The Poetry Marathon

content warning: just sad feeling

Tired soul, weary wanderer, it is time to rest.
You’ve fought hard but now the fight is done.
You’ve done so much; you’ve done your best.
It does not matter whether you’ve lost or won.

At the end, all sins are bare and truths confessed,
There’s nothing left to hide, nowhere left to run.
Tired soul, weary wanderer, it is time to rest.
You’ve fought hard but now the fight is done.

A bed awaits you, a gentle and soft nest,
And when night passes, you will awake to the sun,
You are well-loved, you are another one;
All those you wanted to, you have impressed.
Tired soul, weary wanderer, it is time to rest.

content warning: talks about disability inspiration porn. and it’s derisive, as it should be 😛

I didn’t understand then
but time and space makes me realize
how much we put people like you (like me)
‘on display’.
You wanted, and so you did,
and it never mattered that you were blind.
How did you keep your patience?
Getting random ‘rewards’
simply for trying new things?
Being held up as an example?

How did you keep your patience?
Your hands were so soft,
and I told you I was afraid,
and you told me it was fine,
you had me.
And you did –
you knew what it was like to not see
and you lead me where we needed to go.

I don’t know how any of you didn’t scream.
People talked down to you, talked around you,
like being blind meant you couldn’t
and being deaf meant you couldn’t
and being in a wheelchair meant you couldn’t
but the whole time you – all of you – understood.

You helped me with a lot.
Sometimes, when I am scared,
and am blind to the future,
I remember your soft hands,
and the joking about how scared I was,
and the way you loved me
enough to guide me
through a silly, pointless activity.

Wherever you are now,
I miss you, but I like to think
that you’re happy.
Not successful in the way of
societal expectations,
But successful in the way of
a life on your terms.

content warning: 17 hours in and this is hitting me hard 😀 i just mention my Autism and disabilities for this one, but don’t go into anything

Okay so, I’m a bit tired
and most of my poetry has been
stream-of-consciousness,
not really ordered.
That’s the kind of poetry I write best,
more emotion than sense.
logicless.
But gods I am beginning to feel this.
Seventeen poems isn’t that hard, in the grand scheme of things –
It’s the timing, it’s the
“my Autistic brain isn’t made for this”,
it’s the “sleep is a struggle except I sleep all the time”
chronic-fatigue-PTSD-combo
and I am
really
feeling this.
I have regrets.
Like, a lot of them.
But 17 hours in and that’s 17 poems done
And I am 7 hours and 7 poems away from sleep.
So even though I’m tired I’m pretty excited, too.
I’m doing something cool,
something new –
I kinda think NaNoWriMo’s easier.
50k words in a month
means I do not spend 24 hours straight
awake.

content warning: just an introspective monologue to my past self, should be good

I Talk A Lot To My Past Self

I see so much of you in me.
The way I smile. The giddiness
of learning something new.
I see it in the way I grasp my body,
touch my face, all those little insecurities.
I see it in the quiet moments,
when I do something outrageous,
make a nonsensical joke.

It’s hard to believe I was ever you.
I’m so different now, even though
you left your mark on me.
You filled your head with what you knew,
little judgments created by ignorance
and the fact you didn’t know
how to express the way you felt.

But you were also kind.
I know your hands; they’re my hands,
even though my hands are bigger now.
They touched gently. They gave
the best hugs. They still give pretty good ones.
I’m not sure what you’d think about me,
and that’s the strangest bit of all.
We’re one in the same.
Would you hate me? (No, that’s not like you)

Tonight, I will tuck you in and sing you a song,
and tell you that it’s okay that you’re different.
I’ll let you know all the words you need to know
to describe yourself.
You’ll be okay, kid; you’ll make it out.
After all, I’m still around.

content warning: none, is hopeful too 🙂 –  meant to go with the one I posted previously!

pick yourself off the floor, little dreamer.
i know, i know; life did not turn out as you desire.
everything you thought was true is not.
but, little dreamer – you danced once;
you will dance again.
the world outside is scary,
but look at you, without your mask.
you’re still beautiful,
and you will find people who love you.
so hold fast to yourself –
little dreamer, the world is brand new.

content warning: none I don’t think, but the poem has a sad tone

watch as she dances
redefines
the motion and rhythm
seemingly combine.
so much is portioned
and taken out.
the mask she is wearing
is falling apart.
there will be a time
when she sees the world new
but for now she is broken
her life on undo.

content warning: none

Every Story I Tell Contains Me

Every story I tell contains me,
If you know how to look inside.
I am but a bird trying to be free.

My cage is gilded, held fast by lock and key
Although I yearn for the door to open wide.
Every story I tell contains me.

I cannot swim a river, nor climb a tall tree;
I fear being unchanged and swallowed by pride.
I am but a bird trying to be free.

I feel like you’re blinded; you look but don’t see
And I am so tired of being your guide.
Every story I tell contains me.

There’s an ocean between us, a darkened cruel sea,
Created by all the tears I have cried.
I am but a bird trying to be free.

I drown myself inside of my poetry
Watching it make others starry-eyed.
Every story I tell contains me;
I am but a bird trying to be free.

content warning: discussion of emotional abuse.

Your anger burns like fire.
I know, because I carry the burns.
My heart is a scarred thing, a fragile thing.
But you don’t scare me anymore.

You lash out. You bite and scream and kick.
I used to rise, to bite back, to run and cry.
Now, I tak a deep breath and stay calm.
You don’t scare me anymore.

You were my entire world.
The sun and moon, the lullabies and bedtime stories.
You gave me everything,
But you don’t scare me anymore.

You mourned a child right in front of them,
Although you eventually changed. You claim it was me, but –
I’ve always been myself, always been kind.
You don’t scare me anymore.

I wish for your happiness,
And continued well-being.
I know you’ve called for me,
But you don’t scare me anymore.

I am growing up, and now I see all the ways you didn’t.
It makes me sad; I didn’t get what I needed.
Your anger is fire, but I am not burned.
You don’t scare me anymore.

content warning: just. anger. angory.

Anger still feels like a foreign disease
Infecting my lungs, making me freeze
It’s raging hot and burning fire
Rolling my stomach, stoking my ire
Gods I feel so angry I think I’m gonna be sick
It’s a stranger to me and makes my tongue thick.
I have to unravel it, step by step,
Ignore all the old anger I accidentally kept.
The ribbon of red burns and screams,
But the anger isn’t as evil as it seems.
Once it’s settled, I then understand.
Things didn’t go quite as planned.
I didn’t feel valued, I was taken for granted,
Some problem I hated raved and ranted.
Now that I know, I can take a gentle stand.
Anger, then, doesn’t feel quite as bad.

content warning: descriptive metaphors using mild gore and body horror

i bite my tongue.
copper-red and bitter acid
i make sure to swallow,
hold back.
my own toxicity, reconsumed,
jittering.

i have spent so many years
carving at my flesh.
i look into the mirror,
and do not recognize myself.

it is slow. and painful.
i speak, now.
the tongue that was there still remembers
and i taste the same
copper-red and bitter acid,
blood and bile and adrenaline.

i am gluing myself back together
piece by piece by piece
and when i open my eyes
i think i finally see me.