Boo.

so maybe there will be no coming of age.

maybe there will be no moment, signifying glory;

hell, maybe there will be no glory.

maybe we'll simply be two people who were here and then weren't.

the gods will not line up moments for us to scavenger hunt our purpose;

maybe we will not have a purpose.

or a god for that matter.

in one moment you're driving home and you're singing loud with your best friend;

in another you get mistaken for a man with your helmet on, the bulky death bike and then you get out of a ticket when the policeman sees your face and you come home in giggles.

in another moment you've decided to live through another day.

so maybe we will not be anything that aches when it is gone.

maybe we'll be mundane and chaotic indecision floating in an abyss of our own selves

and maybe you never get to meet that famous 2010 singer you liked as a teenager,

and you never get to learn the fourth language,

or go to that remote country

or kiss the love.

maybe there is no love here.

maybe we will go quietly, with naive hope that is false but you hold on to anyways

because if you do not have this hope to hold on to, there is nothing else.

to hope is to have the courage to pray, against all odds,

to pray that there is someone out there lining up things for you,

lining up lives and people for you to become.

to have hope is to be terrified of all the realities.

we'll go quietly, unnoticed;

and yes this does not match what we wanted to be,

but there are happy endings in all those poems and stories to make up for all the ones you never get to have in your reality.

A.G.

Occam’s Razor:

Suggests that the simplest explanation,

Is the most plausible one.

Which means, to put it simply, I love you.

But how do I contain the multitude of all that I feel

Within so little?

How do I tell you,

I see the stars in you;

All my poems from here on until eternity

Will be about you;

“I love you” doesn’t do justice to the fact that

I swear I was a Universe unlike any other,

But I found you and we were always whole;

But somehow, with you next to me, we feel complete.

In my next life time, I swear I will find Occam; tell him

That there are some entities which need to be multiplied;

Not out of necessity,

But out of love.

by Anika

Capturing the dread that visits as your Birthdays approach.

I was not the broken thing anymore.

I cried and fought and fell

And scratched and clawed

My way back from hell.

I made an armour out of this body,

Grew my heart into a soldier,

Marched to once friendly lines

To cut off all ties

And fought you off

With all my might.

You weren't here anymore

And I grew myself a garden,

Planted my heart in its bosom;

Took the armour out to let it rust,

Felt the sunlight burn my thick skin,

And I almost could feel the years turn,

And could almost feel myself turn to dust.

And how do we forget all this glory around us?

When I was little, I used to stay away from matches because I was sure I would set myself on fire. What I didn't realise was that I've been burning for a long time. You know how they say you're a sum of everyone you've met; everyone you've come across? I think I'm other people, more than I am myself. I still remember the phone number of my friend from the third grade. What do I do with the memory of that? That's the problem. I remember too much. I can never forget: numbers and people. I am a walking ache, I am a fresh scar; I am open wounds: always aching. I am hurt. My happiness is pretense and my sadness is a default. I have been hurt too many times and I can never forget it. I never remember my happiness. I remember too much of what went wrong and too much of all that hurt me; that's the problem. What do I do with all this hurt? I carry a lifetime of hurt. I think I will age backwards; I already hurt so much at so little, I am sure there can be no way this gets worse so I have to hope this will get better. As the years grow, I will grow. I will be taller when others are starting to hunch. How could I not? Where do you go from this ache? I am the ache I feel and I am the thing that hurts my heart. My happiness is always a pretense. I am always sad during the happiest moments of my life. Someone called me arrogant and I laughed at their face. I think some people are always sad. I am always other people and I have never been myself and I do not know what to do with that. I am a stranger in my head and my face is always a foreign image that surprises me. I remember too much. I don't know how to not. How do you forget? I don't hate myself, I just don't know what to do with her sometimes. She is a child and she is so grown up and strong and she is always grieving the loss of some part of herself.

Our love was wine drunk

At 3 am on the kitchen floor,

We made space for each other.

We were giggles illuminated

By the fairy lights in my room.

We were lights turned off

And windows pushed wide open;

We were a clear night sky,

We were so beautiful, so pure;

Two stars besides one another,

We were bright and free.

I want to write a poem for you

so I did this thing awhile back and it’s been a hot minute, so I’m restarting it

Reblog this post and I will stalk your tumblr and write a poem based on your aesthetic