Poets On Tumblr - Tumblr Posts

I am unique, but I am not different

I am separate, but I fit in

I have my own views, but I am not ignorant

I am not too curvy, but I am not too thin

I am not too quiet, but never have I shouted

I am who they want me to be, but I cannot conform

I am compared over and over, I am constantly doubted

I am not allowed to over express myself, yet I am expected to perform

They boo and they cheer

I cry and I sneer

They beg and they demand

I conform although I do not understand

I do not know what more they desire

I do not know what less they need

I do not know how to put out this fire

I do not know how much now remains still me

It spreads and it burns

No matter how much I fight, it always returns

And I yearn, and I yearn, and I yearn

But deep inside I’ve always known

That in attempts to reach their impossible throne

I will inevitably be left alone

They think they know me

They think they can control who I will turn out to be

They think that eventually they’ll find the pearl

If they can pressure me into the role of that perfect teenage girl

memento mori (remember you must die)  {december 4, 2022}

I’m thirteen now, in 12 minutes, and I can taste the blood in my mouth. I need to leave this bedroom and run to a place where no one knows my name, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. There is no escaping time.

For the first time in my life the day that I was born has not been spent alone. I have a family now and we shout and laugh and beat our chests like boys do, breathing in the cold air and spitting at the earth for suggesting that we sleep. And yet my bloody nose has licked my lips and the iron reminds me that there is no running from the world.

I hold my future in papercut hands, every passing moment a reminder that I can never be the way I once was. Now I am woman, now I am adult. I make decisions and I have money and I hold cards in the dynasty of girlhood. I am not the first and I am not the last. This is a very old, very well-told story. But what’s the difference between a day and the next when all my family sees is a high-cheekboned child, scraped knees and crooked teeth?

And so I lean over my sink, morning skinny and lightheaded. Shaky hands bring water to a matured creature. The cycle is midnight and then up again at dawn and then repeat. Stretched thin with bony elbows over paper and numbers and notes and sore muscles. I am seeing this new family more than a barely-thirteen-year-old would, especially one who never stops running, one who never sits down and no longer breathes warm air. Unhealthy as it is, I crave it; the last thing I need is time to think and time to realize I haven’t been home in years. Morning skinny and lightheaded, I take a cold shower and remember that I promised myself to stay disciplined.

Ever since my tenth, time is moving faster. As precise as I am, I can never seem to catch up or prepare myself. The revelation has only just hit and broke my jaw, bleeding my nose, forcing me to relive my seventh where I still had training wheels and saw daylight a different way. But I am thirteen now and there is no time to waste. I must work harder and be faster and be better. I must stay disciplined as I promised so long ago (time flies; I will reach through the air and grab its wings) and never grow weary, never lose motivation. Thirteen is at stake; eventually I will catch up and hold it in my bloodied fist. After all, I have been running my whole life, and time has only just begun to.

a poem about growing up and august {august 31, 2022}

August has come and gone like all Augusts do and my body is coiled around years prior. I am who I was a year ago, heart drawn carelessly on my sleeve, sitting in the same backseat, younger and far less bittersweet. The sun is coming through my window the same and my brother is bopping his head to his music the same, but despite this all I wouldn't recognize myself if we met. August is a broken, small-stepped month for fools; you don't notice when it arrives and far less so when it's gone.

kitchen fridge (november 29, 2022)

The sun is coming through the window at just the right angle and this house isn't really a home anymore. Memories ooze from the floor and fill up the room till I feel the need to run to the bathroom and throw up. The ghosts in the memories point and taunt, pictures perfect versions of who we once were.

We whispered lies through tight embrace, deceiving our bodies till they bled. Things don't ever truly change, I tell myself, we are still we. But our family lives in different states.

This house isn't really a home anymore, not with us gone. My soul left with your bodies, with dollar store sushi and Othello on the floor and nights turned to mornings. I have never used the word family to describe it but perhaps it is, ones we never had. Them turns to us and then back again.

This house is built on ghosts. They climb in through your mouth when you're sleeping, choking you up in the mornings when you see the pictures and little passing notes on the kitchen fridge. They travel down, pulling on your heartstrings, leaving a funny feeling called "ring my phone when you get the chance" in your stomach. It doubles you over with nausea. Before they go, they travel all the way down to your knees, making you think that they;re still scabbed and skinny like when you all first met. The ghosts leave you to bleed out in broad daylight. The delirious feeling brings a promise to come again.

