I Read That Grief Is A Derived Word

Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus: First Part (XXV) (tr. J.B. Leishman)

I read between the lines when I can't write.!!😶

My Body: A Crime Scene

I was told the body is a temple. I was taught to treat my body like a temple. Sacred, Holy, somewhere God resides, somewhere a person can be at peace. But with time, the sacrality has begun to fade. It has become a realm of my internal demons, something sinister.

My body is now more of a crime scene than a temple.

I've put up barricade tapes around me. Of bright "when life gives you lemon" yellow and black. A cautionary measure for the lighthearted.

Some understand and stay away.

Others push right through like the case now belongs to them.

They say they've seen this before.

They say no amount of gore can keep them away.

They say they'll take care of it.

Only to realize it's bloodier than they could've imagined.

Multiple fingerprints, Multiple footprints: An evidence marker placed for every person I let walk all over me, and for every person, I gave my heart only for them to poke my wounds.

Blood: Numerous splatters, but all mine.

Weapons: Some sticks and stones, knives that I willingly handed over hoping they'd protect me, now covered in my blood and, a pen.

Many witnesses: Either dumb or hostile.

Signs of arson: Ashes of everything I burnt down. Pictures, letters, broken promises, false hopes, unfulfilled dreams.

And now, all that's left of me is a chalk outline. Everything else faded, picked apart or withered away.

My body is not a temple anymore. It isn't sacred or pure.

It's not a place I can stand barefoot.

It's now a place where I need a hazmat suit and gloves.

Never felt more seen.

"Dark academic?" More like "someone please help me holy shit I can't continue living like this and the only thing keeping me from falling off my rocker is literature."

Poetry challenge #7

A strange dream.

“Words were different when they lived inside of you.”

— Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (via razreads)

COFFEE AND POETRY

Coffee and Poetry. How similar!

If you think they're poles apart,

You'll be surprised when I start.

You consume one

while the latter consumes you

Go on, try one while you brew.

Impedes your sleep

With a word, a line, a sip, or a cup

Stops you before you can think of giving up

Dark and addictive,

Sometimes even bitter.

Yet, somehow makes you feel better.

Coffee and Poetry. How similar!

Intoxicates you while it's also a detox

A mug or paper filled with paradox.

Starry Night ⭐

Lying down on our grassy lawn,

Stars arranged like they're drawn,

Little fingers intertwined,

Playing on loop Seeing blind.

Then, you stand up to light your cigar,

That's when I see a shooting star.

I see your face through lighters flame,

And realize both are the same.

(04.12.20)

Attempt at a prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting 's December prompts.

LIGHTS AND SHADES

All the Polaroids

Once lit with fairy lights,

Now stay in a box,

With not a ray of light.

Love,

just like photos, will surely fade

So I pulled up my walls

And hide behind it's shade.

(29.10.20)