art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The House I Outgrew
I was raised in a house of whispered rules— not spoken, just felt. Like cold floors in the morning or the way my mother sighed instead of apologizing. My mind was made there, brick by invisible brick. Built from don’t speak unless, don’t cry unless, don’t ask unless. And so I learned to read silence like scripture, to decode the sharp breath before the storm. But now— I am grown, and this mind, stitched together by someone else’s hands, builds rooms around me. Rooms too tight. Windows painted shut. I try to renovate with grace— add light where there was none, a window seat for my daughter where she can dream loud and unafraid. She will not inherit my hush. She will inherit my rebellion.
By Carolina Borges2 years ago in Poets
A Place the Mind Forgets
I woke in the hallway of nowhere— walls pulsing with light, as if memory had been replaced with color. No doors. No turns. Just the endless stretch of thought, painted in hues too bright to trust. My footsteps didn’t echo— sound had been silenced sometime after truth was banned, and before dreams were taxed. I think I used to be someone. Someone with questions, someone who listened to the strange things people saw when the world was asleep. But now— even the night is under surveillance. They cauterized dreaming to stop rebellion. Peace, they said, is the absence of resistance. But I remember when quiet meant safety, not control. There’s something behind this light. I feel it hum, like a forgotten name scratching the edges of my skull. If I walk far enough, will I find the version of me that still believes in escape?
By Carolina Borges2 years ago in Poets
