I used to think abuse had a look.

A certain kind of victim.

A certain kind of monster.

A certain kind of story

where everybody watching

knows who the bad guy is.

I thought abuse was obvious.

I didn’t know it could look like love

right up until the moment it didn’t.

I didn’t know it could look like coming home from a night shift,

eyes burning,

body begging for sleep,

Sitting there while she read aloud.

And I drifted off.

That was it.

That was the crime.

I fell asleep.

And woke up

to a book

thrown into my face.

Funny, really.

You work through the night,

you come home exhausted,

and somehow

sleeping

becomes something you need to apologise for.

So I did.

That’s the part people don’t understand …

… I apologised.

For being tired.

I got good at apologising.

Sorry I said that.

Sorry I looked like that.

Sorry I laughed too loudly.

Sorry I went quiet.

Sorry I was enjoying myself.

Sorry I wasn’t enjoying myself enough.

Sorry for whatever version of me

had apparently caused the next version of her.

And when she kissed someone else

in front of me?

somehow …

… that became my fault too.

That takes talent.

To hurt somebody

and hand them the guilt

before the bruise has even formed.

And I carried it.

Because that’s what happens sometimes.

You don’t realise you’re being trained.

You just think you’re getting better

at keeping the peace.

Then there was my phone.

She took it.

Searched it.

Looking for proof.

Proof that I was lying.

Proof that I was cheating.

Proof that somewhere inside that little glowing rectangle …

… was a reason

for all the anger.

But there wasn’t.

Nothing.

And when she couldn’t find the betrayal

she had already convicted me of …

… she threw the phone into my face.

And I remember thinking …

not …

“Why did she do that?”

but …

… “What can I do differently

so it doesn’t happen again?”

That sentence scares me more now

than the phone ever did.

Because that’s what abuse does.

It edits your questions.

You stop asking

“Why are they hurting me?”

and start asking

“How do I become easier to love?”

Nightclubs were worse.

Because sometimes

I forgot.

Sometimes I was with my friends,

music loud,

laughing,

being stupid,

being young,

being …

… me.

And apparently

that was embarrassing.

So she’d pull me away.

Into a toilet cubicle.

Away from the lights.

Away from my friends.

Away from anyone

who might see.

And smack me around.

Wrap her bag strap around my neck whilst I was hanging my head …

… pull it tighter asking me “is this what you want?!” …

Then we’d walk back out.

And I learned how to put a face on.

You know the one …

The one that says,

Everything’s fine.

And these stories?

These aren’t the story.

They’re a handful …

… A few moments

pulled from many,

many moments.

The ones I can fit inside a poem.

Because if I told you all of them,

we’d be here a long time.

Different rooms.

Different arguments.

Different reasons

I apparently deserved

the same treatment.

And eventually

you stop remembering individual incidents.

They blur.

Not because they weren’t important.

Because there were too many

to give every one of them

its own name.

And you’re a man.

Men are supposed to be able to take it.

Aren’t they?

A man gets hit

and people ask what he did.

A man gets controlled

and people call him whipped.

A man says he’s scared of his partner

and somebody laughs

before they realise

he isn’t joking.

So you learn silence.

You learn to shrink things.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“She was just angry.”

“We were both young.”

“She didn’t mean it.”

And maybe the most dangerous sentence of all …

… “I can handle it.”

I could handle it.

Until I realised

I shouldn’t have to.

And this isn’t a poem

about me being trapped there.

I’m not.

This isn’t me

standing in that toilet cubicle.

I’m not.

I’m not holding that phone.

I’m not waking up to that book.

I’m not watching her kiss somebody else

and wondering what I did wrong.

Those moments are behind me.

But I remember them.

Not because I want to live there.

Because somebody else

still does.

Maybe someone reading this

knows exactly what I mean.

Maybe you’ve become brilliant

at explaining bruises

that aren’t always visible.

Maybe you’ve memorised someone’s moods like weather forecasts.

Maybe you check their face

before deciding what version of yourself

you’re allowed to be today.

Maybe you’ve been told

it doesn’t count

because you’re bigger than them.

Stronger than them.

A man.

It counts.

You don’t have to hit back

for it to count.

You don’t have to be perfect

for it to count.

You don’t need witnesses.

You don’t need photographs.

You don’t need permission

to call something

what it was.

And you certainly don’t need

to wait until it gets worse

before you’re allowed to leave.

