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i’m tired of writing these poems
tired of chasing the right words
for a feeling that never wanted to be named

tired that nothing i write
comes close to the way it felt
to love you
and lose you
and still carry it all

no stanza, no line,
no late night whisper into the void
has ever been enough

the love i have for you
deserves more than language
and yet
language is all i have
I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.
This poem is my way of catching a moment when something that once felt real and meaningful slowly turns into just a shadow, a projection, an illusion. I wanted to show how reality can sometimes feel surreal, and how easy it is to mistake a reflection for the real thing, like in Plato’s cave. We often fall for false impressions. The image of the hand’s shadow on the wall becoming a barking dog or a disappearing rabbit is my way of speaking about disappointment and coming to terms with what happened.
For me, every poem is also like a diary, a way of keeping things I do not want, or maybe cannot, forget. I try to leave space for different interpretations, but what matters most to me always stays hidden underneath. To me, the hand in the poem has already become a shadow. And somehow, even if it makes no sense, the shadow still casts another one. It feels like a game of broken telephone with consciousness. Scattered pieces only make sense to me as a whole.
On your last solo,
you had six matches,
a tarp and a rope,
a bag of granola
on a tiny island,
afraid of the bears
on the mainland;

without any birch bark,
to kindle a fire,
you waited for dark
crawled into your tent
to sleep for the morning
that never comes,

once that full-moon is high
above the black lake,
and you hear them set out
over the water.
Would you have loved me
If i was a worm?
Crushed and torn
Like i mattered nothing at all.
Random thoughts
I tell myself lies
To protect my ego
Twist what I know
Ignore the bruise on my pride
I tell myself lies
You enjoy my poetry
You feel very flattered by me
You may not care to see
Or even know me
But I tell myself lies
I pretend to believe
The struggle is real,
Most love is fake,
The hate you can feel,
Its all written like fate.
herkimer heart
chipping away
and it leaves behind
a diamond dust that can only stay
A love that broke but never died
see, beauty comes from inside

His love kept me alive
It still lives in the ghosts in my spine
His love kept me alive...
And I still believe
it can save.
It can save.

beauty marks and a July 22nd long shimmery dress
Love was magic then a mess
I believed in him like snow and sun
I wore his moonlit love around my neck like gold
and then he was gone
and then he was gone

our hikes beneath celestial trails
Crystals you dropped in my hand.. told their own ancient fables and tales
His once steady steps through forest light
cast magic spells on me at night
His love kept me alive...
this i know

Love can make a wilted dead rose grow
see, love is magic

— The End —