sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
Pornographic Venn Diagramming
It's all performative, all damned to death and back. Born we are into this system of crippled development. Portrayed as enlightenment, but the reality is anything but. . I have long rallied against such realities, despite the burial of my past innocence, forgotten sanctity. . I wrote down some thoughts: . Well hallelujah Spread thin Tongue twisting tautogrammic takes of trauma and triumph Male shame and toxicity mixed with a little alienation and Oh oh the resentment Wafer thin . Xenophobia and the hardened husk of hatred and illegitimate anger and distrust we have become . . Desperation . . The secret language of the sextape . . Pornographic Venn diagramming . The shame, oh the . Shame? . Generation after generation closed off and colder . Heart unresponsive as the irresponsible as the moral vocal cords for the majority . . Minorities kerbed, chided . . We become the grotesque we loathe . . All our yesterdays forgotten The abstract replaces the grounded In an instant . . We become the loathsome grotesque . . All our tomorrows forgotten The grounded replaces the pure In an instant . . We become the grotesque we loathe . . I have become that which I hate. As I bring down the hammer of the gods of inconsequence and their wards, the stupid and stationary, I feel the shame. . . Shame? . . Slàinte. . . Merci beaucoup Oui, oui Ventus, ventus. . . Lilith adores. Diana engorges the might of Artemis and the cynicism of Perseus. . . As I look to the mirror and dismay shoots through like a sgian-dubh of truth, claidheamh-mòr, I lift my Lochaber axe and punish the impure because I dare not face my own. Targe laid down. The dirk plunges into my neck by the phantom of reason. . . Fire. Fire. Fire. . . Water. Ice. . . Novocaine. . . Any D&D players available.
By Paul Stewart6 months ago in Poets
Instructions For Sewing a Shadow
First, wait until he’s sleeping— the kind of sleep only boys with unbroken hearts can manage. Quiet as snowfall, gather the pieces he keeps losing: the part that doubts, the part that wants, the part that promises tomorrow. Lay them across the floorboards like a crime scene or a pattern to follow. In low lamplight you’ll see they’re thinner than you remember— shapes that flicker when you look too closely, dark where your hands have worn through. Thread your needle with promise. Not the pink kind, or the kind whispered in the warmth of June— use the winter-thread, the one strong enough to hold a man to himself. Stitch gently. Shadows bruise easily. When he stirs, say, It’s nothing. Keep working. Tug—not too hard, not too soft— the balance you learned from loving people who never learned you. If the seams don’t hold, if the shadow slips free the moment he runs, don’t blame your hands. They were steady. It’s just that some men prefer to travel light. And if you find yourself alone by morning, needle cooling in your palm, thread slack with goodbye— fold the shadow you saved for him. Place it in a drawer with the other things you repaired that no one returned for. Close it. Turn away. Notice how your own shadow moves with you— how it never needed stitching to stay.
By Brie Boleyn7 months ago in Poets
