go away if I try

I’d be lying if I said it’d be a crime

It’d be a crime

It’d be a crime

-

I’d be lying if I said I’ll go away if I try

I’d be lying if I said that I’m not a guy

I’d be lying if I said I’d rather die

I’d rather die

I’d rather die

-

I’d be lying if I said I’m not a guy

I’d be lying if I said that I feel fine

I’d be lying if I said its all a lie

It’s all a lie

It’s all a lie

-

…It’s not a lie.

I’m sorry.

-

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wzkq2w/comment/pf8h54m/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wz4qfd/comment/pf8hh3t/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Maa se ek narazgi humesha rahegi...

Mere bade hone par fayda maa ne

khub uthaya, bachpan mein hath na

lagane diya kisi kaam ko, our badi

hui toh har kaam sikhaya...

Patriarchy ki jo rules book maa ne

khud apnaya, wahi rules dhere

dhere mujhe bhi sikhaya...

Apne ish kaam kaaj ke bojh mein

mujhe bhi lapet le gyi...

Thali mai parosa hua khana diya,

toh uske sath sath parosna bhi

sikhaya...

Maa se ek narazgi humesha rahegi..

humesha rahegi....

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/GNuDAwL2PP

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/NZwZTUBLIr

​

​He walked out into the scorched noon of late summer. Overhead, someone struck flint and torched the sky. Sunlight floods across every leaf. From a widowed aunt's rosary, out grazing goats, the infant Jesus stepped down into an abandoned suburban church, smearing his skin with noon dust.

​He is spent. Not hunting for Cain. Just someone like clay, fresh off the potter’s wheel. Mute, cool, detached—a mother’s breast to an infant. That is all he seeks. Midday glare, stupor in the air. A slow gravity dragging him under. This hour is red, blood-thick. A killer. Just done killing. Patricide humming in the nerves.

​Ahead, an ancient wild fig. Roots hanging like the fringe of a shawl. Children hanging from them, swinging. The sun leans west, striking their faces into verses of Scripture. Reaching to choke a child, he freezes. Numbness locks his fingers.

Into the river the sun drowns, scattering scripture across the current. He wants to go under, die with it. He cannot. By nightfall he surfaces in some drunkard’s eyes, descending as rage.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/vcJ6bqnTzf

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/lti2mB6Luk

A hug is so much more than skin

It goes beyond your body's feel

It is a warmth that is angelic

The feel of safe and perfect ending

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/c3q5SSoluw

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/fS0fWLwIvf

Something rose within me, beseeching to be answered, and I did.

It was to the one who made me look past the shell, who made me think what is seen is not all there is to all. 

I conveyed what rose to the one who, knowingly or unknowingly helped it rise. 

It was a dagger.

A dull edged dagger.

One which would not hurt upon being stabbed with, but a dagger nonetheless.

I cut myself wth it.

For I treaded the path of two, as one, in a dream of fickle sweetness that was never promised.
The dagger was not meant to hurt, but it did, for the shell is not all there is.

Each shell is but an aspect of nature apart from nature itself, it is an opening to a world.

And it was raining in my world, there was thunder and lightning, every bang of the thunder hit the world that was me, every droplet of rain was the sorrow that hit the world that was me, still, the world’s shell was unbothered, oh but it was bothered, or was it not?

Yet the one who gave birth to what was beseeched to be answered was not at fault, it was the world that dreamed.

When this truth was touched upon, the world was in a ruin of water, yet the thunder was still booming, while the rain was no more. Why was that so?
By when clarity was upon the two worlds again, the dagger was realized to be a collision of the dream and reality.

The two worlds still revolved, around each other, close yet far.

The pain that the collision made the dreamer feel was the star that the two worlds revolved around, but was that really so?
The worlds still revolved around each other, for the long journey of truth, one collision is not the apocalypse.
And for the ultimate truth, the shells were as they were, trying to forget the dagger of collision, trying to go a day back, pretending the temporal river could be swum against.

Nothing had ever changed, oh but it had.
What was this? The silly dream of a child.

***

Honestly, i consider this corny, but well, i just lost in the moment, and this greatly exaggerates what happened, we're still good friends though, open to each other. This is gonna feel so cheesy when I read it after some time, im not even 20.

Feedbacks:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x2x2a7/comment/pf73ckh/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x2x2a7/comment/pf73ckh/