#my poetry

[flagellant]

[serinfinito]

... infimitos enredos...

Ryudai Takano

[candiedspit]

Angel in the radiator; stories (only fourteen left)

[arc-writes-poetry]

When I was a child  I was told the monster in the closet wasn’t real  I was told it was something of my imagination And I had control over how it made me feel When I got older, I thought it would be the same I thought I could fix the monsters  I thought they would come out from the closet and we’d be friends No one told me these monsters are different  They don’t want your love, and they aren’t in your head  The real monsters aren’t waiting in the shadows  They aren’t odd shapes on the wall  They’re the people you trusted  You told them your secrets, you stayed up late to hear their pain And the next day it turned out they wanted you for their gain This isn’t the end They want to sink their claws in No one told me the monster under the bed Often disguises itself as your friend 

-Monsters by Arcturus Orion (me)

[thyming]

[mockbf]

an untitled piece i like :)

[khaire-traveler]

The Nature of Gods

I often hear of how,

The Gods can be found in nature,

But I don't often hear,

Of the Gods within humans.

If the Gods can exist within nature,

Does that not also mean,

That they exist in us, too?

-

Can you see laughter-loving Aphrodite,

In the gleam of your smile?

Can you feel kind-hearted Hestia,

When there's a loving warmth in your chest?

Can you hear mischievous Hermes,

Within the memorable jokes you've told?

Can you see unbreakable Ares,

Every time you keep trying, despite the hardship?

Can you feel earthly Demeter,

When you eat a meal that you want savor?

Can you hear honey-voiced Apollon,

In the dulcet melodies you sing?

Can you see wild-hearted Artemis,

In your excitement before a thrilling experience?

Can you feel lion-hearted Hera,

Arise in you when you put your foot down?

Can you hear thunder-bringing Zeus,

When the power of your voice shines through?

Can you see dexterous Hephaestus,

In the careful movements of your hands when you craft?

Can you feel earth-shaking Poseidon,

As your blood rushes through your veins?

Can you hear foresighted Athena,

In the words of advice you give to others?

Can you see liberating Dionysus,

Every time you're free to truly express who you are?

-

For the gods do not reside solely in the Heavens,

They exist all around us,

And in everything we do,

They are not unreachably far,

Living in the clouds or on a distant mountaintop,

They are in the air that we breathe,

The cells that flow through our veins,

And each beat of our hearts.

The Gods exist in nature,

And we are a part of it.

[thoughtsfromb4]

The Angel On My Shoulder Goes By The Name Of Death

Preface: For the last day of mental health month, I wanted to share something I wrote that deals with some rather dark struggles. Struggles that I know others face as well. Struggles that I hope might be eased for just one person who reads this, even if only in the smallest way.

There is an angel who sits upon my shoulder who goes by the name of Death,

And though I cannot always see him, upon my neck I always feel his breath

As he whispers to me relentlessly, deftly using my soul’s own Shibboleth.

He is my phantasmagorical companion from which there has thus far been no escape,

One who has no single voice nor form yet is somehow always horrific in his shape

When my mind’s eye sees him lying in the darkest shadows of my brain's path-illogical landscape.

For while it may be hidden, we are locked in eternal battle, one to which we both are bound,

And though the clashes rage on deep within, the fighting furious and yet without a sound,

The hardest part is not the fighting, it is not knowing if there will be any respite to be found.

This war is one without casualties but still with victims–its battles waged within the mind–

But even having entreated aid from all my demons with any values I could trade in kind,

I have yet to even dream of any type of peace accords to which we would both agree to bind.

But what I have paid in pain to learn in this seemingly Sisyphean struggle is that one cannot sit idly by,

That every new assault of his is an opportunity for me to learn new tactics which I can in future then apply.

Thus I have vowed: Whatever new mental munitions he has in store for me, nor what deadly schemes I must yet defy–

Though I know, like you, I too will one day meet my end, it shall be he who will be the first of us to die.

