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Hello Sen Sen
Over the past few months,
I have fallen inlove with four entities.
These are the parts,
Each is a tragedy.
Each is to be me.
How funny it is, then, for me to detail to you a foreword
After starting a pantheon and scribbling out notes.
You’ll get that in due Time, but for now, this is what I am.
Do you like writing poetry?
Did you draw your Pfp? :0
Life is about making mistakes and learning from them?
Well, bud, I can safely say I’ve done one of those things with my time.
Every person you meet is either
A land mine
Or gold mine
Of potential human interaction
And my god, I am still cautious of where I place my feet.
Art is supposed to be for me
And any audience that likes it
Is just an unexpected and enjoyable byproduct,
An unintended side effect, if you prefer.
Art is for Me.
I am at the bottom of the ocean
And I keep pondering myself:
If I swallow the salt water
How long until I save myself,
And how long until I die
Of dehydration?
Living is the most rebellious thing you can do,
To have someone tell you
“Your fate is to stay here, and remain dead,”
And while I happen to feel that way,
I will hold steadfast
And refuse to do anything about it.
Yes, love, you can be self-destructive,
You can let in the vampires to do it for you, if you’d rather.
Any cut would feel heavenly
If the blood were drawn forth
From your knife,
I promise.
Love, don’t look at me too harsh
I might melt away
We wouldn’t want to stain this rug,
Right?
Yes, yes, I did mean it
When I said half the things I wrote
Were to you.
A letter, or something similar,
I’m too nervous and lack the words to say
“Your beauty is or is greater than anything else
I have found in this lifetime,
Decorated in pretty plants,
Flowers, chrysanthemums and roses.
You are a sunflower on the moon,
As many feet tall as you could ever wish.”
The mornings are for waking up, and telling you how much I dreamed of you,
Not your physical appearance perhaps,
But the concept of you.
The mornings are for waking up and falling inlove with you again.
That may be why it’s my favorite Time of the day.
Hold my hand as I’m going to sleep.
I know they’re cold, and I’m sorry.
Please be gentle, don’t squeeze too hard,
These old bones have become brittle.
Sing me a song, will you?
My favorite song?
The one about the River, and me?
That’s the one my father played, yes yes.
I might cry for you as I’m leaving,
Is it better to die young and aware?
Or old and crazy?
At this rate, I’d take my chances with the dragon.
Young and crazy is better old and aware.
Conformity is stupid
Conformity is wrong
Conformity is everything humanity has ever worked to fight against
And I trusted you to be on my side of the war.
So why are you drinking tea across the boarders?
I will never understand how you seem so content
In blocking out any reason
And siding with the enemy.
And you’ll mock me,
Calling yourself big, or bad, or evil,
To make me feel worse about opposing you.
Maybe this time I’ll be the one who sticks up for myself
Because I know for a fact that you won’t.
So here I am, here’s who everyone is referring to when they say my name.
Not the perfect little delusion you have in mind.
Sorry, I guess, for being true to myself.
They say it’s like being trapped in the wrong body.
They say, “it’s not the wrong body, it’s just a creative one.”
Both of these are wrong.
I am trapped, sure, and it required a bit of creation on my part, yeah,
But both of these are wrong.
I’ve made a dire mistake
And crawled into the skin of someone I’m not.
I’m sorry, poor kid.
My name isn’t yours.
If it’s any comfort or solace, my name isn’t mine, either.
I wasn’t given it.
It’s a place holder, some synonym to
“That poet over there.”
Some synonym to
“That artist over there.”
I’m searching for the word that means me.
Can you help me find it?
I’m sorry I lied to you.
I know I am who I am, but I don’t know if you’d still love me.
I get nervous this way, see.
I am the prince of whatever I chose.
I am the lover crossed out.
Imagine a cliff side overlooking the ocean.
Your back is to the very edge,
Do you trust me to catch you?
Or would you fly away from here?
Spread your wings and abandon me?
