She was supposed to be right; love was supposed to win, and the world was supposed to be a loving, kind place. That's what she was told; that's what she told herself. That's what she believed. I write because I was wrong, but mostly because love and kindness isn't. I write because I still have hope, and hope does something. When I've been in so much pain, when I write this poem in pain, Hope looks me in the eyes and says "do something." Hope can't fix everything, but when hope inspires to do something... And I see I wasn't supposed to be right, I was just supposed to do something after I was wrong.
The bed awaited each morning with joy, For we let spring spill on the sheets— Just a tad whenever we woke up. Ours weren't playdates of note, Rather daffodils unencumbered with The expectations of prickless beauty. As the cradle looked in approval, Our happy chuckles gave it purpose, Then we bloomed, unbothered and true. We appear quiet in the vastness without— but our content faces speak volumes. For the bed, the covers, and the air around shelter all core memories in this room of ours.
Who’s the shadow underneath the mask Who’s the sad clown With a knife behind her back Who’s the secret whisperer And the maker of all dreams Who’s the fragile thread That connects present with the past Who’s the conqueror of pain Who is the child hurt and who licks the scars Who’s the voice that never stops As long as time ticks Who’s the watcher behind the tinted glass The true self never dies Covered by dirt and shame it hides It struggles its way through the tides The shadow and the mask The nameless one behind both lies
Saying goodbye to the girl I knew, to the girl I was. Sailing safe in her sweet dreams I truly hope she finds the world she believed possible for me and her. Staring at a beautiful sunset, I thought kindness went beyond the horizon, and love was as true as the sun will rise. I was small, I couldn't see the whole picture, I still can't, I still never will, but I can get a better view. So, for the small girl with sweet dreams, the mountains she couldn't move, I'll climb instead. I feel parts of my life I want to erase, but know I can't; parts of my story I may never tell, but accept; things I didn't have to learn the hard way that didn't make me stronger... and the light of the sun before it turns dark. But the sun will rise, I think that's the only truth I need. The rest is unknown, like what's beyond the horizon. If I could see that girl again and let her know I wouldn't be here without her, let her know I love her and hope she feels the same... But she's here, she's
If your voice ever cracked, from speaking your love for another that was the shell of flawlessness being broken by bravery and truth, that was the beauty of imperfection, because there's nothing flawless or perfect about love. Your love was yours, that you gave to me, through teary eyes, and I won't forget. You're not mine and I'm not yours, but we have a spot we meet at where we talk, listen and talk some more And even though we're different, I've never felt like our worlds were crashing or even colliding into another, it just felt like us finding solace we may not have even known we were looking for. And you've been really warm. Nothing is final, and I'm done trying to make things stay the same. if I keep trying to capture the sunset I'll miss the night sky. If our love doesn't last forever, we still have those nights where we were the stars in the sky. I know love is never enough, because enough is never enough, but right now all I want is to remember that teary-eyed
I hope you know, It's not for you When he cries For his mom, who never cared For his dad, too busy rolling. He's not strong enough to miss you. So when he falls To drugs, To the streets, To strange pussy. He's not falling for you. He falls for his mom. He falls for his dad. He falls for everyone he never had.
The pendulum swings, a Poem by THEMYSTERYWRITER, literature
Literature
The pendulum swings, a Poem
The pendulum swings along with the hands of the clock Hours go by, but nothing changes. Minutes tick on by, but the world remains eerily still. Monotony leads to loss of sanity. And the routine becomes a death march.
In this world of dream-forms Awake only for seconds at a time Is there an end to this suffering This incomprehensible longing Of my every cell to burst open And become boundless water again Is there such a thing as pain In this default state of alertness I let every fibre of my being twitch With a force almost nuclear Until there is but a whirlwind of chaos Destructive and devouring A hunger that feeds upon itself Self-perpetuating Self-habituating otherness Amounting to everything and nothing at all And from this place of nothingness I carry with me the depth of the oceans The spirits of killer whales The forcefulness of wind The darkness of the wisest minds That dwell beneath the earth Seared into my glass-like skin The mark of wilderness itself