The pain and insecurity,
I thought they've gone peacefully,
The hates, unknown, uncertainty,
I assumed they'd never bother me.
But I forgot, ending is always on the motion,
Pain reliever has its expiration,
Now, sorrow starts to invade my emotion,
I guess I overestimated our Chemistry 's potion.
Hope my fear of uncertainty you'll heal,
Now I realized you are just an ordinary pill,
Temporarily Numbing the pain I feel,
Trying to sugar coat what is hard to deal.
With you I don't know where I stand,
You became a drug that I want,
Addicted with your attention,
Now leading to destruction.
Keep on taking and taking,
Letting the toxins coming in,
But I want your beautiful toxicity,
To wander all around my body.
Your presence itself is my greatest pleasure,
But your actions are more than just torture,
Either of them I can endure,
For you are a bad drug pretending to be a cure.
Dozes that can never be measured,
Pain that can never be cured,
Guessed I just need to be immune,
Till this pain and insecurity will fade away soon.
About the Creator
Maria.
Just creating arts in this side of the internet.
A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge4 days ago in Poets
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