I often have dreams of a place
Both familiar and unknown.
Waking me up from this dream
Feels akin to having to give up on
a space I have always
wanted to be in
it is cruel to wake me up
from a dream as such.
Scene 1
In mezzanine cheap seats, you cross your legs
and ask me what would be three of the
loneliest places to die?
you think dying in the street where you grew up ,
would be marginally less lonely than dying
in a city you have always wanted to visit
but never been to before
but not as lonely or traumatic
as drowning in a communal pool.
I started this year with burn scars across half of my body and being unemployed, but I am ending the year doing a job I do not hate most days. There have been numerous changes this year. I moved houses twice and have now rearranged myself into a two-bedroom shotgun house with one of my closest mates.
English is not my mother's first language.
So, she is always stumbling on
Its intricacies The grammatical structures,
And words that spell differently
Than they sound. My mother feels we make a mockery of the dead By remembering them more fondly than We ever felt about them.
She asked, "Do I believe in seraphims?"
Happiness has always felt like an unattainable dream.
She said, “Everything around us is tidal,
so stop second-guessing every moment.
And it is okay for you to want to go
back home, to a place where you know
you are loved.”
All the stupid shit I have thought about looking at my ceiling in the dark at some point and all the bargain basement emotions I felt doing so. These are just a series of thoughts I have had over the years, staring at my ceiling in the dark every time the night came calling.
Nothing I write here should be regarded as literature; nothing I write here or wherever should be considered of note. This is what living alone for twelve hundred and seventy-seven days has done to me. This is my museum of youth, the last place where I have ever felt like myself and likely ever will.
Over growing concerns regarding the increased space in the monarch's cuticles, the state-backed newspaper releases a forty-five-part directive for aspiring writers and or poets on how to write apolitical regime-appeasing poems.
How to Write a Poem That is Not Political?
Follow this guide down to the last detail to yield the highest probability to kickstart your literary career journey, with the Empereur ’s blessings. ‘Vive l’Empereur!
Conceit.
Long glistening towering
over a past that is now lived,
Understood, disappointed.
the last time we spoke
You told me of the
only two lessons
Your father ever taught you
“Time destroys everything.”
and
“The postman always rings twice”.
Apologies for the lack of romance and the overabundance of self-indulgence in this yarn. To accept this person-to-person call, please continue reading. This November, the sky has remained muddled and empty; outside, the window hung over a waned sun, and the entire month, it has felt more like an evening than a morning. All my thoughts keep reverberating through the shallow hallway of the third place I moved to this year. And they keep reminding me that some of us have no future. At my core, I am hollow. Empty. Living a faux existence. I am not virtuous, just afraid.
This October,
My thoughts
Are brittle as snow
and not nebulous.
This October,
All I need
is to not be me.
This October,
I want to be forgotten
Rather than be known
