aielylois - Tumblr blog

[aielylois]

you are: blinders on, sure-footed as a heartbeat, eyes on the prize

she is: mirrorball dazzle, light at the end of the tunnel, high on your pedestal

I am: collateral damage, left in the dust, blinded by your grace

[aielylois]

Between you and me, kid: you ain't much.

But in the whole scheme of things, that's pretty standard. I mean, what, you get a few decades of life on this pale blue dot and you think you're anyone special? You're asking the wrong questions, kid. To be special to everyone is to be a mirror- a reflection without a body, an echo without substance. You will always be what they want to see.

See, everyone's a critic. But to be special to some? Now you're getting it. Because to be special to some is to be seen. It's having the space held for you, all of you. From fingertip to fingertip, along all your life lines, fault lines, and heartlines - and yes, even every millimetre of your crooked teeth.

It's someone who takes in all of you and still decides to take your hand. It's someone who has seen you grow and change and break down and build up and still greets your every form. It's someone who prays for you when you don't remember how, who still welcomes you, you whirlwind of a being.

(And one day, you'll wonder why it took you so long to figure out why that someone could be you.)

So, sure, you're not a big deal. Newsflash, kid: you never were and you never will be. And if you ask me, the whole thing's overrated. Don't you get tired of holding up your mirror so they only ever see your reflection? Spend too long toeing the line and all you'll ever see is a tightrope.

Keep your eyes up. You live on a pale blue dot and isn't that a miracle already? Keep your hands open. Hold on to what you love. Keep your breathing steady. Take it in one at a time and you'll make it through.

Listen, you ain't much, kid. But you're all you've got.

-ylm

Prompt: a bit of advice - escapril on ig

[aielylois]

you said "do you trust me" and somehow it didn't sound like a question like you held all the cards in your hands and they spelled out my answer Y E S I did I do but you were always better at dealing out than keeping them close to your chest I was shuffled around until you only had one card up your sleeve and I knew it was time to cut the deck I never had any cards to play in the first place so thank you for teaching me to count them thank you for teaching me the rules of the game thank you for reminding me that we are not drawn from the same deck it makes it that much easier for me to leave the table

-ylm

[aielylois]

I've crossed the street too many times to count just to escape your memory all of my bridges have burned down but you've always known how to swim I have been drowning for years s(wallow)ing (in) the River Lethe hoping that when I finally get to the other side I will not look for you there

crossing the Lethe street -ylm

Prompts: a poem inspired by the line, "I still love the people I've loved, even if I cross the steet to avoid them" Uma Thurman - #elocintingprompts on ig // s(wallow) - #bellaryanprompts on ig

[aielylois]

empty cathedrals iii

I write of empty cathedrals like I write of missing you quietly and often never admitting to myself that this act will not teach me how to pray

I write of empty cathedrals like I write of missing you you, blessed by the ethereal I, haunted by your memory not sure whether I should ask for forgiveness or an exorcism

I write of empty cathedrals like I write of missing you with reverence and a quiet sort of sadness there are no congregations in an empty church just as you were never there to begin with

-ylm

[aielylois]

portrait of love as an act of violence (after lohver)

ok ok ok so what you're saying is it was the right thing to stay quiet while the gun went off aimed as it was at my heart I fell for the illusion of safety got caught up in my own bravado and stood right in your line of fire this is not how I wanted to be caught in your crosshairs

ok ok ok so what you're saying is it was the right thing to sit still while the bullet burrowed into my atria each heartbeat ticking like the countdown to a flatline finish as bone marrow melted into mercury the tin man would love to have a heart like mine loud as it is in my leaden ears, a bl(ood r)ush in surround sound I would sooner trade it for his armour

ok ok ok so what you're saying is it was the right thing to say nothing while you reloaded the gun my white flags have turned red trying to staunch my bleeding heart that is to say love is the most violent act and I have always hated confrontation

-ylm

Prompts: bl(ood r)ush - bringonmayhem on ig

today my prof said to my class “you don’t truly love someone until they’ve hurt you and you still think of them as the greatest person in the world. Love is the most violent act.” ok ok ok

[aielylois]

Comfort (Revised)

Four years of travelling has doubled and four years later I'm still doing much of the same going back and forth barely stopping over a conversion of states a crossing of borders chasing, tracking learning, building trusting that my feet will always get me back home

Dad wraps me in a hug that feels like home his superpower, his speciality I squeeze him back just to remind him I have grown just that little big bigger even if I can still fit snug in his arms gotten that little bit stronger too Big and strong, like you, I don't say One day

Mum puts her arms around me all warmth, all comfort I nestle myself in her embrace just to remind her of the space I can take up listen how loudly my heart can beat see how deeply I can breath again? I am still finding my own space Making them my own, like you, I don't say One day

My hometown feels a lot smaller these days but it's a wonder how much of my history is hidden in these alleyways how many stories I've mapped out how many are still waiting to be written I may have carved these streets with my name but the map they make up will always be etched into my bones