-- @thoughtsfromb4

[gothhabiba]

Colonizers write about flowers they keep their metaphors on ice lest they grow stale or they pickle them for posterity

if I pick flowers they are sliced up into hindba' bzeit or if I embroider quranful onto tea towels it is for Palestine if I pickle liffit or write or pluck or weave it is for Palestine and everything is wrapped up in plastic and everything is by proxy

I know I am an American because my mouth fills with blood when I speak

tell us where is our posterity are these children mine or yours or ours but anyway

fuck your Biden-Harris yard signs fuck your lawnmowers when they kill my chicory and fuck Poetry Magazine

after Noor Hindi, "Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying," Poetry, December 2020

5-minute poem with prompt word "flower" and the suggestion of taking inspiration from this Noor Hindi poem: prompt from @unlivedtenderness give me a prompt of your own with a $5 USD donation to Mohammed & Samar's campaign. Venmo: gothhabiba | Paypal: paypal.me/Najia | Cashapp: $NajiaK (with note "🍓" or "strawberry")

[sanddollarpoems]

I put one foot in front of the other.

I watch the smoke,

knowing the fires are close.

I can hear the cries of the burning.

All day, the newscasters drone on

of new losses,

but I can't even hear it

through the sound of hopelessness.

They have burned down all the trees,

and oxygen is now just for those

privileged enough to afford it.

They've locked us into stereotypes

so we're easier to sort through

once the fires have consumed us.

And I know it's getting close,

but I just keep trudging on,

one foot in front of the other.

[seraphinesaintclair]

“Dawnless Dawn” by Seraphine Saintclair

[ohwhataniight]

My poetry collection is out!

I self-published my poetry collection based on my PhD and I'm feeling delighted to share it with you. It is autobiographical, about the experiences of a non-binary person living in Greece and navigating family, mental illness, relationships and belonging in a conservative, traditional society. You can buy it here or I could send it to you as an e-book in exchange for honest reviews, since I'm only just getting started.

My first memory is crying because Dad was older than other Dads at kindergarten I thought he would die first. The first psychologist said I’m doing everything to go against my parents the second psychologist said I definitely don’t have OCD the first psychiatrist said I was just scared of covid the second psychiatrist said "wake up". The first psychologist eventually decided to go into politics.

[candiedspit]

my only goal of the day was to write a singular paragraph

[arc-writes-poetry]

The soft tick tick tick of the clock The ghost of you beside me I can still hear your voice  It’s so loud Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did I do? Was I too much? My place was with you But you left Now I belong nowhere Was I not good enough? Was everything I did not enough for you? I tried, I really tried  I didn’t want this  I don’t want this  Tick tick tick Time’s running out I never asked for this I miss you Don’t go Leave me alone Tick tick tick You know what you did And now I’ve grown up too soon No matter how much I begged that I was a kid Tick Tick

-Time Ran Out by Arcturus Orion (me)

[marvelishmanda]

Inflect Me, Baby

author's note: learning Czech as a native English speaker is just kind of like this, sometimes...

We started with coffee and a casual clause. Then you slipped into instrumental— and I never recovered.

You’re the kind of language that undresses slowly— case by case, stripping structure till I’m bare, unsure what I’m allowed to carry.

You’re always just outside my lines. I beg in the present tense— but you only finish in future perfect.

I used to flirt in French— no strings, no syntax. But you expect agreement in every position. And when I get it wrong, you correct me— say I’m only animate when the case demands it.

You said you wanted space— but still required the right tone. I tried to meet you halfway, you scrambled the word order and said it was poetry.

You said you don’t mind taking the lead— but you still insist on second position. And G-d forbid I come before the clitic.

You’re soft consonants with hard limits, and half your meaning’s always implied. Every time I think I’ve cracked your code, you shift the stress mid-word— make me unvoice myself to match you.

I fell for your false friends, got intimate with idioms that meant nothing you said they did. You whispered sweet nothings with a softened ď— then proofread my sigh.

I dream in declension tables, whisper moans in conditional, Wake up misaligned and try not to cry.

But I’m in too deep. I’ve stopped resisting your structure, declined every soft boundary you gave me— and still, I keep hoping you’ll inflect me right.