The Poetry Marathon

content warning: talkin about emotional abuse

It builds slowly.
A steady incline.
One moment:
everything’s fine.
Then, suddenly,
like shattered glass on the floor,
you’re left with questions,
no answers,
and a world you don’t know anymore.

No self-discovery could have prepared you for this:
marks on your heart,
not the shape of his fist.
There’s hesitation,
and doubt,
and so much regret.
You want to move forward;
you want to say ‘not yet’.

When the dialogue opens,
you’re not sure what to say.
Did you imagine it all?
Can you make it go away?
The tree remembers;
the axe forgets.
You try to move on,
but you’re held back.
Do you call it quits?

The story most people
think of, around you,
is not the story that is
most honestly true.
Truth is subjective,
you’ve learned that in fact,
and when you look in the mirror,
you see what you lack.

If you are just watching
shadows on walls,
then how can you know
anything’s real at all?

And the people who hurt you,
they get away scott-free.
Because nobody listens
and they don’t have to think
about the damage they caused you,
about how you sink.

So you take duct tape
together with glue
and try to piece together
the more-broken you.
Somewhere in distance,
you’ll find you’re okay.
Nothing lasts forever.
Nothing stays the same.

content warning: intense and emotional, talking about feeling overwhelmed

but fuck, a poet’s what i am –
i’ve got the rhythm, the way
of the words, the metaphor and
the twist, the uneven rhyme
and i move and manipulate it
’til it looks and sounds perfect.
and somehow on the other side
it feels a lot like i can’t do this –
can i do this?
drowning and flying can feel identical
and i am doing both, opening my wings
and becoming myself while i
collapse
there’s all too much – it’s all too much
i am screaming into the abyss
and the cruelest irony is that the abyss
does not scream back.
it swallows my voice and my echo and it burns it up,
fuel for its fire,
i am collapsing and so is my foundation.
when i’m gone what will be left?
will my words say anything of me?
will there be anything worthwhile in the words –
these words, my words,
the words that keep me sane, keep me grounded,
that are the way i express myself to the world.
or will i fade into anonymity and nothing
and leave nothing behind?
when all is said and done
you gotta wonder
which is better.

content warning: depressing. talks about being in pain and is just. generally an upset poem.

i get so caught up in the reality
that i forget all about the pain.
divide and conquer. compartmentalize.
make it make sense. deep breaths.
try to stay sane.

how can i be doing so much better
but still be drowning?
it’s been a long time since i could last breathe,
and none of this comes easy.

i’m tempted to give up.
the thought makes my stomach hurt.
everything in me is aching
something in me burns.

who i was is not who i am,
although there’s similarities.
i try to manage it all the time
but get lost in the details of the shame.

pain is physical and emotional,
something i never quite shake.
i’m tired – of course i’m tired –
because it always feels the same.

content warning: none. senryu my beloved

There is joy in this,
Late night, sharing words, finding
Art in the mundane.

content warning: it’s very abstract.

In the night sky, here rises the moon.
Pale face smiles upon us, passengers
of the world, a temporary flight.
It is long and winding, this road
that we walk, leaving behind memories of smoke
as we listen to the calls of birds.

In the darkness, songs of the night birds
fill the air beneath the lovely moon.
We put out our campfires, and the smoke
covers the sky, briefly, from us passengers
as we take respite from the weary road.
In the morning, once more we will take flight.

The sun rises into the sky and so our flight
begins. The night birds are replaced by day birds,
their song different accompaniment as we travel the road,
saying hello to the sun and goodbye to the moon.
In your life you are also a traveler, a passenger,
on your way to a destination beyond life’s smoke.

Most things exist with multiples. Take, for example, smoke:
it conceals and it guides, it hangs low and brings flights
of fancy in its shapes, and even those who know they are passengers
are not immune to dreaming of birds
flying high beneath the shy lady, our sweet moon.
The metaphorical life is also a winding road.

It is broken and twisting and sometimes unbelievable, our road,
but it reminds us of where we need to go when the smoke
becomes intoxicating. The road remembers, much like lady moon,
and it helps us through our flight.
We sing to bring joy and keep our energy up, and we sing like the birds,
for the joy of it. Birds are the same as us: passengers.

And so it must be said: we are all passengers.
Temporary travelers who walk many different roads
and follow the songs and wings of birds.
This life is insubstantial, and the next life is also like smoke –
but our souls shine bright, rise into the sky, take flight –
and return home, to us and from us, under the light of the moon.

EDIT on June 26: I, uh, forgot the last stanza.

The night sky’s passengers rise like smoke,
Smiles borne on the road, upon us in flight,
In the world, the birds fly beneath the temporary face of the moon.

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.