Category: Poems

I hold on to the notions as self atonement. The humbling of self before God, or who is like one. The added insults of character and leading have been used to hurt self and others. There is an impact despite intentions, aside from weaponizing words as facts when mixed feelings are present.

It is all word jargon—the act of expressing the foul and flagrancy of what is happening. How am I choosing to capture the moment, and how am I truly showing up? I think of the ways I would like to exist and be. I am living in my head more than anything, while my flesh is rotting and decayed. It is easy for someone to see the softer aspects of me while knowing there is chaos in the embodiment of me. So many things being true, yet futile during crucifixion. The act of putting one’s mouth on another and not understanding the laws of retribution: what seems undeserving for someone is another’s rejoice in it taking place as a flawed victory of bereavement. 

Choosing things from thoughts of all is lost perfects the art of crashing out. It’s the awareness and notice of that, the desire to deviate and want more, grab more, and delineate in midst of opposition.

Weakness, separatist—a new depravity. 

I put other things above and before me to overcompensate. All to be a day late and dollar short. 

There’s waves of emotion that bubble through the cracks, and the connections attached are following. 

There’s the comments and subtleties that make me think I’m silly. The patterns, the choice of words, the revelations through my silence. 

The invites fall short. Being in a room of people is hard while still feeling alone, still not knowing when’s the right time to add to conversation. 

“Are you ok? Are you lying to me about being ok?”

Yes and yes. 

It’s ok to be on until it’s not, and there’s not a shoulder I’d like to cry on. 

The rush of reality hits and the tiniest tear begins to leak. 

I can’t bring myself to write with substance. 

Only tears. 

The progression of time is one that is lost on me, and I find myself trying to hold on to it. 

I can’t find the right words and it angers me to be flooded with so many things. The overflow of sobbing angers me, yet I am unable to numb myself like I normally do. As I choose to. 

Grieving is something that is taken lightly. To move forward as the world continues to spin, we keep going as if things are ok. In spite of things not being ok. All that is left are semblances of what was. 

I hold my breath to write as if it stops the overflow. I trapped myself in my closet and stuffed my ears with words. Semblances of feelings and expression. Time capsules of what was synonymous with me. 

It is scary to encounter a version of yourself in a different form, a different life, and wish to hold them. It is a different type of pain to know that misunderstanding, and want to extend comfort. It is a different type of humbling to look it in the eyes and have to give hope and encouragement that once was not there. 

Revenge turns into a cruel betrayal to test what can I put myself through. An essence untrue became company to keep towards undoing. That is the informal attempt.