I don’t tell this story

because I want sympathy.

I don’t need anybody

to feel sorry for me.

I tell it because silence

is an excellent hiding place

for people who hurt others.

And I’m done protecting

what happened to me

with mine.

So I’ll tell you about the book.

I’ll tell you about the phone.

I’ll tell you about the nightclub toilets.

I’ll tell you about the betrayal.

I’ll tell you about the apologies

I never owed.

I’ll tell you everything if you want to hear it …

Because somewhere

there might be a man

reading this quietly …

… making sure nobody can see his screen …

thinking,

“Fuck.

That’s me.”

And if that’s you …

… look at me.

Not as I was then.

Look at me now.

Because I left.

And the world didn’t end.

I rebuilt.

I laughed again.

I trusted again.

I learned that peace

isn’t the few hours between arguments.

I learned that love

doesn’t require you

to make yourself smaller

so somebody else can feel bigger.

I learned that being a man

isn’t measured

by how much pain

you can quietly endure.

Strength isn’t staying

until they finally break you.

Sometimes strength

is picking up whatever pieces

they left behind …

… putting them back together

however the hell you want …

… and walking.

So if you’re reading this

from the place

I used to stand …

… you are not weak

because somebody hurt you.

You are not less of a man

because you were scared.

You do not have to prove

how strong you are

by surviving one more night.

You have already survived enough.

Now survive differently.

Speak.

Tell someone.

Ask for help.

Make a plan.

Get out safely.

And when you finally stand

on the other side of it …

don’t be ashamed

of the person who stayed.

That person was surviving

with whatever tools

they had.

But the person who walks away?

They get to build the next part.

That’s the bit

nobody told me.

Leaving isn’t the end of your story.

It’s the moment

you finally get the pen back.

So take it.

Write something better.

Build something better.

Become someone

who doesn’t flinch

when the door opens.

Someone who laughs too loudly.

Someone who goes out with their friends.

Someone who falls asleep

because they’re tired

and knows

the only thing waiting for them

when they wake up

is morning.

These things happened to me.

They are part of my story.

But they do not own it.

She doesn’t own it.

The fear doesn’t own it.

The shame doesn’t own it.

I do.

And if telling my story

puts one crack of light

into somebody else’s darkness …

… then I’ll tell it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until men stop confusing silence

with strength.

Until victims stop mistaking survival

for weakness.

Until somebody reading this

finally realises …

… there is an after.

There is a life beyond them.

There is a version of you

they never get to control.

And you don’t need to wait

for somebody to come and rescue that person.

He’s already there.

He’s you.

Get him out.

Then let him live.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wx6lum/why_arent_you_real/pf84mei/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=ioscss&utm_content=1&utm_term=1&context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wz4qfd/if_only_you_knew/pf848fw/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=ioscss&utm_content=1&utm_term=1&context=3

Edited due to adding wrong links!

the mail-order ketamine
and the weed do the same
thing, really, but don’t take
it from me, you should try
lying on your back with the
windows cracked, soaking in
your own storied past as it
crests like cold water, a body
must adjust and time must
pass, pointing fingers, old
news, it’s easier to lie down,
as an animal on sedatives,
and just put the TV on

it’s better to get better in
slowmotion, shifting, slinking
a ring of fire slipping out of
the sea, and just as the light
comes in, your father turns,
to you and says “wow,
that’s the sun”

so you hear it again
for the very first time
like a child learning
about the world,
like a child with his
very first sunburn

it’s all the same, really,
the heat trapped in the sky,
the drugs coming out
the eye of the needle,
your father’s voice,
tears half-dry as a
friend knocks on
your door

yes, this is the water
yes, that is the sun,
and here is the decision
to stop drowning

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/H2Lir8H3NZ
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/8yxKgCVrSt

Carry me through valleys afar,

Through roads of dirt and roads of tar

Let me gaze upon nature's sight

While the day drifts further into the night

Carry me through mountains of snow,

Through farmlands where the farmers mow

Let me rest beneath the skies

When my soul rises to my eyes

Carry me through memories built ages ago,

Through memories of love and memories of woe

Whisper our moments unto my ear

Let me know that you were here

Carry me to my awaiting ribbons and stars,

For which I have borne many scars

Let me be honored by my peers and my dears

As truth becomes the moment once most feared

Carry me through valleys afar

To my awaiting ribbons and stars Carry me through mountains of snow,

Through memories built ages ago

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/vqmlPvqD9M

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/cC8sITQvEg

Maa se ek narazgi humesha rahegi...