This house was built on memories, back when it was a home. Wishbones make up the frame and Sundays build the drywall, our bodies curled out inside. Shooting stars and fallen eyelashes mark the distance between us and I keep waiting for that call, waiting to see a stranger to show up on the doorstep with their bags and a gift, something too meaningful to reduce to a three letter word like hug or maybe a three word phrase I've heard come from them before.

Grow old and grow out. Cracked bones heal over stronger, and when a good thing comes your way you'd be smart to go running after (I was never too bright). The way life simply is will never seize to sneak up on me and make my nose bleed. I want to ask if we are still an us anymore, but underneath the taped together photographs on the kitchen fridge, I know the answer.

The Color Blue

I hate the color blue.

It reminds me of my father’s eyes;

a light shade of blue, that look and feel like ice.

They stretch wide and unblinking when he’s mad

wild- like a rabid animal.

He’s always mad.

I love the color blue.

“You look good in blue, honey.” Coos my father.

He has a wide smile, his white teeth glimmering with pride

and the corners of his eyes crinkling.

His compliments are rare, so his praise makes me warm inside;

a sharp contrast to how i feel when i am subjected to his freezing stare.

I wish he could look at me all the time

with those wonderful crinkles by his eyes.

It’s much better than drowning in a fury I can’t seem to escape.

I wish he was happy.

I wish I was happy

with him.

My Mom

You are my Red.

the passion that keeps me going,

the anger that taught me to forgive.

You are my Orange.

the one who gets me out of bed when i can’t do it myself,

the light at the end of my tunnel vision.

You are my Yellow.

the warm breakfast on a Saturday morning,

the laughter that spews from my mouth when we gossip in the car.

You are my Green.

the success i strive to become,

the one who takes care of me when i get sick.

You are my Blue.

the trust in deep talks,

the trust that when you say I look good in this shirt, you really mean it.

You are my Purple.

the way you say i have so much talent,

the one who calms me after a nightmare.

You are my Pink.

the soreness in my cheeks when i smile endlessly,

the tightness in my chest when my heart spills over with love.

You are my White.

the hope that i can be loved,

the beauty who looks good in everything and anything.

You are my Gray.

the tranquility of sitting together in the living room on a rainy day,

the maturity i learned from to admit when i’m wrong.

You are my Black.

my tether to the Earth when I float off,

my rock when things get too much.

You are my Brown.

the reliability in your advice,

the one that helps me grow.

You are my Everything,

the one i love so intensely,

i had to put it in a poem.

I love you, Mom.

a/n: i wanted to color code each word but apparently Tumblr doesn’t wanna have yellow, gray, black, or brown, so just pretend that they’re colored 🤷🏻‍♀️

This makes me feel like I'm bidding goodbye to Narnia 😭🥺

It's gorgeous- whoever wrote this thank you for sharing it~~ 💕✨

We skipped around the snow

And danced with the snowdragon

We snuggled around the fire

And gazed across the ocean

Of misty blue eyes

And whispered goodbyes

It's kinda me!

The Sun shines everyday So do I! Join me now I'll make you fall in love With yourself! 😉

What do you do when the world separates you?

When you have no one to blame?

When you don't have them to love?

When you have no one to hate?

When you have nothing to hold onto but only memories?

When that beautiful ocean filled with love is now drowning you?

When you want to hold on a little longer but have no breath left.

What do you do?

"Ella nunca suele decir nada y nada para mí es suficiente"

Agapxis

And I stare at a sky which has turned into a graveyard. And I cry as a new star appears because another child has died tonight. And I mourn for the constellations that remain incomplete. For one of them is alive. But isn't that worse? And I watch shooting stars search for their place, their country, yet there is no sky there for them to travel to. Just smoke. And fire. And a hell my God didn't make. And I watch from my screen as a world disappears. And I see its citizens begging to be heard. And then I see the rest of us. And I watch as we stuff cotton in our ears. 

My mother’s sadness is an ocean above me.

It is a murky sea i walk into each morning,

A little bit of my body disappearing with every step,

Until i am unable to tell where i end and where this tsunami begins.

Now, i open my mouth

— just a little wider than yesterday —

And i force the saltwater down my throat.

My lungs expand, they burn

— just a little bit more than yesterday —

And the raging waves become slow tides.

They roll over me soothingly

As my body sinks to the sea floor once more.

Tomorrow, i wake up.

My mother’s ocean is no longer there.

Yet,

My lungs ache,

They throb,

As a saline flood pushes against them.

My lord, 

Why do you do this? 

