visionary loser

an alternative to ennui

Tag Archives: poem

Save for the songs of the birds and the wind in the trees

Sun on my neck,

Warm and comforting.

It was a long winter –

I feel the tension uncurl beneath my shoulders,

Like a shawl I drag it from me

One light quick tug

It floats away.

All worries float away,

Basking in that warm glow.

 

All the while I think of you.

How great it would be to share this with you,

So I call you.

The magic is disrupted –

Fragmented by the artificial, cold ringing

I immediately regret it

This is mine to cherish alone.

Not alone, but without you

Without another voice

Save for the songs of the birds and the wind in the trees.

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am i happy now i am now happy.

I’m not good at writing when I’m happy. Maybe it’s because I use it as an emotional release for all the tension and anger I feel. But doesn’t that give such emotions more power and control? Why don’t I write when things are good and blissful and I feel so full and content? Will it dispel these beautiful feelings I feel?

The times we are apart is when I love you.

The times we are together,

you exhaust

my love.

 

It hurts to be with you.

 

Is this what women warn each other about?

Why the feminine is associated with weakness?

Am I weak to want to be comforted and caressed by my abuser?

By the boy I love,

the cause of my cower.

 

You’ve pushed me to the edge.

Please don’t push my off again –

I barely survived

the first time.

 

Because if you do,

I will shatter.

 

Forever.

Filling me up

Do you ever just want to cry to release it all?

To make the pain of loving someone stop.

So you can be left at peace.

Cause I do every day.

And it never works.

 

At Peace

One day –

you will cease these false promises.

One day –

I will stop believing.

One day –

we will make it.

One day –

you will let me grow.

One day –

I will learn to.

One day –

we will be happy in our quiet tranquility.

Nobody Cares

But the thing is, someone does.

No matter how shitty you’re feeling,

How down-trodden and defeated,

Someone cares.

Everyone is appreciated by someone –

Absolutely everyone.

I guess it’s February

I want to write about cigarettes. I want to make some profound allusion to my love for him. I want to talk about ashy kisses and yellowed fingertips. Metaphors of fire and smoke. Comparisons to books. Passion and the patriarchy.

But I find myself writing this: “Why do people romanticize cigarettes? They’re cancerous and smelly.”

Is it distasteful to state the obvious?

Irony.

This Time

Love comes creeping

Hauntingly

This time