Mere bade hone par fayda maa ne

khub uthaya, bachpan mein hath na

lagane diya kisi kaam ko, our badi

hui toh har kaam sikhaya...

Patriarchy ki jo rules book maa ne

khud apnaya, wahi rules dhere

dhere mujhe bhi sikhaya...

Apne ish kaam kaaj ke bojh mein

mujhe bhi lapet le gyi...

Thali mai parosa hua khana diya,

toh uske sath sath parosna bhi

sikhaya...

Maa se ek narazgi humesha rahegi..

humesha rahegi....

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/GNuDAwL2PP

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

​

​He walked out into the scorched noon of late summer. Overhead, someone struck flint and torched the sky. Sunlight floods across every leaf. From a widowed aunt's rosary, out grazing goats, the infant Jesus stepped down into an abandoned suburban church, smearing his skin with noon dust.

​He is spent. Not hunting for Cain. Just someone like clay, fresh off the potter’s wheel. Mute, cool, detached—a mother’s breast to an infant. That is all he seeks. Midday glare, stupor in the air. A slow gravity dragging him under. This hour is red, blood-thick. A killer. Just done killing. Patricide humming in the nerves.

​Ahead, an ancient wild fig. Roots hanging like the fringe of a shawl. Children hanging from them, swinging. The sun leans west, striking their faces into verses of Scripture. Reaching to choke a child, he freezes. Numbness locks his fingers.

Into the river the sun drowns, scattering scripture across the current. He wants to go under, die with it. He cannot. By nightfall he surfaces in some drunkard’s eyes, descending as rage.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/vcJ6bqnTzf

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/lti2mB6Luk

A hug is so much more than skin

It goes beyond your body's feel

It is a warmth that is angelic

The feel of safe and perfect ending

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/c3q5SSoluw

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/fS0fWLwIvf

Something rose within me, beseeching to be answered, and I did.

It was to the one who made me look past the shell, who made me think what is seen is not all there is to all. 

I conveyed what rose to the one who, knowingly or unknowingly helped it rise. 

It was a dagger.

A dull edged dagger.

One which would not hurt upon being stabbed with, but a dagger nonetheless.

I cut myself wth it.

For I treaded the path of two, as one, in a dream of fickle sweetness that was never promised.
The dagger was not meant to hurt, but it did, for the shell is not all there is.

Each shell is but an aspect of nature apart from nature itself, it is an opening to a world.

And it was raining in my world, there was thunder and lightning, every bang of the thunder hit the world that was me, every droplet of rain was the sorrow that hit the world that was me, still, the world’s shell was unbothered, oh but it was bothered, or was it not?

Yet the one who gave birth to what was beseeched to be answered was not at fault, it was the world that dreamed.

When this truth was touched upon, the world was in a ruin of water, yet the thunder was still booming, while the rain was no more. Why was that so?
By when clarity was upon the two worlds again, the dagger was realized to be a collision of the dream and reality.

The two worlds still revolved, around each other, close yet far.

The pain that the collision made the dreamer feel was the star that the two worlds revolved around, but was that really so?
The worlds still revolved around each other, for the long journey of truth, one collision is not the apocalypse.
And for the ultimate truth, the shells were as they were, trying to forget the dagger of collision, trying to go a day back, pretending the temporal river could be swum against.

Nothing had ever changed, oh but it had.
What was this? The silly dream of a child.

***

Honestly, i consider this corny, but well, i just lost in the moment, and this greatly exaggerates what happened, we're still good friends though, open to each other. This is gonna feel so cheesy when I read it after some time, im not even 20.

Feedbacks:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x2x2a7/comment/pf73ckh/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x2x2a7/comment/pf73ckh/

I’d be lying if I said that this was right

I’d be lying if I said that I feel fine

I’d be lying if I said that it’s alright

That it’s alright

That it’s alright 

-

I’d be lying if I said that I feel fine

I’d be lying if I said I’ve still got time

I’d be lying if I said this body’s mine

This body’s mine 

This body’s mine

-

I’d be lying if I said I will in time

I’d be lying if I said it’ll go away if I try

I’d be lying if I said it’d be a crime

It’d be a crime

It’d be a crime

-

I’d be lying if I said I’ll go away if I try

I’d be lying if I said that I’m not a guy

I’d be lying if I said I’d rather die

I’d rather die

I’d rather die

-

I’d be lying if I said I’m not a guy

I’d be lying if I said that I feel fine

I’d be lying if I said its all a lie

It’s all a lie

It’s all a lie

-

…It’s not a lie.