Why must i burn in the flames of my fathers sins, 

While he stands by my ashes

And prays for more light. 

I am lost here,

In this land i call home.

My feet burn and blister from the sand they walk over;

My mouth twinges and stings from the air it swallows;

My body spasms and twitches from the heat it withstands,

And I realise once more:

I was not made for this.

For where is the subtle brush of grass that should greet my every step?

Where is the smoke my lungs were made to breath?

Where are the monsoons that should shower my skin?

Where are they?

I am growing desperate, now.

Each day a new petal falls off me,

A thorn growing in its place,

And I find I am more cactus than jasmine today.

I feel the most poetic witnessing someone elses sadness. Someone else's loss. I do not know why. But my tears drip more freely then . My hand shakes less. my pen writes more. Maybe it is the fact that their misery seems to add a glow to them. A light. A beauty that not even time, with all of its slow decomposition, can fabricate. Maybe it is that. Or maybe it is their iron will, their burning heart, that makes it all so ethereal. My misery is nothing like this. Why? Why? Whywhywhywhy- my misery is a poison i inject into myself everyday, my misery is a shadow that takes my body's form, my misery is neither dark nor light. It does not glow. It does not burn. My misery is grey, ashen. It is my heart, with its crumbling arteries. It is my mind, with its disconnecting nerves. My misery doesn't seem poetic to me. 

When, suddenly, I have no motivation for anything. When, suddenly, I want to climb into my bed and bury myself underneath my anxiety. When, suddenly, I never want to wake up again. When, suddenly, academic validation is all I want. When, suddenly, I am too tired to pick up my pen. When, suddenly, I start losing weight. When, suddenly, my friends wrap their fingers around my wrist and gush about how small I've gotten. When, suddenly, my throat aches with every breath. When, suddenly, there are cracks on my skin that I can't explain. When, suddenly, I'm not survivng anymore.

I am 10. I ask my dad to write down his letters on a piece of paper I thrust into his face. He looks at me oddly, he complies. I am 10. And my hands ache and my fingers are sore, and the page has torn and ripped, yet I continue. My pencil has started to shake, it's lead has long blunted, and a fresh shaving of graphite covers the faded one beneath it, the once sharp curve of the 'B' disappearing under the layers atop it. I am 10. And I wish my dad shared more than just blood with me.

"She's going to sit alone. Right at that same table where she built it all. Her happiness, her courage, her perseverance, but most importantly, where she met all of her friends. Now it's all crumbling down to her fingertips. She closes her eyes and tries to dream herself away into a reality where all of that still exsists, but she can't. It's all blank without the real thing... Without the real them. Complete nothingness. She can't even remember their voices. Everything is fading away from her. And everytime, she blames herself for something that she couldn't control. They've all left now; her friends. The girl lifts her head and stares at them. They're all happy. They all prance around, discussing random topics she used to talk about with them all of the time. She even sees her crush holding hands with her best friend. They don't even notice her. All of them go sit at their new table, completely forgetting about what once was. She weakly smiled as tears fell down her cheeks. Her heart ached for them. For someone. But she had no one. She put her head back down and waited for an escape. She pulled her sketchbook and poetry journal closer to her. They may only be objects, but they are all she has now. She pours her heart out crying. She couldn't hold it in any longer. Her fears were reality, and she somehow had to stay strong in this. But how could she stay strong when she wasn't going to be remembered by any of them? Was it all pointless to make memories in the first place? She just wanted to disappear. She then heard whispers all around her. It sounded like her friends, but that couldn't be. She lifted her head up and rubbed her eyes. A boy with a pretend smile and a sympathetic gaze pulled me into a hug.

"You're going to be okay, we're all going to be okay. I promise."

She cried into his chest until they all gathered around her and tackled her into a group hug.

Her friends.

They were here.

"I'm sorry for the mess I've created," She shyly whispered, "haven't you forgotten me, yet? I would've."

"How could we forget about you?" A raven haired boy asked, "We've been right here the whole time."

- Dreaming of Wolves//Vent

(I just... Sobbed while writing this.)

"Don't cry," He whispered to the broken girl beside him on the ground, "you have me."

The girl choked on her own tears. Blood splattered on the dusty dirt ground below them. It was only them left.

"Now... Now the war is over," She wiped her tears away, "when my friends are all dead. And I'm still here."

- Dreaming of Wolves//Story Excerpt

"It's a sad truth that I will write about everyone I love, but none of them will even try and put me into a sentence."

- Dreaming of Wolves