Poems. They're amazing, aren't they? Threads of syllables spun together Into a fabric of emotion A tapestry Embroidered with joy, greif pain beauty. Impossible things become reality Planets warp and change Just with the power Of a few short words.
I'm a bottled ocean A shattered butterfly A rainbow trapped in a bag.
I'm a broken jar A chipped ruler A toaster that takes your bread and gives you nothing in return But ashes
Your love is inexplicable Like a spark that catches fire On a rock Unexplainable Virtually impossible Yet the flame grows And it stays And, to my confusion, won't let go Even when my ocean rages And my wings flutter And my colors spill all over the floor. You're there.
Butterflies in your stomach A fuzzy feeling in your brain Warmth in your chest Sweaty palms and the red face of shame
All of these descriptions That I so often hear I can do them on command Why? It's not really clear Am I feeling anything? Or is this artificial? Is this a construct of my brain? Or something beneficial?
I really don't know, at this point It's much less clear than crystal I guess this is just what it means To be asexual.
Three dimensions Flat on each side The same, solid red Across every surface. Covered in fine dust That carries the scent of constructions past The oil dripping from the hydraulics The dirt kicked up by dozens of hurried boots The cement mixed to spread across every crimson valley
My dimensions spread like ribbons Fluttering across time and space My sides are infinite and rounded Hard to distinguish from one another And my colors are vibrant More beautiful and terrible than anything you can comprehend. My skin is bathed in glitter Blinding like the sun Combined with the sharp smell of bleach And empty closets. There is no cement to fill my cracks, only blood
Poem #14(this was supposed to be for Earth Day #earthdaychallenge but I'm sloww):
Round canvas Blue paint Green splotches Left by a sponge. The tiny brush, dipped in white Sculpts the clouds Storms But from here they look like cottonballs.
My brain is purple But sometimes, it's pink And wavy Like spraypaint on the surface of a lake Surging this way and that Colors mixing like oil and water Separated by an invisible barrier. The pink splashes inside my skull Marbling the bone, white and rose Like flowers blooming inside my head. It's beautiful, but I'd like to be purple again.
Your hair Long, wavy and dark Stained black with self-loathing. Your eyes Kind and chocolate-brown Molded out of loneliness. Your skin Perfect and warm Tanned in the sun of frustration. Your bones Clean and white Carved from the wood of the anger tree. Your flesh Shaped from the ooze of thoughts That break through my skull And stain my shirt Red. You are the picture of my condition A portrait of my pain.
Soft boy Brown hair Lots of hats. We met in PE class When there was that lockdown and we were stuck together For hours. You carried me on your shoulders I laughed and waved my arms in the air.
One month We talked every day You greeted me with a hug I always felt like I pulled away too fast I don't like hugs But I accepted them from you.
I didn't realize Until one day When you presented me your love on a silver platter I'd never thought of you like that But my starving Grinch heart couldn't resist I gobbled you up
And then You were an empty shell And I didn't realize What I had done
I still see you in the hallways You look much different than you did then.
Nobody ever told me that I was worthless. My parents always showed me the opposite of hate. I've never been at a loss for friends But still When I look in the mirror All I see Is someone I despise Staring back at me.
Her wide blue eyes Filled with evil Wavy brown hair Twisted with loathing Those stupid crooked teeth That needed years of braces And still aren't straight That weird splash of freckles That only covers one side of her face Her pink lips, always dry and cracked Her long fingers, constantly twitching Like caged rats Her body Skinny in all the wrong places And wide in all the others.
I hate her. I hate her so much. But others tell me she's beautiful Others tell me she's smart, and talented, and got a future But all I see Is a worthless little girl That should've died of pneumonia All those years ago.
My purple brain Can't distinguish a painting from reality An image of water versus the real thing A thought opposed to actual perception It can't distinguish subjective from objective It can't tell fake from real. I'm a lump of clay Soft and malleable Molded by the hands of the people around me. The clay has no opinions It just sits there, politely Waiting for someone to sculpt it Into what they want it to be. What am I But a projection of other's desires?
Hey Ari! You've done a fabulous job with NaPo so far! <3
#12 is so painfully relatable as someone on the ace spectrum. Sometimes it really does feel like any attraction I experience is just me replicating what I've heard I'm supposed to experience, and it can be very frustrating trying to figure out what (if any of it) is actually genuine. You capture that in words very effectively!
I love the unexpected perspective you take in #14.
But from here they look like cottonballs.
^ This last line leaves me wondering who the viewer is and where they are. An astronaut? a god? an alien? something else entirely? Although, on the other hand, the entire poem is giving me strong Bob Ross vibes (which is such a good thing).
When you're faced with something you don't understand, I think the most natural thing but also least interesting thing you can be is afraid.
I'm just gonna post a few more poems as I feel like it because I have BaGgAgE. I hope that's okay.
Vampire
My broken heart Oozes black Into the mouth of the beast Luring it closer, closer until The jaws snap shut And my heart is gone Replaced with a void Slowly filling with blood As it pulls in the visible parts of me So that when I look in the mirror I see nothing.
The pictures of me are blank, too All because of the vampiric beast That ate the last remains Of my humanity.
Sometimes my purple brain Gets overwhelmed With all the colors of the rainbow. And when that happens The colors pool In my eyes And they swirl And shimmer And break free Flowing out of all four eyes Covering my face in Blood Sunset Dandelions Grass Ocean waves Butterfly wings
And when I'm done crying I look like an old-timey photo Black-and-white And still.
Until the saturation comes back Rinse my face and repeat.
When she transformed into a butterfly, the caterpillars spoke not of her beauty, but of her weirdness. They wanted her to change back into what she always had been. But she had wings. — Dean Jackson
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