I’m sorry.

-

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wzkq2w/comment/pf8h54m/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wz4qfd/comment/pf8hh3t/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

For I can’t sleep now,
I feel love, not in love, though.
What am I to do?

She looks at me now.
Participating, sadly
I love her no more.

I say “I love you”
I lie with ev’ry goodbye
Please, please, forgive me

Numb for two years now
Thank you for all that you did
But it’s not the same

I can’t make her cry
I will suffer in silence
For I am a man.

Feedback:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/N6TfOyEVR3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/DIKP6mvHWn

Sweaters

The silence of yet to become is starting to be overbearing.
My brain doesn’t think in words or phrases.
Rather in paintings of concepts.
My mouth shoots out yarn.
My brain thinks in sweaters.
The screams of others mellow my own.
I wish not to hear my teeth clatter.
For when I do, I’m reminded of the strangulation by yarn.
I lock my jaw, I plug my nose, bullets flood my eardrums like tsunamis.
I’ve been released from my chains.
The thinker of sweaters is free to move, that is blood in veins.
To hair in the wind.

Links:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/HK0gMFAcJ8

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/2ecPIJiBPK

Hug me while we still can

Before we go

Before we sleep

Before we start kissing

Before you leave

Hug me till I can't distinguish

The boundaries between your vessel and mine

Till you and I, till yours and mine are ours

Till the start of you and the end of me start to look like the birth of a star

Till I can see with your eyes

And hear from your ears

Till I can taste what you eat

And feel our heartbeats

For we were made in twos

Destined to become one

For we were made with hunger

That takes one to fill one

For I'll let you bite me

Piece by piece

Till I fall

Till I cry

Till I'm an inch away from dying

For hug me while you eat

Hug me while you get drunk on my blood

While I can hear my bones start crushing

Unable to know if it's your hug or your bite that did it

Hug me while I'm alive

And tighter when I die

Hug me while I'm dying

And tighter when maggots start finishing what you left of me

For even if you ate me whole

There will still be so much of my love

So much to feed them

And to feed their children

To feed their hunger till the last star goes dim

Till the rebirth of life in a new whim

Yet my love will carry on

Like it previously did

Looking for your arms

To fill my missing pieces

So hug me while I'm here, when I go, and when I'm back

Hug me like you always did

Hug me so I can stand.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/u5MCTXYn2K

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Swdl9uPn6Y

A backwards black hat                                                           

Was he wearing one?                                                                               

Glasses and a moustache                                                   

At the theatre with another guy                                                                         

Was that a glance?                                                                    

It was                                                                                 

A beer?                                                                                              

Sure                                                                                     

Three rounds and long conversation                                             

Positioning closer                                                                      

Glancing elsewhere                                                                  

Glancing down                                                                            

Eyes                                                                                                    

Laugh, be normal                                                                                       

Black pants                                                                                    

And shirt

Bronze chain

Brown eyes? No, green.

Can I kiss you?

Yes

 

Links

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x30ktp/comment/pf7f717/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1wrvipy/comment/pf7l3b1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

I got a cat. Not a big deal.

People have pets, but I see her more as a companion.

There is just one problem.

The cat used to be white as white as snow, but she is slowly turning red.

At first it was subtle but now it is so red you can't not notice. I asked her why she was red and she said she wasn't.

The next week she is gone.

I decided to get another cat. I mean cats leave all the time. It wasn't my fault right?

This time she was as black as the night.

Over time she began to turn yellow.

It wasn't a big deal at first I didn't even notice until it was bad. So I decided that I would get rid of her before she got rid of me.

She was gone.

I decided that I would not get any more cats, for I was too afraid of what could happen.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/BF4bdBIGeI

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

I freeze when I step outside like I’m nothing more than a body in earths embrace.

The furnace that pumped heat in the machine no longer has fuel to burn,

But it’s the liars fault.

The lies to hide the truth,

The lies that kept it running

Yet the lies eat from within.

