Tag: Poetry

Far from home 

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I am far from home 

Except I am not even sure where that is. 

I watch those I have grown up with 

My heart aches 

Nostalgia confuses me, and I reminisce only the good parts 

I forget the sadness, the moments when I did not enjoy 

I feel a sense of missing out

But it’s funny because I was never a part of their lives to begin with 

It’s a lonely season for me 

Regret wants to be felt

But I am fighting back 

What is there to regret?

I force myself to remember the other moments, the moments of isolation, when the truth was apparent. 

I force myself to keep going 

And going 

And going 

I look online and suddenly want things 

It’s funny that  

I didn’t think about everything I lacked until I looked at a screen. 

There is nothing I lack 

Only things I can attain 

Only potential that is untapped or unrealized 

I come as I am.

Far from a home I used to know 

A place that serves as a refuge, 

Except it has not been that for a while, 

And I have been in transit for a while 

And I am not far from home at all 

Home is within me, and I am home.

I take a deep breath 

I make new goals 

I try to find acceptance in myself 

I remain present 

I am living a life that I daydreamed about 

I am here now 

And in this moment, this is where I reside 

In a place far from a former home.

A place that is inviting me to make it its home 

Time is on my side 

Abundance is on my side.

a reminder

Somewhere, over the rainbow

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I exist in a place before and after the rainbow.

A place where colours do not exist

Darkness is not personified. 

It’s a state of being: 

I am darkness, I exist without light.

I long to be where the colours exist. 

I know that there are people that stay there,

I even know a few that are there, I visit them often. 

But no one seems to know how to be there

They tell me colour is not personified. 

They exist with colour. They have light.

They talk about light and brightness. 

They say that it sometimes exists in excess, I’m not sure if I believe them.

I can’t comprehend how anything good could ever be in excess.

My starvation is blatant,

There is no colour in my eyes, It is clear where I reside.

I walk with my head down, a final attempt not to make it obvious that I am trying to fit into a place I don’t belong.

I hope no one notices 

Eventually, they willingly turn off their lights 

And find comfort in temporary, peaceful solitude 

I remain indifferent. In darkness, my only truth, my state of being. 

I do not care if you call me shallow. So what? You made me this way.

michelleLeave a comment

It is not my fault that I spend a longer time than I should in front of the mirror every day.

I am very aware of the precious seconds that I waste, that I could be using instead to do so many other things, so many other ”groundbreaking, life-changing things” 

I know that if I collected each minute that I have spent worrying, fidgeting, and wondering about my appearance, maybe just maybe I could be inventing the next ingenious machinery or whatever.

I know that if I counted all the money that I have “wasted” purchasing make-up to cover up all my assigned insecurities that, I could damn near be a millionaire. 

Oh imagine how inspirational I would be if I did not take all those selfies, if I did not pose provocatively on my social media. Imagine how much more respect I would receive. 

I am shallow. I am superficial. I lack depth. And it is entirely your fault. Not mine. 

I would not stand in front of the mirror if you hadn’t handed me the mirror in the first place.

I would not use it as a tool to pick myself apart, If you hadn’t told me that that was what it was for. 

I do not care if you judge me. I am not doing this for you. 

Not anymore. 

There is voice, there has always been a voice. This voice would remind me that I could be better, that I could look better. The voice never talked about anything else. It followed me, reminding me, every day. This voice and his message would be spoken through my peers and the world around me. “You could be skinnier, you could fix this and change that.” It haunted me.

I would see it in the movies I watched, in the music I listened to, In the people I met. In the way I was treated, in the way that I was received and, in the way that I would feel, once I was alone. 

I could be better, or rather, I am not enough. 

So guess what? I did what I needed to do to be accepted, to be humanized. I became shallow, superficial surface-Level.

I did all this because you told me to. Because I did not have any other option. 

Because if I didn’t then I would be subjected to something far worse than being shallow and lacking depth. I would be discarded. I would be unacknowledged. I would be treated like I wasn’t flesh and bones, like I was not something that was living, something that can be injured, something that can at a given point stop breathing. 

So you tell me, would you rather be shallow or nothing? are these options? 

