lacuna

No goals or theme this year, just vibes
I just want to write some poetry :)

Spoiler

Previous years:
2021: 18 miles down, learning how to swim
2019: stardust in an hourglass
2018: a garden of stars and cats

(Pre-NaPo poeting)

above and below

i always write about the ocean or the stars
twilight skies, midnight depths
contrasting, comparing, calling to my soul
two eyes of the same universe

when i write about the oceans
i feel the salt settle over my skin in puffs of laughter
the lull of the great crashing expanse
tugs through my head and over bare feet

when i write about the stars
i note the silence of the emptiness
the winking of the giants beyond
filling up the endless inbetweens

floating in a calm sea at night
there is no longer a horizon
just a sphere of stars and depths untold
and gentle silence as you drift
through banners of diamonds above and below
kissed by the heart of the universe

a moment

moment of silence
for the tears i shed for you.
you still haunt my dreams.
i sit on the edge of the
cliff where half of my heart fell.

Spoiler

First time writing a tanka! Structured poetry is hard lol
also totally not mourning the death of two of my favorite characters 😭

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@figmoon Thank you! <3 I've been trying to get more comfortable with structured poetry, so it's always great to know when it works!

sour-sweet

sour-sweet apple juice
sticks to the webbing between my fingers,
running through the valleys of my palm
and dripping down, down to the thirsty earth below.

a shell of golden sugar syrup
caves in to hungry lips,
melting my grin into caramel laughter;
sticky-sweet memories clinging.

faces blur through the warped lens of time
and caramel-covered fingers loose their fingerprints.
smiles stretch not quite as wide,
and the background crackles into static.

sugared juices run down the memory,
tainting it with nostalgia and longing.
faded friends and echoes of joy
melt through the valleys of my mind.

watercolors are more permanent than memories.
these fading polaroids drip with laughter and friendships,
now forgotten,
and they leave my fingers sticky with echoes of emotions,

tainted sour-sweet.

Spoiler

First time doing a poetry reading! Let me know if the media doesn't work <3

half-forgotten

fractured memories drift over charred landscapes
smoldering pieces disappearing in the hungry maws of the flames
continuity becomes a loose term
as father time frosts over the fragments of my past

playing chess with half the pieces and no rules
is easier than living with these half-forgotten memories
and loose concepts of emotion
frostbite eating away at the edges

i'm running a marathon without any shoes
the ashes sticking to my blistered feet
i mourn for things i can't remember
the rubble below watered by ice-cold tears

a love poem for a love that never was

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I can't remember when
I fell out of love with you.

Orchids are purple,
Lilies are white,
There is nothing left
to cut the chill of the night.

Daffodils are yellow,
Peonies are pink,
Petals drift away,
Love left to sink.

an ocean of tears

salty tracks of tears long dried by the
kisses of the breeze rushing in
with the tides, a reminder
I was crying at all
over the ashes
now hugged by the
soft waters
rolling
out.

Spoiler

More attempts at structured poetry: this one's a nonet!

The worms are dead

The worms are dead on the sidewalk.

Dried up by the inferno of sunlight after the raging storm.
Crushed underfoot in the rush to get from arbitrary point A to aimless point B,
by the need to get there on a straight, flat path of perfect square rocks.

Unforgiving to the simple little worms.

Washed out in the waves of water, fighting through oceans on the concrete.
Our home overlaying theirs, cruel angles bisecting natural landscapes.
Man-made creations become frying pans for soft, organic bodies.

There are no worms dead in the grass.

Are the worms the only ones dying?
I often wonder if I am anything more than a worm:
a soft, simple life left to crisp on creations built without regard to my existence.

