#love-struck-sys poetry

[l0v3-struck-sys]

Hey sillies!!! First ever actual post on our collective account and it's nothing other then our favorite poem we've ever written!! <3

It's got some quite dark themes so a little bit of a forewarn there, I'm not entirely sure what tws would be proper for this, so proceed at your own risk,

Poem by : collective

Name : "Wishing on stars and choking on ashes"

Written : Some time during late 2022/early 2023 ( somewhere between August 2022-Febuary 2023)

Posted by : collective

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11:11 make a wish.

I wish for it to be better. I wish for the trembling weakness crushing my body under its embrace to disapper, for fading scars filled with memories erase themselves from paled skin, the memories of their cause gone with them.

I wish to be happy, I wish for someone to love me and tell me I'm worth more then what I can give out, that the person I am is more important then the pleasure I provide.

I scream. In my head I scream my wishes into an empty fog, hearing them echo back at me, taunting me and reminding me that they can't possibly come true.

I whisper them into the soft of a worn stuffed animal wet with tears, they've seen this before, they've felt my tears and stayed inanimate as I broke and pleaded for someone to care.

I'd be doomed of they gained sentience. Secrets locked away in worn fabric that could never be shared with another human. Words too fragile to say to a friend because you never know their intentions.

It's childish really, wishes.

Except like all things from being a child this too has been tainted with age.

Wishes that once were reserved for new toys and good grades now turned pleads for someone to love, pleads that you won't die alone.

Then again, what do I know about childish wishes? As they say, born into a burning house, right?

Yet my house was never burning, I never experienced the warm flicker of flames and found comfort in the burn of a fire.

No, I was born to a house long burnt down.

Cold air nipped at new flesh and burned into a child's skin in a way so similar yet so far from a flame.

Cold seeped into my bones and left a chill in every last part of me.

Yet just like a child born into the flames I found comfort and solace in the cold.

I choose to subject myself to the burn of the cold against my skin despite the part of me that begs for warmth, begs to curl under a blanket and find a place to call home.

Yet I deny it. I rush into the cold and relish the burn, let it seep through my skin and kill me slowly, the pain a deadly yet familiar lullaby.

I want to give into the part of me that begs for warmth. But I can't.

I've given in before, sat by the fire and let the chill begin to melt away, only to be shoved into the flames and burned in such a familiar yet foreign way.

So I subject to the cold, stick to the burn I know and the chill in my bones.

Maybe one day my body will find peace, sink to the ground in a home with no flames and no ash. A strong foundation and a warmth that doesn't burn like pinpricks of vengeance across raw flesh.

But until then, I will continue to curl in the snow, and I will smile as my skin blooms the brightest reds, relish in the familiar burn of the freeze. Even if it ends with my body laid cold inside a closed casket.

[l0v3-struck-feelings]

A collective piece of art to vent out feelings of abandonment over being too much

Bit of a poem here, not our best but it's captured the emotions well enough

Poem name : I've always hated being called a dog

You said you didn't mind a loud dog. Stared into eyes and promised you'd love me even if I was different, even if I didn't behave.

You said you'd work through each hidden wound, coax my mouth from a snarl to a grin and love me untill I was gone.

You lied.

I don't know if I barked too loud or snarled too frequently, I try not to snarl, but my mouth's been twisted into a dangerous display so frequently that I cannot simply stop baring my teeth.

I tried to grin for you, but it always turned out into a snarl, I tried to silence my cries yet they still echoed far too loudly for you.

I don't know when you got tired, but you did.

You forced the muzzle onto my face and I couldn't bring myself to bite at your hands because I still believed they were gentle. You latched a leash and tugged far to harsh as you pulled me away from the warmth you promised you'd never take away.

You dragged me to the forest and commanded that I stay, and in my eyes I begged you to stay too.

And as you tie me to a nailed down post like an unruly dog, a muzzle far to tight strapped to my muzzle, I cannot help but cling to the hope this is a bad dream.

You leave, and as the night grows dark and cold, trees rattling and sinking terror to my bones, I pray for your return.

I am defenseless, bared teeth and loud barks hidden behind a closed mouth and desperate whines.

I beg to you, don't leave me here. I'll never bark again, silence any complaints or noises that plead to slip past my lips.

Just untie me and bring me home, love me. I'll be a good dog for you. I promise. Just don't leave me to decay here. Please.

[puppet-masters]

Dance-y and art-sy things

I recently attended a visions and voices event for my Spanish class: it was a dance production from the acclaimed dance group, “Rubberbandance.” If I’m being completely honest, I accidentally signed up and went to the show without reading through all of the criteria of the performance we needed to go see (what I failed to read was the part that said the event needed to be influenced by Spanish or latin-american culture, which, in hindsight, made just so much sense, and I felt quite silly that the fact didn’t even cross my mind before then). 

Even still, I was intrigued by the group. The performance started out with a few dancers, who seemed to start their routine slightly before the music began. I noticed this immediately. The other thing that I quickly noticed was the type of dancing; it didn’t seem to fall into any specific category that I know of, at least (not that I have an incredibly extensive knowledge on type of dance), but the movements seemed to be totally of their own style. The dancers were moving very lyrically, but the flowing movements were paired with aggressive and abrupt ones. I couldn’t put my finger on why I got this feeling, but I felt very strongly like the message of the performance was political and societally concerned. Reflecting upon it now, I think it was this pairing of lyrical and abrupt motions. Additionally, one of the movements that the dancers would do, often over and over again, was one dancer would charge towards the audience and another would catch them by the hips and pull them away, struggling. It always seemed as if the dancers were fighting some battle, and simultaneously protecting each other from the battle. 

What struck me about this was the fact that a form of art that is so interpretive, not to mention completely silent, can say so much. Style takes such a huge form of all artistic endeavors — this is reflected in almost all of the works we’ve read so far this semester: currently, with The Girl’s writing style, Toni Morrisons almost poetry like prose, and Miss Jean Brodie as well. Words, when crafted well, can say so much more than their explicit meaning. This is something that I’ve come to love and appreciate about the authors we’ve studied this semester, and this principle is reflected in all other types of art. 

-becca :)

[l0v3-struck-sys]

Poem

Written by : Cupid/Simpbur/💕

Name : He loves me, he loves me not.

Written : October 27th, 2023, 2:30am

Posted by : Cupid/Simpbur/💕

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He loves me!

The words we share and each interaction fills my heart with warmth, he calls me nice things and he thinks I'm pretty.

He loves me not.

What if it was all platonic, surely I've misjudged all of this haven't I? You can say those things to your friends, I just assumed instead of asking. I've got this all wrong.

He loves me,

He makes me things and doesn't treat me like just a friend, he said it was flirting right?

He loves me not.

I've got this all wrong. He probably meant it all as a joke, I've taken everything the wrong way and made him uncomfortable with everything I've said. He's going to leave.

He loves me? (right?)

Surely I'm just overthinking right? I mean even if I misjudged and it was platonic he'd tell me if he was uncomfortable, right?

He loves me not.

There's no way he could, he's probably just too scared to tell me I've got it all wrong because I'm a monster. He should leave, I'd deserve it.

He loves me..

No he doesn't.

He loves me not.