What if
What if you don't know who you are even if you already achieved something very important for you, your friends and your family?
And I'm again sitting here
with all these people around
and I don't know
how I finally ended up in this pink gown
How long it will take
to finally know who I am
how long it will last
'cause I don't want to be here now
I'm just thinking
thinking about me
I don't want to sound narcissistic
but this gown has me sick
Do I really want to be this
to be this one
for the rest of my life?
My family is so excited
because my dream came true
but I didn't realize
that I'm not happy enough
So tell me,
what I'm supposed to do
do I really have to be here
even if I don't want to?
I have now what I've always dreamt about
but I still don't know
'cause thinking about it
do I want to be what I've become?
And I'm so scared
what if I don't achieve anything more?
what if I'm meant to be
just sitting at this show?
What if I just have to agree politely
and shut my mouth every time I have something to say
what if I don't ever be brave
and say for once everything that's on my mind
What if I don't know who I am anymore
what if I don't say what I want in this song
Tell me what I'm supposed to do
'cause I feel alone
I feel locked up
in this four walls in my mind
Does someone realize
that I'm not comfortable
here, tonight
what if I'll never be able
to raise my voice ever?
So what if this is what I'm meant to be
even if I don't feel like it
what if someday I die
without never have felt alive?
About the Creator
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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 Bogdanova5 days ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This is my first poem, don't hate on me please. xxx