Call me shallow. So what? I was born to be this way.

i am the pool you never stepped in because you knew it was too deep and you couldn’t swim.

about pressure, my unwelcome guest 

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Pressure

Pressure

I can feel every second 

I can see each minute float away

My heart beats, we look at each other. She is tired, she beats all day. 

What’s wrong?

I look around for the problem, I can’t find it. I search for words, there are none.

It feels so dark, but I’m still blinded by flashing lights. This makes no sense. A sharp, high-pitched sound clouds my mind. Who is screaming? 

I think I would know if it was me. Right?

Pressure.

Pressure.

I don’t say stop. I don’t say enough. 

I don’t deserve it. 

I can’t move. I am stuck. 

I am alone. There is no one in here but me. But then again, who else could access my thoughts? Who else could access my mind?

Besides, Pressure. My uninvited guest. My captor. Trapping me inside my mind. 

I can’t smell the roses anymore. I don’t want to.

Pausing is a privilege granted to those who deserve it. Pressure reminds me. Do you deserve it ?– they question me.

Taunting me

Laughing as I beg. I reason I try to escape my solitary confinement.

I look for distractions. I look for short obstacles, I want to keep them happy, I want to be myself. I need to learn what that even looks like. 

Pressure.

It chips pieces of me from myself. Now I walk around feeling exposed, I walk with my head down, my eyes say too much. 

I walk alone, but I’m begging for a shadow. I am begging for a shoulder. 

I do not want to be alone. 

But the only way that you will find people is if you are something and do something. 

This is not enough. You are not enough. 

Pressure is harsh. My wounds are not healing. Excessive friction. Everything is out of sync. 

I am spiraling. While the minutes continue to float away, I circle down the drain. 

Finally, I am free. I think I am. Hours can’t haunt me anymore. Time is finished with me.

But Pressure remains. It becomes the soundtrack of my life, whispering and reminding me. My wounds never heal.

Pressure

them

michelleLeave a comment

We hurt together.

She hurts. I watch 

But I am not welcome as a viewer,

My presence is not enough. 

I, too, must join

I ask to help carry it instead,

But that is not enough.

Helping is not enough

Nothing is enough. 

The pain becomes an infection, 

It is vicious and consuming. 

But I can’t carry it, and I can’t view it,

I must become it as well.

I am frozen. Unknowingly so, I begin to hurt.

And so we sit in it 

And her pain becomes ours 

And nobody watches because nobody knows. 

And no one asks to carry it and nobody wants to.

And we remain 

Hurt. Together.

whose shame?

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His shadow, her truth 

His blurred face, her exposed breasts. 

Her face, his secret.

They know so much, but who do you talk about when you say they?

They entertain. They cater. They serve.

They meet you at your darkness. They listen to your needs.

They are closer to you than you think. They know more about your promise than you think.

In the darkness, they offer freedom, a refuge from sudden urges, an itch, and intense desire.

Your freedom in exchange for their safety, a price – compensation.

And despite their safety, despite their kindness. They are sentenced to the dark. An embodiment of others’ shame, they are outcasted. Their stories are written for them, and their duty is seen as a disservice, a setback for all. But I ask, when the sun goes down, who seeks them? Who needs them? 

Your neighbor, a stranger on the bus, your best friend, your lover. Forced to abide by standards set by their own, forced to cast their perceived shortcomings to those undeserving. 

But who do we shame? Who do we mock? Why?

Is it because we know? We recognize their necessity? A crucial piece in a broken machine, a flawed system using secrets to remain afloat. 

And when others march, do they march for them? Are their needs considered needs? Who is the judge, who gets to decide?

And as you fix your nose upwards, as you pash your judgment, as you use them as examples for your cautionary tales.

Do you wonder why something deemed so shameful still exists, why they prevail, and why they never go away?

Do you wonder who ensures they, too, can rest their head and see another day? 

They know more than you think. They are closer to you than you want to admit. Sentenced to represent shadows although their truth could light up others lives.

But who do you talk about when you say they?

Pretty people die, too.

michelleLeave a comment

Did you know that? That pretty people died, too?

We live in a society. A society hellbent on dividing but not conquering. We live in a time where the perceived sum total of a person is based on what category they fit into and what box they tick. There is an emphasis on all this separation and identification even though, at the very end, no one is exempt from the hand of life and, ultimately, death.

