Deuce Novenary
Maybe your truth will aid the unknown life i've been suffering for.
Cause maybe what I want, is a crutch
Need, ain't too much
Deserve, is corrupt
Dissolving my trust
Liquidized, in lust
But there ain't, no rush
Guess I should, just hush
Trust me darling, I ain't said much
The swirls of love
Maybe it's my luck..
108 is where I aspire
I'm lost, but I've found my fire
Instinct, merging with desire
Seems I'm on the verge to nothing, I'm so tired...
Emptiness, is what I've acquired
Took my pride, threw it in the spire
Self-Respect, yet I can't deny her
Time would whisper, and some days scream at me saying it doesn't believe what is..
Never heard a voice so rustic
Yet I still fight against it..
Maybe I should figure out how to fight with it?
What's pure remains cryptic, and short winded.
Older women ensuring me I know what love is
I've grown up, focused on the substance
Understand, yet It doesn't make sense..
Sometimes I think it's a construct built for grudges
& What's funny is, I read a book telling me evil doesn't exist
Quit my job and months later found a love
But once again..
Fear remains victorious..
Freedom & Attraction, Sparks & Passion, Critical Inaction.. A spell has been casted, I'm losing traction, but I'll fight til' my last stand.. Time stares as the wax ends.. Leftover matches, for the foreseen craftsman. Due to my soul being used as laughter's end..
If I were to fight with time, this heart of mine
Would cloud from the haze in which my mind is enphased.
Fearful of my gaze..
The innocence has strayed..
Proper form for instinctive aim..
But what arrows will I claim..
About the Creator
VioletSun
Dalvin.
Some of my writings are inspired by this(or these) incredible artist on twitter.
https://twitter.com/lvl374?s=20
There rest are, well... me.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 20 hours ago in Poets
Brainwashing, Soul Food, and Torches of Freedom: Eat More to be More
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The Piggy Project
I’ve had so many names in this life I lose track of which ones were ever really mine and which ones I wore because someone needed me to. Some were handed to me before I had words to refuse them, before I knew what they meant, before I knew I could say no. Most weren’t meant to hurt. That doesn’t mean they didn’t leave marks. Marks that told me who I belong to, who I am by way of who claims me, recognizes me in the good and bad, who walks beside me.
By Fatal Serendipity7 days ago in Confessions
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