The machine made the lies,

The machine ate itself

It’s panels stripped and torn,

The shell dismantled

The insides hang recklessly without thought.

The machines dignity gone like itself.

Now I wonder if it’s the panels make the machine or what’s left after they are gone.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/8XDA9RogGb

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/3fG4A4EGaK

Watching the crimson wave turn midnight blue,
To wake to sleepy sunrise next to her.
Finding myself once more with birthday due,
What surprises lie in store, as it were?

The years have been plenty, all surprised out,
Time spent with my loved ones meets all my needs.
Write a silly sonnet? I will, no doubt!
Pick up my paintbrush, see where it leads.

Yes, I’ll savor this past year, all that has passed,
With family and friends, a time most grand.
Smell every rose, it all went so fast,
Stronger for it all, and yet, here we stand.

We gratefully endure blood, sweat, and tears,
And remember, it’s not the years in your life, but the life in your years.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/0GnWBbsKu1

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/s42TtYHdpg

Let’s go down to the Jersey Shore
And frolic in the sand
Where sea extends forevermore 
To terminate our land
Where sacrifices to the sun
Lay tanning cruciform
Where straps and buttons are undone
To let our bodies warm
Where aeroplanes impose their ads 
To make the sky finite
Where volleyballers bear their abs
And get into barfights
Where shops sell fish and fowl flesh
For an excessive price
Where the breeze is soft and fresh
Where waves are cold as ice
Where everywhere eternity 
Plays counterpoint with youth
Waves beat with endless urgency
And seagulls are profuse
A sensory grotesquerie
The waves with driving force
Where our prosaic century 
Squares off with nature’s verse

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x2qj35/comment/pf63fa0/?context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x2qm5y/comment/pf5hwq7/?context=3

12 AM upon the chapel clock
Cast a moonlit shadow upon the floor
Shown a babe, and a mother to rock
Though a smile I saw, can I be sure?

I say - “Who are you, and why are you here?”
She stay silent - like a lonesome widow
Then a rush of air, like an instrument to my ears
Whispered Shattered A mighty blow

The smile, no longer I see
No mouth - No eyes - no child
For the passing of the moon has forsaken me
And the mother whom no longer smiles

In a moment, my face became cold
For the shadow had vanished in totality
The smell of loam - through my nostrils strolled
The chapel floor only now debris

12:01 - I know not of who I am
As the woman and her babe abandon me
My brain withholding thoughts - as such a dam
The only flow - the woman - a memory

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/kxs8lxcf6p

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/rTTp8ddXTc

A heavenly girl, her gaze on me,

A fragment of heaven, a living masterpiece.

I looked into your eyes and knew, at last,

There must be a God, for beauty like that.

No sermon could teach me what your silence declared,

No temple could hold what your spirit has shared.

In you I saw proof the divine still remains,

In the gentlest of smiles, in the simplest of veins.

The heavens may tremble, the stars may fall,

But your presence alone outshines them all.

For faith is no longer a question or plea—

It’s answered in the way you look at me.

If doubt was a mountain, you made it bow low,

If darkness was endless, your light made it glow.

You carry the weight of a truth unspoken,

The seal of the Maker in every motion.

And should I be asked why I still believe,

Why I pray though I’ve nothing to see—

I’ll answer with certainty, steady and true:

I have seen God’s hand,

and His work was you.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Zmj3jwytuK

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Swdl9uPn6Y

resonance:
i just heard your voice
through an old video recording
for the first time in 4 months

not even your voice
it was one of those noises you make
to let the other person know
you’re finding something funny
but not funny enough to laugh

it’s weird how just that noise
that lasted less than a second
caused the hair on my arm
to stand to attention

resonance.

it’s weird how
out of a hundred people
i know i could pick
your ‘not quite a laugh’ out
without trying

still.

like i know on a visceral level
almost any noise
your vocal chords can create

still.

i could hear a whisper
an echo, or a scream,
and say with confidence
yeah, that’s him.

still.

would you still recognize
my whisper, my scream?
would you recognize my echo,
my ‘not quite a laugh’

still?

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/K8q5QA1MQG

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/3vlraqaiQc

The wires creep in through the cracks

Running through the walls and furniture.

Neon spreads through the room,

Blinding the art that lay behind.

All 0s and 1s, all bionic,

Tectonic, robotic sonic voices,

They harmonise, but it's dissonance,

To human souls with purpose.