Pick your choice, poison, and sacrifice.
Do what I am too afraid to do.
Do you have your answer?
Now, stop thinking of the cliff side.
Remember my room,
Three beige walls, one red,
A bed without design.
Creme under sheets
And silk pillowcases.
A bookshelf of books and movies.
A bookshelf of notebooks and sketch pads.
A bookshelf of board games.
Which one do you choose?
Is it me? Or him?
Blue and blonde?
Or an assortment of black and red?
Which one do you choose?
The poet or the artist?
Keep it in your mind.
No one told you to take the shot.
No one told you to pull the trigger.
You were simply handed
A loaded gun.
You would lie to me?
You would lie to a child?
For shame.
You’re waking up in my bed,
I’m already at my desk,
Drawing you sleeping
And waiting for you to awaken.
It’s two past twelve
And I already made you breakfast
Hello love.
Did the sun wake you?
I’m sorry.
I’ll close the blinds next time.
Since you’re up,
Do you want to take another guess?
Am I the poet or the artist?
The scene shatters.
You’re no longer lying in my bed
with a pillow between you and the wall.
I’m no longer in my wooden chair.
I’m half a hundred feet below you,
Telling you "Jump, I'll catch you"
But you’re skeptical.
You’re afraid. You’re right to be,
Why would you trust anyone but yourself?
If you jump, we can swim far away from here.
If you fly, you leave me all alone,
At the mercy of whatever is behind you.
I think we’re playing a game.
Just gotta say i left the public side of this site bc of one person... who i won't say the name of... but I definitely feel a certain way about them. They betrayed my expectations... but yeah, I should be coming back and be more social than usual... XD so expect that...
anyways, here's the poem:
I’ve memorized this school,
This place of learning, this walkway.
It’s akin to a temple, a dungeon,
The basement or an altar,
An ocean or a forest.
I know that one day I’ll have to forget this school,
To clear out the clutter in my head,
And make room to spread my wings and fly.
I wish I were an angel
But instead of clipped wings
I have shoulder blades.
Just another way of saying
My wings are chained to the insides of my skin;
Conscribed to be nothing more than bones
To deform my flesh.
I frantically scribble down notes.
I still have so many books left to read,
So much more left to learn.
I try to save my work
Just to be greeted with the realization
That this isn’t my computer.
This is real paper.
This is real life.
You aren’t here.
This isn’t my mind.
I am alone.
Haven't posted in a bit so here's a longer one than usual...
I want to write of a lover
But I know I’ll never possess the words to.
The sweet little arrangements of letters
And sounds are always just out of reach.
They are taunting me wherever I go.
I hate it.
I can never escape it.
Shall I be confined here forever?
A splash of yellow,
Maybe an orange?
Bright, desaturated, underexposed
Against the backdrop
Of a brown, wooden counter.
Be careful love, best to not get a splinter.
I should stop rambling and play my hand.
I’ve got a pair of twos, tell me then
How much do I owe?
Is it my heart, my head, or something other?
What would you like from me?
I have a debt so what’s the amount?
A two of hearts and a two of spades,
There may be some symbolism here,
But as the looser all sentiment is lost on me.
Is it a way of saying I loved too much?
This is devastating,
I thought love was plentiful,
I thought love was infinite,
I thought love was just,
And holy, and pure, and never wrong,
How could I have loved too much?
I’m just a child, I’m not supposed to know
The rules of the game that grown-ups play.
The world has no meaning; it’s all a stage play
You and I are actors and actresses putting on costumes and masks for others to see
The world has no meaning unless you and I promise
To give it one and hold it still until the end of our days
The world has no meaning; it isn’t real
It’s all fake
I’m not sad anymore
I’m just numb.
I don’t know how to melt this ice
Or break it,
Sorry I’m so awkward,
I’ve never really been great with introductions
or first impressions.
I’ve never really been good at saying
“Hello, I am who I am, who do you happen to be?”
