r/PoetryWritingClub

On a Sunday afternoon

we get a bit drunk

not enough to forget who we are

just enough to stop thinking about everything else

And we end up making love on the couch

slow...like we’ve got nowhere else to be

Then we end up in bed

maybe you lead, maybe I do

I honestly don’t remember

I just remember stumbling into the sheets

laughing

already all over each other

We lie there

arms and legs everywhere

covers slipping off

your warmth against me

afternoon sun peeking through the windows

making everything look gold

I read you a poem

I wrote for you

And you listen

Not really to the words

but to the way my voice changes

when I get to the parts

I was too nervous to say out loud

Your fingers find mine

then drift slowly

tracing the places

where my skin still remembers you

leaving little shivers behind

You kiss my shoulder

I lose my place

You smile

And suddenly

the poem stops being about you

It’s about this

the quiet after wanting

the softness after being hungry for someone

the weird tender feeling

of being known

without having to explain anything

Outside the world keeps going

Cars pass....

People fall in love....

break each other’s hearts

But here

in this sunlit room

your fingers are tangled with mine

my head is on your chest

and for once

I don’t want anything else

the world could offer

just this Sunday afternoon

a little drunk

a little undone

your skin on mine

my poem between us

and the slightly scary thought

that maybe

I could get used to being loved!

Beautiful Creature, Impressed are you? In being greatly honest, I almost gave in last Friday and disconnected my heart from each of its valves to place it in a box to store it away into the catacombs of the forgotten. Don’t think of me as being overly poetically dramatic. Things were really building up and were getting the best of my emotions. I could not help but let my emotions take over me for the moment I was feeling them.

As strong as I look and portray myself to be; Yes, I do cry heavenly. I felt the strong urge and needed to. I felt a little better after I cried and fell asleep. It has been said that crying is healthy. I’m a person that can usually hold back my tears. But, I think because I am getting more wiser; my emotions have gotten stronger. I even cry when watching certain movies, television shows, and listening to music that’s overly emotionally dramatic that I can’t help the feeling…

Do you cry like I cry?

I could be wrong, but I screened shot a photo profile of another person’s face that looked identical to your’s only difference… is this person put’s their war paint on. I’ve taken notice that you don’t wear any war paint. And that’s fine with me. I love your face. Don’t be bashful to show it off. I look at that picture on the day’s that I don’t see you. Although, I do see you when I look at that picture. It helps me coupe a little. Bear with me that I do feel and hurt.

I just look back and think that if we had kept going like the way we were going before when we only knew that we secretly had feelings for each other. I just wonder from your perspective if you would have continued to talk me face to face? You had distanced your self for a bit completely almost hiding from me. You thought that you were being too up front with the way you felt in my presence. You didn’t want to lose the communication we had progressed to have as well not losing my presence, either.

But now, I hope that we will try to work on talking to each other face to face, again.

I’m actually proud of myself for initiating that I have feelings for you. I am happy that I communicated back with the few small gestures that I gave to you in order to acknowledge your subtle hinted gestures. Really…No time could be better for us. Acting on what we feel is perfect instead of going silent and standing still for all the wrong reasons.

I’d rather that we both be on an understanding that we have LOVE for each other than the thought being “Lost in Space.” To Be Continued… -DK

You turned me into a monster.
Then blamed me
for being born that way.
But I wasn’t born a monster.
You made me one.
You took a child
and tore him apart,
piece by piece,
over,
and over,
and over,
until there was barely anything
left to tear.
You looked at me
and didn’t see a child.
You saw something
that could be broken.
Something you could
rip apart
and rebuild
however you wanted.
You told me
I was nothing.
Worthless.
Never enough.
Never meant to be.
And I believed you.
I carried your words
inside my head
until they stopped
sounding like yours.
They became mine.
Now sometimes
I hear them again.
That voice telling me
I’m worthless.
That voice telling me
I’ll never change.
That voice telling me
that no matter how hard
I try,
I’ll always be
what you made me.
I want to rip those words
out of my mind.
I want to claw them
from my thoughts,
tear them from
every corner
of my memory,
and leave them
somewhere in the past
where they belong.
But I can’t erase you.
You’re my mother.
No matter how far
I run from what happened,
you are still a part
of my history.
A name written
into the pages
of my childhood.
And I hate that.
I hate that someone
who hurt me so deeply
will always be connected
to the person I became.
But maybe
I don’t have to erase you.
Maybe I just have to
stop letting you
write the rest of my story.
So I tell myself:
I am someone.
I am worth something.
I was meant to be here.
I deserve to exist.
I deserve to be loved.
I deserve to be more
than the things
you called me.
And God,
it’s hard.
It’s hard to look
into the mirror
and not see
the person you created.
Hard to look at my body
and hear your voice
telling me it isn’t enough.
Hard to try to change,
to work,
to become healthier,
while that old voice
whispers that I’ll never
be different.
But I’m trying.
I keep trying.
Because maybe healing
isn’t erasing the scars.
Maybe it’s learning
to look at them
and understand
they aren’t proof
that you were right.
They’re proof
that I survived
what you did.
The scars may take years
to fade.
Some may never disappear
completely.
But they’re mine now.
Not yours.
And slowly,
day by day,
I’m taking back
the pieces of myself
you convinced me
didn’t deserve to exist.
The anger.
The fear.
The child.
The body.
The voice.
The life.
All of it.
You may have had
a hand in creating
the monster I became,
but you don’t get
to decide
what comes next.
Because I’m learning
something you never taught me:
I am not what happened to me.
I am not what you called me.
I am not the monster
you made.
I am the person
who survived you.
And now,
I’m learning
how to become
someone you never imagined
I could be.

