Tag: poem

how dare you, they say,
we are who you owe
we gave you this life
and ours is your soul

how dare you not listen
how dare you not care
what our mouths want to see
what our ears want to hear
who are, who were you, how came you to be
to stand here before us, too strange and too free?

so there I stand
in silence alone
watch crowding wrath
of dark-martyred bones
their flock falters, shatters, fool’s gold to stone
and my song echoes: I am my own home

moami

And deep down, you know it as surely and certainly as the moon orbit the planet that brought you into existence:
You are desperate to learn. You’d do anything to understand. There’s no path you wouldn’t walk, no ocean you wouldn’t cross to study the whispers of flaring energy between stars or the growl-told stories of evolution shining from the eyes of an apex predator.
Everything inside you screams for another glimpse inside the universe. Through the ribcage, behind matter and light, you yearn for an explanation of it all.
So be desperate. Be stunned. Stand in awe and full of questions so that you always find a spark of curiosity even when the world tries to fill you with darkness.
You’re an explorer.
You’re here to learn.

to you. to her. to him. to anyone who’s afraid of the dark tonight.

not being beautiful is a relief. no ‘so pretty’ by family or friends, no ‘you’re so gorgeous’ by strangers or lovestruck acquaintances. nothing. I am nothing.

with a face and body so unremarkable, so average that neither breath is taken away nor lips pull up in disgust, so utterly ignored after one glance of recognition, I am invisible. I am not there.

until they are introduced to my mind, I am a blank slate. I am nobody.

when I speak, I become. when I create, I exist. when my shell is ignored and my ideas materialise into language, sound, ink, only then am I alive.

I have no beauty. I have a mind.

“You’ve changed so much!”

Thank you.

“I didn’t exactly, you know, mean it as a compliment.”

I know, but I’m taking it as one.

“It’s just… I never thought you’d end up like this. Look at what you’ve become.”

I am looking, every day.

“Seriously? You see yourself and still don’t understand?”

I understand.

But do you?

A story is a story is just a story.

True. And more false than anything.

Our fairy tales and legends, our myths and harbingers and endings, all the ink-whispering hope against our eyes and ears, they cannot be broken into anything less than proud, wild stories.

And, more than anything, a story is never ‘just’ this or ‘just’ that.

It is everything, and it allows us to become.

Change doesn’t mean that it’ll get better.

There is no almighty prophecy of good times. Maybe there won’t be the light at the end of the tunnel that you’ve been promised over and over. And possibly, you won’t even get a glimpse of what you hoped for.

Change is just a chance. Nothing more, and oh, take this one to heart: certainly no less.

Sure winter will pass someday. But in the meantime, I’d rather learn to bend the snow and its storms than sit and wait for summer.

And the season shall be yours to shape.

Are you day or night? they ask me sweetly
Are you silver or gold? they want to know
Storm or silence, they nudge none-gently
Earth or sea, where do you grow

Come on, you have to decide, it’s easy either
Or never nor
But never as
Well as – so, go ahead
We must know
Only one
Can be yours
Can be true and can be you

I ask back I ask why
We need to know
Because all life
Means one thing is not another
Either sister none or brother

So I say yes
And I say no
Since oh you see those wicked souls
Are sometimes
Neither
Both