— Anna Akhmatova, "The Sentence," from The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, translated by Judith Hemschemeyer
[text ID: Today I have so much to do: / I must kill memory once and for all, / I must turn my soul to stone, / I must learn to live again—]
I feel laden with unsaid dreams
spilling over my hair, my feet
walking through a daylit night
full of sparkling stars and troubled sleep
We can cross over and connect
find peace in small things
travel beyond even our simplest dreams -
I’ll see you in a moment, sitting by the sea
lost in this forgotten memory
I am more a fool for thinking, wiser for feeling, as if my head had ever the chance of hiding this from me
excerpt from a poem you can find exclusively in my poetry book 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘬𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺, available on Amazon 💫
I was a gifted child. Until I wasn't. I was the golden girl. Until I couldn't burn anymore.
My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay pot, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the colour you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.
But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.
I was a gifted child once. I was the golden girl. And one day, I burned out.
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire
There are roses in your cheeks
and violets in your eyes --
all devotion to the setting skies
What joy can be felt today? Frozen yet
In feigned sensibility, I ask myself...
i am begging you all to stop treating this site like instagram if you dont want it to be content free by next year
boys in red lay along the platform pillowed on backpacks legs in the sun or sprawled on benches drooping hands fanning pale knees tanning ruddy
like a blush across the face of four pm heat
Historian, writer, and poet | proofreader and tarot card lover | Virgo and INTJ | dyspraxic and hypermobile | You'll find my poetry and other creative outlets stored here. Read my Substack newsletter Hidden Within These Walls. Copyright © 2016 Ruth Karan.
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