A Tearstained 'Why?'

~~~~~~~~~~ 

I cannot understand

Why you force me to stay

Here, trapped

Here, miserable

Here, until my time's up.

Who thought it was a good idea

To tether down all those who wish to fly?

Who thought it brilliant to cage those

Who wish to roam freely.

Yes, there may be danger or unforseen pain,

But I am willing to face it! 

JUST LET GO OF ME

Why, why can't you understand?

I never asked for you to care about or pity me,

What gives you a right to exert your will alone on me?

Why do you act like locking me up is the right thing to do?

Why does everyone praise you for it?

What have I done so horrendously wrong

To deserve you taking my choice away?

Since when has it not been my choice to leave or stay?

Is it just because most others wish to stay?

Why is it treated like a curse when I say I want to leave?

Why can't I choose to leave?

Why does the world have to

Try and stop me? 

Why? 

I do not see the night sky

Because I am a beautiful person

With a beautiful soul, admiring the lovely;

I see the night sky because I am broken and bleeding

On the ground and all I can do is look up

Wondering what anything means, what it's all for.

I do not see the sky for its colours

But for its null black reverse-glow,

As is gobbles up light and warmth and movement;

I see the night sky because I step out of a fever 

And into a dead night to stop my heart from thumping 

To have it leave me a no-dreams kind of person. 

The night is the cool water that tempers my unformed-ness.

It threatens to shatter me, but it the end is the only thing keeping me together.

Night is not beautiful, it's just night.

~~~~~~~~~~

I accidentally pasted instead of copied this poem the first time, so I had to rewrite it and now the wording's a little wonky. :P 

i wrote you a letter

filled with empty, hollow words

I'm sorry

It was a mistake

It will not happen again

none of it meant anything

if you ever loved me at all you'd know

that i never did have a way with words,

but are my tears, shed so freely on this page,

(like i could ever keep anything from you)

enough?

is the blood that dripped from my aching hands,

after moving the pnecil back

and forth

and back again

enough?

is the tiny daffodil sketched on the corner of the page,

your favorite because they remind you to forgive,

enough?

will any of it ever be enough

for you to love me again?

(Ehn I don't know how much I love that one...thoughts?) 

I lose myself

In those sloping rooves and ornate eaves;

In patterns that don't look like they'd match

But do anyway.

In the swooshing robes, and hairpins and tied-up hair,

In plum and cherry, lotus and cinnabar too; 

Of layered language and traditions unbeknownst to me,

Of mystical happenings with souls and dieties and sects and qi. 

I find myself losing hours at a time,

Absorbed in a script of ancient wonder

And brutal culture.

Where 'q's sound like 'ch'

And 'zhe' sounds like a gravelly 'jhuh'

And the 'c's are all 'ts's for some reason;

Then there are lots of 'ia's and 'iao's

And 'ie's and 'ue's, and 'ng' endings. Sorta.

I see the fine strokes and clouds and mountains

And wonder if the world back then

Really did look as misty

And riddled with inky knobbles and elegant strokes 

And whisked onto parchment,

With the sun red instead of yellow,

And the trees all knarled and willow-y,

And the sheered cliffs as striated

As they would have me believe... 

I wonder if things really looked different back then,

If everyone was an excellent painter

And how everybody for so long painted in this style

If it wasn't real after all? 

I wonder if it's just because it was a different part of the world,

But I don't know and never will,

So I lose myself in it. 

I wonder what it would be like

To fall of the face of the earth.

Would it hurt like frozen toes

Or 'cat-scratches' on your arms?

Would it feel like a splitting headache

Or the throbbing hot 'sick' of poison? 

Would it feel like there just wasn't any air

Or like all the air in the world wouldn't matter?

Would it feel like wanting to scream at the world

When you have no voice left to scream with?

Or like a great big whack-- then dark and silence--

Or perhaps it would the most amazing thing ever? 

I think it must be the most awesome thing possible,

for anyone to ever want to take the leap;

For what monstrosities in this real world

Could ever exist to push them that far if not? 

Let's see if I can cheer this thread up a little.

(Talking about things like mental issues is very important, but focusing on something else can also help.)

Both and Neither

The sun diminishes

The horizon darkens

Stars emerge

Moon rises

I am alone

No one is awake

I am not alone

The owls and stars keep me company

The world is empty

I can barely see for the gloom

The world is brimming

Frogs chirp and grass rustles

Night frightens

Darkness unsettles

Night comforts

Dreams of love and life renew

The sun rises

The horizon brightens

Stars disappear

Moon sets

The night evanesces

With all its contradictions

here is a kind-of-bad poem about the sky because today it/i was going through a lot

-- 

the sky breathes with me today

misty cloud-swirls of otherworldly exhalation filling the atmosphere

do not fall prey to the strangling depths of the world 

the sky feels with me today

emotions like pale blue to twinkling violet stretching as far as i can see; and beyond that

(for my eyes are nothing compared to the universe)

the sky cries with me today

raindrops like pain spun between nimble fingers dripping from above, and i wonder

why? and can i make it better?

the sky is tranquil with me today

music drifting like feathers on the ever-so-distant breeze that swells with every beat drop

(we lose ourselves in the melody)

the sky is angry with me today

thunder like my shouts that i never let out & lightning like the insults i wish i could say

the sky doesn't care if i scream 

the sky shines with me today- or rather, tonight

stars welcoming me with gossamer hearts that twinkle like shards of glass- broken but still pretty

(we only realize when it's too late, the wind whispers) 

...the sky is the only one who cares for me today

while doors slam and tears drop; i read aloud underneath the fiery abyss of the setting sun

although this is the end of the chapter, it's not the end of the story 

The snow falls

So silently

In the halls

Of the world.

It showed me

All of

It's beauty

So now I wish

to see it fall

Just once more

Inside a ball

So I will. 

Laughter (Summer of 2020)

Letting go of worry, sorrow, fear, and embracing joy.

Allowing yourself to be free of any burden you might bear.

Untying knots, and letting yourself go

Giggling slowly at first -

Hanging out with friends who will accept your flaws.

Then you will be free.

Ending up collapsing in fits, giddy.

Racing to see who can reach the stars.

Laughter: A Reflection Upon Rereading (11/28/21) 

I kinda wish

there was something

that would make me feel that again.

That immense joy

the carefree feeling

laughing, running, dancing,

loving.

It hurts that I can’t write something

like that again.

Did you know?

I’ve watched people laughing before, and

usually, they don’t just tilt their heads

back, they tilt them forward too.

It’s a complete motion, like

a choreographed dance 

that looks spontaneous.

I’d only be able to write about laughter

through my observations of

other people, because

I only ever laugh silently.

Secretly.

Hidden in the shadows of the back corner of the room,

where you can’t look over my shoulder.

So

I can’t write about that again.

Not the same way I did,

when I pictured friends laughing in a field,

running together with clover and flowers and grass and weeds

caught in their hands,

hair streaming back, 

ugly snort-giggles echoing.

Because I don’t have the kinds of friends

who would run laughing in a field.

I don’t have friends to pick clover and flowers and grass and weeds with

because 

they don’t care.

I guess that’s not fair of me to say -

I haven’t asked them.

They just don’t seem to enjoy that kind of stuff.

So I laugh silently on my own,

about something I wrote

or someone else wrote

and I don’t run with cheeks flushed,

and I don’t stick clover in my hair,

and I don’t twirl and spin and fall

and I don’t have someone to fall with me.