a forgotten achestill hurts when rememberedthat's what being home isa sudden remembranceand a paindeep in your marrowevidence of inherited trauma
the bones remember better than the mindpain is passed downfrom mother to child to grand childit is a cycle that eats everything in its pathand takes years to breaksome never do
civilizations crumble from thisrebellions are built from thissometimes it's hard to discern the differencebetween the two
but when you find itremember itpass it downlet it sink into your genesevolution will take its courseand the weakthe undesireablethe ones who are outliersthey will die offleaving room for the pre-brokenthose who flinch without causewho grew up on eggshells broken generations beforethe only ones who know how to be smalland softand careful
do not be ashamed of your bloodit is just too loudtoo cautious for youyou can tame it if you wishthere is help out therepains does not have to be privatelet yourself be free of the ache of your bonesyour mothers bonesyour fathersevery familial failureit can be repaired
About the Creator
A O Beldam
A writer. A body entangled in life. A hag living in the local bog.
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Desecration of the Self
i'm not meant for this worldi'm not built for stress or worki fall apart at the breezethe heat dissolves my seamsi melt with the rainand crumble under pressurei am the flower in the mortarground to dust to make dyesomething beautiful made useful in destructionmaybe i am uselessmaybe i am okay with that facti am made for the pleasurethe moment of ecstacypeak harmony in a dissonant lifeto be put on a pedestalto fall from graceburn to cinder in the holy light of famebecome an icon and an enemyhave my name mean holiest and wickedturn myself inwards so as to reverse my initial roleattack the spine so i may bend easierbuild a palace of pillows and laceturn to dust as my admirers watch in wonderbecome what i was meant to becomea person in two dimensionsnot enough to be taintedbut just enough to tantalizethat is the world i was built for
By A O Beldam6 years ago in Poets
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis7 days ago in Humans
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