Color Palette
-

They say blue is the color of calm,
and rage is the red of dawn.
Yellow feels like a joy of a song,
and black, the grief when someone is gone.
White is the purity of a canvas that was never drawn.

-

I'm in a box with no white,
and blue is nowhere in sight.
Yellow is nonexistent, no matter how bright.
Black is consuming, even if it's not night.
Red is all of me… live enough to fight.

Comments:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/83c01SwO6l

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/JvcxAPDMu2

​J'emprunte le chemin de la mort comme j'ai emprunté le chemin de la vie. Je pleure ce qui est, mais pas ce qui a été. Je suis sur un thread / fil qui me tire : dois-je le couper ou dois-je me laisser emporter ? Qu'est-ce qui m'attend derrière ce que je peux voir, malgré le fait que je sois dans l'obscurité la plus profonde ? Vais-je entrevoir une lueur, une petite étincelle qui réchauffe enfin mon cœur ? L'amour que je ressens est-il réel ou juste une fiction que mon esprit a inventée ? Je veux entrevoir ce qui m'attend. La douleur que je ressens ne me fait pas mal, elle me réchauffe le corps, le cœur et l'esprit. Je suis dans un vortex d'émotions. Je me retrouve à léviter quand je pense à toi. Est-ce que si je laisse ce fil m'emporter, vais-je enfin toucher les étoiles ou vais-je me désagréger comme une étoile filante ? Cela ne me fait pas vraiment peur. La seule peur que j'ai... J'ai toujours emprunté le chemin de la mort jusqu'à ce que toi, tu me remettes sur le chemin de la vie.

Have you ever felt the whole world crashing down,

not with thunder,

not with fire,

but with the slow, merciless sound

of everything you once believed in

coming apart?

Have you ever watched the sky turn gray

and wondered when the color disappeared?

When laughter became distant,

when familiar faces became strangers,

when every place that once felt like home

started feeling borrowed?

Have you ever felt like there is no hope,

not because you never searched for it,

but because you searched until your hands were bleeding

through every empty room

and found nothing waiting there?

Have you ever felt like giving up

on being understood,

on explaining the ache,

on wearing that practiced smile

for people who only recognize you

when you look okay?

Everything is going wrong.

The promises crack.

The friendships fade.

The photographs grow older.

The people you swore would stay

become names you are afraid to say aloud.

And somewhere in the middle of it all,

you keep marching.

Through fluorescent hallways.

Through crowded rooms.

Through ceremonies and empty conversations.

Through days that demand a smile

from a heart that has forgotten how.

You hold the colors high

while something inside you

is falling beneath them.

You stand straight

while your world bends around you.

You say,

"I'm fine,"

because sometimes the truth

is too heavy to put into words.

And what does anyone say

when everything hurts at once?

How do you explain

that it isn't one thing?

It's every thing.

Every goodbye.

Every regret.

Every person you couldn't save from leaving.

Every dream that slipped through your fingers.

Every piece of yourself

you gave away

until you could barely remember

what you were before the giving.

There is no grand music in the wreckage.

No beautiful speech.

No perfect ending.

No sudden understanding

of why the world had to hurt this much.

There is only the silence afterward.

The kind of silence

that makes a crowded room feel empty.

The kind that settles into your bones

and refuses to leave.

And still, morning comes.

The sun rises without permission.

The halls fill with footsteps.

The world laughs at something

you cannot bring yourself to find funny.

Everything continues.

That may be the cruelest part

not that the world is falling apart,

but that it can fall apart

inside you

while everything outside

continues pretending

nothing happened.