-ylm

Prompts: If you did NaPoWriMo last year (or any year in the past), take a poem you wrote then and rewrite it - #SkylersPrompts on ig

Apr 8. Touch has been a precious, difficult commodity for everyone recently. Write about hugs. Kisses. Skin touching skin. #NaPoWriMoxNidhScraps // #Escapril 8: Hometown

Comfort

Comfort feels like warm hugs

And despite these times

I am lucky enough to still be getting them

Refuge is my childhood home

I am surrounded 

By a sense of nostalgia

My parents call out to me 

From the other room

Just double checking

Yes, I am here

Four years of travelling 

Back and forth

A conversion of states

Barely stopping

Chasing, tracking

Learning, building

My feet always get me back home

Dad wraps me in a hug

I squeeze him back

Just to remind him

I have grown bigger

Become stronger too

Big and strong like you

One day

Mum puts her arms around me

I nestle myself in her embrace

Just to remind her

Of the space I took up

I am finding my own space

Made them my own like you

One day

My hometown feels smaller these days

But these connecting streets 

Seem neverending 

There’s always a new way to go

Or an old one I can’t remember

Not laid out on any map

But somewhere in my bones

[aielylois]

what you can do about it:

Be a more open person, they said. Reclaim yourself, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

cry. put it in the calendar. pencil it in. never mind how it somehow turned into a group invite. you’re already overdue one anyways. might as well be in good company if not good spirits.

question everything. remember that stupid meme you made in year 11 when you did your Socrates presentation that your teacher tried to turn you off of doing? turns out you spent your whole life living it. Socrates would be proud. or as Rainer Maria Rilke more eloquently put it: Live the questions now. you may never know the answer, but I’m proud of you for asking. so please keep asking. even if your voice shakes. there is no way to live but in the questions.

panic. it’ll happen and it’s ok. it’s ok to be scared. I get it. you’ve been backed into every corner except your own. but look at where you are now. your past self would never have dreamed you’d be here. your childhood self never dreamed this was an option. so make it worth their while. make it worth their questioning and nerves and discomfort and fear. you’re gonna make it.

regress. well, that’s what other people might say. call it freedom. call it reclamation. call it letting your inner child laugh and play and sing and be silly. call it a realisation that you are still that child. that you have always been that child. so ingat, anak. take care of yourself.

breath it in. breathe it out. you’ve been good. you’ve settled down. and that’s the thing that scares you. but diyos how long has it been since you felt comfortable like this? (the fact that you have to think about it is all the answer you need) so sit with the comfort. be gentle with it. be glad that it stays when you wake up tomorrow. and tomorrow. and tomorrow. and if this is as good as it gets? then how good’s living?

-ylm

Prompts: ___, they said. It'll be fun, they said. - #promptsbyshibs on ig // Write a poem that answers the question, 'What can you do about it?' but don't explicitly explain what 'it' is - #AmyKayPoemADay24 on ig // as good as you'll get - @nosebleedclub // accidentally after Northern Attitude - Noah Kahan

[aielylois]

look ye upon this monolith a monument of alabaster, of marble, of stone carved, chiseled, hammered strength imbued with a chip of a chisel and the touch of a hammer piece by piece a pièce de résistance released

you see, sculptors work in the space between find the form and figure between fissures and fractures coax them out of the rough it is not the stroke of a paintbrush but the strike of a mallet not the addition but the subtraction

there is no room for error granite does not forgive (not least of all because of its stony centre) once it is carved away, you are either left with form or nothing

-ylm

Prompt: grecian - @nosebleedclub

[aielylois]

isn't it funny how we give gods blood? how we give them the life force that flows through us even though they are supposed to be the source.

in all our stories and ballads we show their pulse, spill their guts. a reminder that we can make them bleed if we wanted to. a reminder that they can also be hung to dry.

isn't it fun to thumb the pressure point? feel the bob of an adam's apple on a god who created it. what came first - the apple or the pulse?

it is through our lives that the gods are granted immortality. they say ichor runs through their veins but no one ever told you that ichor tastes a lot like ink.

so wet the nib. prepare the parchment. be ready to carve flesh from words and don't stop until the ink bleeds through the page and stains your fingertips.

-after this incedible poem by @glasswaters, ylm

[aielylois]

dust motes enraptured by sun in an empty room- movement in still life

Prompt: sun in an empty room - @nosebleedclub

[aielylois]

Prompts: vision of the future - letsescapril on ig // write a poem where the last word of every line combines to create its own 'secret' line - @cgcpoems // divine intervention - little_indigocloud on ig // to be a person - amykaypoetry on ig

[alt id under the cut]

human, err(or)

They say to err is to be human and I cannot help but think that it is all I have. to stray off the beaten path to seek what cannot be seen- to err is to be skewed to be slightly off the pace because life isn’t straight or narrow and the future isn’t actually in front of you. You pull it from the aether and spin it with your own hands, hold on as it sinks in and pray to your deity of choice that They stay out of it. For this life is about believing you can conjure control out of chaos and I cannot help but think that unexpected is all that I am for what is the most unexpected thing in this irrational world than to be alive

