art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Flaws and Good Intentions
You are human, Crafted from the cosmos and flaws, Perfectly imperfect - just as it's meant to be. You are not defined by your trauma. You are not bound by your past. You are not the same person you were five minutes ago, Let alone a year ago. Not even ten years ago. You are allowed to make mistakes, For mistakes don’t define us at our core being. We are all just humans, Bleeding onto the tapestry that is life. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be stitched together from flaws and good intentions. It’s okay to be you. Chloe Rose Violet 🌹
By Chloe Unfiltered2 years ago in Poets
How Do You Feel Happiness?. Top Story - February 2025. Content Warning.
Good Doctor? How do you feel happiness? Like a fishhook in the cheek, The tell tale BANG of gasses rapidly exiting a barrel, a trick of the hand before the sting. Like the first inhale of a joint— sharp, electric, a little bit holy, until the burn kicks in. How do you feel happiness? Like a goddamn joke, the punchline always landing too late, the laugh track rolling before I catch the setup. Like a house built on sand, like a sugar-spun web, like the taste of something sweet just before your teeth crack. How do you feel happiness? I used to fake it— Jesus Christ, I was good. Could tap dance bare—footed on broken glass with a smile, could wear it like a well-cut dress, tits juicy in a push up bra. I could make you believe I bled glitter and shit confetti. How do you feel happiness? I don’t, not right away. Not until it’s a fossil, a relic white poop from some mutt in the 90s. not until it’s run it's course in half-lifes. The isotopes seem to say: yes, I was happy there, yes, it was real, yes, it didn’t bite me back. How do you feel happiness? I double down on nature, on dirt-under-the-nails ,honesty on things that don’t lie. Red skies, storm warnings, a bird that shits on your windshield— no fucking illusions, no bait-and-switch. How do you feel happiness? Maybe I don’t. Maybe it’s all a carnival trick, a baited trap. But maybe—just maybe— it’s not a house of candy, not a witch’s laugh, not a trick at all. Maybe it’s just a fleeting thing that doesn’t need to last to count. Maybe I don’t have to believe in it, to let it in. XoXo some woman, somewhere, probably.
By L.K. Rolan2 years ago in Poets
