relatable
i relate
to everything.
it's a curse.
even when
it doesn't apply to me
i feel the pain in every
tweet about a messy breakup
or instagram post about a dead uncle.
i relate to
the edgy quotes and the lovesick poems.
the fictional struggles and
the all-too-real wars.
i relate to it all,
yet i have nothing new to name.
i have nothing to say that can make you feel me
the way i feel your words
even if they're superficial.
i have nothing to say that can properly convey
the borrowed feelings i'm
living on.
the problem is
most people won't let you borrow anything
unless it's shit.
so all i have
is a bunch of negativity
that people generously donated to me
to fill the void with more darkness.
and now,
suprise
suprise,
no one wants to take it back.
The Window
the color
of the window,
not the scenery behind it.
does anyone contemplate
what a window would look like
with nothing behind it?
the color
of the window,
not the house inside it.
does anyone contemplate
what a window would look like
if there was nothing inside it?
nothing outside or inside
no sides at all
just a glass wall
between nothing and nowhere.
what would you see?
the color
of the window.
I like poems.
I never knew my grandfather very well. He was a reserved man: brilliant and subtle. He had a crooked smile and he only spoke when he had something funny or insightful to say. As a result, I never knew him well and quite honestly, I never wanted to. There was no reason for that feeling, but he seemed like the kind of person who would be difficult to get to know. Eventually, I got to know him after he died. I read his book of poetry and I realized he was human. There's a running joke that the men on my father's side can't communicate well. That begun with my grandfather. But in these lines of free verse, his emotions braided themselves into each word, stringing letters together in an equally intentional and haphazard way. He communicated to me from beyond the grave in a manner only poetry could. Stories are fine - good even - but sometimes it's difficult to explain yourself in the detail stories require. Poetry and song share a common principle: their meanings are not definite or finite. You can manipulate people's words to make them your truth and that is the root of my love for poems. I see my granfathers words, and suddenly I am there with him, doing a puzzle and not saying much, but feeling his feelings.
To be afraid of.....
I fear of being lonely,
I fear of being crowded,
Yet I’m too lonely,
And yet I’m too crowded.
I fear of being silent,
I fear of being violent,
Yet I’m too silent,
And yet I’m too violent.
I fear of death
And I fear of life,
B’cuz both are just promises,
Made by us.
Everyday I dream about them,
When I sleep at night,
About when I will lose all hope,
And when I will lose my love.
#poem #fear
©Amal_Z
falling into holes
prepare for the fall
ash and decaying buildings
giving way to an endless hole
as white as falling snow
ash and decaying buildings
grey gives way to white
as white as falling snow
watching it burn
grey gives way to white
flames burn white-hot
watching it burn
all i can do is watch
flames burn white hot
impossibly hot, violently burning, and
all i can do is watch
prepare for the fall
There Once Was A Man
There once was a man
Slowly breathing, fading
His last seconds have arrived
He lies there, alone
Slowly breathing, fading
While waiting for his loved ones to come
He lies there, alone
Remembering all the things he had done
While waiting for his loved ones to come
He stares blankly at the white walls
Remembering all the things he had done
He feels some regret, he has nothing to do now
He stares blankly at the white walls
He closes his eyes
He feels some regret, he has nothing to do now
There once was a man.
Choreographed Romance
So here we go again,
Repeating the same old dance.
Sharing desire and pain,
A choreographed romance.
Repeating the same old dance,
Two steps forward, two steps back.
A choreographed romance,
Neither willing to attack.
Two steps forward, two steps back.
Will we ever learn to share?
Neither willing to attack
Or show how much we each care.
Will we ever learn to share?
Will we let anguish remain,
Or show how much we each care?
So here we go again.
From Darkness
From the darkness it shall come
To drown the world in panic.
And all sane minds it will numb,
Not saintly nor satanic.
To drown the world in panic;
Its manifest is clear,
Not saintly nor satanic,
To gift the world with fear.
Its manifest is clear
When morning’s light is muted.
To gift the world with fear
And leave our hearts polluted.
When morning’s light is muted
It will swallow up the sun,
And leave our hearts polluted.
From the darkness it shall come.