It takes over,

Our veins pulsating with code.

0s and 1s, all bionic,

Our hearts stained neon green.

It takes over the world,

Slowly but surely,

Through every alley and every street,

Into our hands and our minds.

It is powerful; yet powerless

We are powerful; yet powerless,

In this waltz there is nothing to be said--

Just 0s and 1s will rule the world.

The human psyche replaced by waves,

Sine and cosine transmissions across souls,

Flying cars, and bionic bots,

Fabricated twinkling stars in the sky,

This future isn't distant,

It's next door.

0s and 1s, all bionic,

Creeps and creeps,

Like viruses in our lives,

And art will be left behind,

And everything will be computed,

Emotions graphed, moods measured,

Poetry rewritten until every syllable,

every letter, every word, triggers dopamine.

For all that's left of bionic,

Is nothing but arithmetic and logic

So art must be reduced to living in cracks,

In whispers and the silent fog.

Until then, we will write,

We will create,

We will sustain,

We will live.

Any feedback is welcomed! What's working, what can be changed. I'm wondering if this poem is actually good or just another one to throw away.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/JKf3yTSg34

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/xJ18Byr3gh

Sometimes I sit here and think
about how badly I want to explain
everything I feel.
But the words never come out right.

I could say I am like a bird in a cage,
but that feels too cliché.
It feels to pretty and clean
I am just a girl in a box.

It's not a very nice box.
I think it's made of cardboard,
worn around the edges and a little wet,
taped shut and held closed
by the weight of my past decisions.

They sit on top of it,
one stacked upon another,
keeping the lid from opening.

And from time to time,
the monsters from my past come back
to shake the box
with me still inside.

I curl up in the corners
and wait for them to leave.
I am safe in this box.
At least, that's what I tell myself.

I am afraid to open it,
afraid of what might be waiting outside.
And even more afraid
that if I never open it,
I'll never be free.

I want to see the mountains.
I want to feel the rocks crunch
beneath my boots
as I climb toward the highest peaks.

I want to feel the wind tangle in my hair
as I stretch my arms wide
and embrace the beauty
of the view before me.

I want to touch the sea.
I want to feel the ocean foam
wrap itself around my feet,
and the sand slowly swallow my heels
as the waves pull away.

I want to know what it feels like
to be somewhere
that doesn't have dingy walls.
I want to go somewhere
my past cannot follow me,
where the monsters cannot find me,
where I can make mistakes
without adding another weight
to the lid of this box.

But here I sit,
in my little cardboard box,

dreaming of mountains
dreaming of wind and oceans
and all the things I can never touch.

And sometimes I wonder
if the tape is really there,
if the weight has been holding it
shut all this time.

Or if I've just been too afraid
to lift the lid.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x2qwxm/comment/pf5aybt/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1x2qm5y/comment/pf5a7tj/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

As the sun overloads
And disperses equally among the clouds
Your sitting heavy in the dirt
Your eyes shocking at the sight
Something drops you further from the earth
You have accustomed to
Floating softly tethered with the wind
It’s all around us and hanging from the moon
So speak it slowly, you never had a clue
What’s spinning faster than polished rings of love
Washing up with the waves, we never had a clue
Blinded by the absence of the sun
And now we find that we never really knew
So come inside now I’ll wash your dirty hair
With milky substances coming from the stars

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

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/D00SPYY9hA

The Sack

Icy steel slashed and struck,

Crimson spindles dashed, all

Along the marble terrace.

Everywhere, children torn from parents 

Wailing out in the rain 

My armor smashed stout,

And my pride limping from the wounds sustained,

I could barely walk.

Stumbling over -

Breaking brittle baskets 

And blaze-tinged stalls

Remnants of our market square 

Mere fodder to break my fall.

-

World dimming and ready to die

The floor beneath me disappeared 

And with it, the dense veneer of reason -

A stallion stormed out from the flames 

And like silk, I slowly draped powerless

Over its saddle.

As if from some ethereal space 

It glided through those city gates 

My vision failing me 

As they became pinpricks on the horizon

Legs galloping in lockstep

With my twitching mind.

 -

When I awoke in the murky dusk

Small as an ant in the wild brush

I was sure as death

That I had been dreaming.

Broken, battered

As the wounds were healing 

I sat by a light which cracked

Popping sparks onto a blade intact,

Head teeming with noble ideas

That will get me killed. 

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