I’ve never really been good at describing myself,
Perhaps giving my persona a caption,
I’m not really intriguing,
Every time I try, it either comes off
As bragging
Or self-doubt.
I wonder when I’ll know who I am.
I wonder when I’ll start taking my own advice.
I wonder when I’ll become myself.
I wonder when I’ll love you, and meet you out in the rain, and think “yes, I know who I am now”
I wonder when I’ll allow myself to say tainted words around the pure of heart.
I wonder when I’ll know who you are.
I wonder when I’ll finally understand what she meant
When she said “This rain keeps the beat,
My step keeps the beat,
The sizzling of your scrambled eggs is a music,
The pouring of coffee is a music,
The spring of the toast is a music,
And you, taking all of these things for granted,
Become the thing you hate the most:
Someone who destroys the music.”
I say what I am
Though I am unsure myself
You tell me that you love me
And in the ides of doubt, you ask if the care is reciprocated.
Of course it is;
I wouldn’t be able to tell you these things if it wasn’t.
Of course I see the beauty in the world
It’s what we call our home.
The world has no meaning; it’s all a stage play
You and I are actors and actresses putting on costumes and masks for others to see
The world has no meaning unless you and I promise
To give it one and hold it still until the end of our days
The world has no meaning; it isn’t real
It’s all fake
Look in the mirror, darling,
Look at your reflection.
That is someone worth saving.
Do you note the smile?
Her smile is beautiful,
She should take pride in it.
Prometheus did quite a fine job,
I think.
I’m cold, but then again, when am I not?
My hands are ice cubes,
And you are a sunburn.
I like holding your hand because
It feels like holding a cup of hot cocoa,
My favorite sweet treat in my favorite season.
It feels like home.
Won’t you take me there?
I am a reader but a writer,
A lover but a fighter,
An artist but a poet,
All this to say that I sculpt
Masterpieces with my hands
And still find time to write their captions.
I hold your hand
As we walk down the hallways
You say how pretty my eyes look today
I blush and look away from you.
Truth be told:
You were the reason
I decide to show them at all.
I don’t know what to write
Only that I want to.
I want to paint beautiful pictures
In your mind, and no one else’s.
A touch of your favorite shade of green,
My favorite bit of royal blue
The touch of lush green that reminds
Me of our love together
I'm feeling a certain way against my parents so here's a second one for today...
You will never know the feelings of being me
And that’s fine, I don’t ask that of you
I just ask that you not tear down
What makes me happy,
And betray my trust.
I found comfort with you, odd as it may seem now,
Because of the freedom from the restraints of my mother and father
All I find with them now are a hostile entities
Who don't care about my feelings
Only that I seem “normal”
Or “appropriate”
Or “conventional”
Or any fancy words you want to use
To mean “being you is wrong”
Or “being you is shameful and
I wish you wouldn’t trust me with who you truly are
I wish you would hide it away”
When it's all an effort to control me
So then, tell me who wins:
The sword or the way of the empty hand?
A sword has no power over a fist, I suspect,
But that blade just might do it.
I bet on the hilt just to get cut by the blade,
And left ruined,
And penniless
On the side of the road
As they trickled out of the house.
I write constantly because I’m prolific,
Or maybe I write constantly because I’m Icarus.
Who can say, but me?
Well, here’s the truth:
I decide not to.
You shall never know,
My final act of retribution.
I will revel in this rebellion.
Hold my hand,
Hold eye contact,
Let you get lost in the blue ocean of my eyes.
They aren’t quite like the twilight zone,
Nor are they the color of the skies.
They’re desaturated, almost grey,
Much different than the teal green that you think when you hear my name.
They are the conflicting and crashing grey of the tides
And still yet, that’s not what you love most of me.
My messy, long blue hair, darker than my eyes
But brighter than the sun’s light reflecting off that beautiful ocean in the dead of night.
We met in the dead of summer, you gave me comfort
When outside was unbearably hostile. -
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