These man-made pedestals do much for the living and nothing for the dead.

And even the most powerful, influential, and beautiful, they, too, remain at the mercy of life itself.

In a world that thrives off on separation and distinction. In a world with occupants that continuously seek to push an agenda that ties our worth, our dignity, and the importance of life itself, based on its ability to meet criteria. Criteria that those who perpetuate don’t and can’t meet themselves,

I urge you to remind yourself that pretty people die, too.

And a statement like this can imply a wealth of ignorance. I am here to inform you that I know the world that we live in (- or at least I am starting to). I see how these categories and divisions create a perceived sense of power and ability to determine another’s worth. This is why many march, many demand, and some ultimately have to beg that other person someone can see beyond the division, beyond the categories. 

It is why empathy is reserved for those who can actualize it as opposed to a universally taught standard.

Despite this, despite all of this, pretty people still die, too. 

Everyone does. A moment, a second, a decision can be the only line separating the living and the dead. We know this, but we can and probably will ignore it. Ignore how simple and how fragile, how precious, human life is.

And so, we continue to polish the pedestals, rejecting those that do not meet the requirements of the pedestal. While others will dehumanize those standing on the pedestals, subjecting them to fates, few understand and speak about. 

A few will fight against the pedestals, and fewer will see actual change.

And the train will keep going. And everyone, including the pretty people, will die. And we will all wonder what the point was and why the pedestals even existed,

And then, slowly but surely, the cycle will continue. 

And when another pretty person dies, we will stand in shock because we will be reminded that pretty people die, too.

I wish I cried on the train.

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I almost cried on the train today. I also almost cried at the bus stop. And I almost cried as I walked home.

I held it in, of course. I focused on something else

But throughout the day, the feeling followed me. A wave of unexpected sadness and a desperate need to release it. To feel it. But I held it in. I focused on something else.

Soon, I was no longer at the bus stop, I wasn’t on the train, and I had finally reached home.

Every step and every push forward was backed by the promise that I would grant myself a moment, a time to cry. “Just not now.” I believed myself. I trusted that I would give myself a chance to feel and an opportunity to express myself. I always trust myself because if I did not, then who can I trust. Who else would let me cry?

But I never did. And the feeling left. At least, I thought so. 

Because I have been wanting to cry, I have been feeling the feeling of wanting to cry. But every time it comes, every time I finally allow it to come, it doesn’t. And I am left here with feelings I can’t express and a weight I can’t let go off. 

And I hope eventually I will cry. And as I hope, I also fear for the moment because I am not sure if I will ever stop once I start. And, instead of being the girl that never cried, I will become the girl that never stopped.

I wish I cried on the train. And at the bus stop and, as I walked home. I wish I cried because that would release me from being anything. It would release me from being the girl who cried or never cried. 

It would release me because I would be feeling. I would be feeling instead of wondering what type of girl I was. Because I would be present, and I would be just a girl who is crying on the train, at the bus stop, and on her way home. 

I wish I cried so that I could just be the girl who cried when she needed to. 

My Glass Bowl

michelleLeave a comment

When I start to like someone, I get scared.

scared to admit it and scared to fall.

I walk around with my heart in my hands,

I carry it like a delicate glass bowl.

I am careful not to drop it.

My glass bowl.

The glass bowl I carefully carried and protected has been shattered. again.

Once again, I am left to pick up the pieces.

I am careful, of course

the only person at risk of getting cut by the jagged pieces is me. Only me.

and I do not want to get cut cleaning up a mess that I did not make.

Yet that is how the game works these days,

they come in, examine my glass bowl – some even say that it is beautiful, that they have never seen anything like it!

and then, they break it.

by “accident”, of course.

And so I work to clean it up. I make sure not to create more of a mess. I make sure not to get cut by the jagged pieces. Because I do not want to get cut cleaning up a mess that I did not make.

sometimes, they come back and admire my work; they say well done! good for you!

and then they move on to another exhibit. Another glass bowl.

and I am left to reinvent my glass bowl once again. Forced to find and showcase the beauty of a once broken and now put-together glass bowl.

a glass bowl that I did not break.

my glass bowl. my heart.