I make sure to watch my step when it rains.

nowhere, everywhere

i stopped breathing three years ago.
i think that's when i came to be here.
maybe not here, exactly,
but out in this nothing, this everything.
there's nothing to breathe in space, anyway,
even if i had the courage to try again. i'm just stuck in
the middle of nowhere, the middle of everywhere.

it's strange.
i don't know how i got here
or if i'm even going anywhere.
i couldn't tell you how i feel.
i'm a little numb from all this time out here.
i'm just drifting, in
the middle of nowhere, the middle of everywhere.

it's not quiet, though.
space is a lot louder than you think
(if you're alive to listen, that is).
it's full of the groans of growing pains,
stretching and pulling at the edges of the universe,
the shuddering cry of everything echoing through
the middle of nowhere, the middle of everywhere.

there's a lot to look at, at least.
my eyes are never hungry, but my fingers,
my fingers yearn to reach across the lightyears of emptiness
and feel something again.
maybe it's been longer than i thought.
but there's no way to measure time in
the middle of nowhere, the middle of everywhere.

i wonder if anyone remembers me.
remembers when i walked (walked!) on solid ground
and shared a little bit of planetary space with them.
it's fading all too fast in my memory,
like a vivid dreamscape wisping through your fingers
as the morning shakes you awake. i'm awake, though, here in
the middle of nowhere, the middle of everywhere.

you'd think there would be nothing to replace memories
when there's nothing new in the nothing.
but i still can't number the stars.
i'm still left wallowing in how insignificant i am
among countless giants, some as old as time itself.
but, like me, they will never touch anything through
the middle of nowhere, the middle of everywhere.

maybe i never was alive,
just a girl-shaped space that decided to dream.
probability laughs at a place like this.
i choose to believe i was alive, at least once,
so i don't succumb to this place.
i'll just continue to be my own anchor in
the middle of nowhere, the middle of everywhere.

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A small easter egg for the seventh day of NaPo: each stanza has seven lines, and there are seven stanzas :)

rune

you'd think after 24 years, the darkness would be less lonely.
but i was built for the light,
no matter how many years i deny my truth.
i still shy away.

it never seems to get easier,
though my skills are the sharpest
and my tools are the best.
i can't seem to stop hesitating,
but the fractions of seconds get smaller over the years.

the insults are always the same,
but they stopped leaving marks 8 years ago
when i bought my first blade.
do i have too many callouses,
or did i lose my heart along the way?
i'd ask my mother,
but i can't bear her tears
if there really is a hole in my chest where a heart should be.

just because i'm good at it,
doesn't mean it's always been easy.
i still have scars from the times when my aim was not yet true,
and my strength faltered.
i've learned how to patch my own wounds, though.

i was never supposed to be remembered,
but it still hurts sometimes,
even though i never learned how to be a friend.
i may have submitted myself to this darkness,
but the shadows are no comfort to a lonely soul.

am i just lost?

i often sit awake and wonder
if i had any other choice on this road.
was there any way to let light in,
or was i damned from the start?

there's no way to know.

i was not cursed to handle the fabric of time,
only cut the strings of others.
there's no going back,
but regret is a cruel friend
that sits on the steps and mocks everything i've done.
he's the only one i can't kill.

these nights get darker when they should get lighter.
i wonder if there's any way to keep a conscience
with this kind of work.
i don't know if i truly still have one,
or if it's just a cruel trick of the light.

i can't complain when the world is cruel to me.
i know i can be far crueler.
but i think that little girl is still in there somewhere,
taking the cuts that bounce off of my façade.
i was never very good at keeping anything alive.

Spoiler

A poem from the perspective of my OC, Rune, the assassin. I've been trying to get inside her head to understand her motives as I continue to write her story.

moments of bliss

the simple joys of a cute outfit,
small comforts in your home,
sparkles embedded in nail polish,
and a sweet coffee topped with foam.

a little bouquet of dandelions
drinking sun up from the sill,
small fairy lights are glowing bright
when the full moon crests the hill.

moments of peace through the rush of life,
small moments that bring bliss.
i pray, to you, to savor them,
and please, do not dismiss.

(un)memorable

it's hard to feel okay with be unmemorable.
i never wanted to make the history books,
or the news,
or even the bulletin board
that holds faded faces,
tacked up like butterflies,
to be peered at like grime under a microscope,
another face added to the crowds in dreams.

i never minded being unremarkable,
jack of all trades,
master of none
felt good enough for me.
but what would people remember?

would they recall a smile?
or ponder on some conversation?
would my presence have been interesting enough
to claim a parcel of memory?

i never work to be remembered,
and yet i ache at the thought
that my life was nothing more than dust breathing.