-ylm

[aielylois]

12.09.22

I told a friend that I wanted to curl up into the foetal position not cry or sob nor wail or rage just give my shoulders a rest from the yoke of my clavicles and the weight of the world curling my back into a question I don't know how to answer

-ylm

Prompt: clavicles - @nosebleedclub

[aielylois]

06.9.22

half way across the world they are saying goodbye to summer it's hard not to laugh at the irony the feeling of watching something slip away is all too familiar as you welcome September to the threshold

September is more violent than you remember- more unruly, more unpredictable set to usurp the fragile order you thought you had locked in a glass case

still, you let September in what other choice do you have? you try not to think about its entrance and focus on learning how to slip away when you are faced with the shards of August

September, you liminal fiend may you not steal from me as August did as July did may we learn to live together teach me how to work with wood and stone instead of glass and sand

September, I cannot say I welcome you but I can meet you at the threshold step up to see you eye to eye so that we may understand each other and walk forward together

-after this post by @sadfishkid and this poem by @the-narrative-foil, ylm

Prompts: final summer rites - @nosebleedclub

[aielylois]

confession

poetry is my religion. I am christened anew with every click cascading into my eardrums. every murmured sound of acknowledgement my heavenly choir. I hear you. I see you.

the first time I read my poetry live to a real-life audience, I told them I didn't believe in God but I forgot that they were sitting in the room with me. because in a room of such passion such acceptance such honesty- how could it not be filled with something holy? something divine.

I listened to poets who spoke stories that could have been my own gospel truth. poets who saw stained light filter through every window they looked through. poets who believed in their God and for a moment, made me believe too. all of them welcoming me into their sacred space.

I bowed my head to read from my phone when I spoke my poem. I told my mother that it was that or doing it by heart but I would I could find it in my heart... for truly I could not. not yet.

one day my words will ring true from my tongue. one day the organ will play and I will sing my hymnal by heart. but until that day comes, I will clasp my hands around my phone, cradle this illuminated scripture, and breath. let this poem pass through me and sigh

amen

-a confession, after reading live at my first poetry slam (24.6.22) ylm

[aielylois]

stay human

Must one really talk to humans to stay human? Is it not enough to watch life pass by and ride on the eddies of its momentum to spin the next tale?

Must one always try to be good to stay human? Is it not enough to wake up every day just to see the sun only to close the shutters and wait for the stars to come out?

Must one always create to stay human? Is it not enough that one learns not to step on cracks not to make a sound not to take up space because to do so would create a problem and then you'd be less human and more problem- wouldn't you?

Must one always strive for reclamation, a proclamation, a cry in the night to prove the echo has substance in order to stay human? Is it not enough to cling to the trellis grow on the walls hold on to everything you come across just to pass the time?

Must one always crave intimacy to stay human? Is it not enough that one becomes the eyes in the dark blinking slowly in time with one's breathing even if there is no one to watch?

Must one remember to stay human? Is it not enough that one has déjà vu for a life that was never theirs?

Tell me: how do you stay human when you feel like a ghost haunting your own body?

-ylm

Prompts: trying to be good + act of creation + intimacy -Escapril on ig // reclamation + espalier + eyes in the dark - @nosebleedclub // déjà vu - bynicoleting on ig

[aielylois]

Prompts: Translate your favourite song from your mother tongue - harnidhk on ig

[pic id under the cut]

The poem is typed as black text on a white background. At the top of the image is the title of the poem in a font that looks like scrawled handwriting: Ang Pipit // Mama Bird // A Warning

The poem is split into three columns in the image. The first column (the left-most column) is in italics and contains the lyrics of the Filipino folk song 'Ang Pipit'. It reads as follows:

May pumukol sa Pipit  sa sanga ng isang kahoy At nahagip ng bato ang pakpak ng munting ibon

Dahil sa sakit, di na nakaya pang lumipad At ang nangyari ay nahulog,  ngunit parang taong bumigkas,

“Mamang kay lupit,  ang puso mo’y di na nahabag, Pag pumanaw ang buhay ko, may isang Pipit na iiyak.”

The second column (the middle column) contains the translation of 'Ang PIpit' and reads as follows:

Someone threw a stone at the bird on the branch the stone hit the little bird's wing

Because it hurt so much, the bird couldn't fly again So it fell out of the tree and like a human, cried out

"O cruel man, your heart has no pity If my life ends, there is another little bird who will cry."

The third column (the right-most column) is in italics and is an original stanza inspired by the previous two columns, written by ylm. It is in italics and reads as follows:

This poem is a warning but first, the pain- sails in like a stone from a sling hits where it hurts the most

This poem is a warning that freedom can be stolen it is not far to fall from grace but the cry that follows echoes in every soul

This poem is a warning to the heartless and cruel my life may end and tears will be shed but no one will cry over you

At the bottom of the image the text is typed in the same scrawling handwritten font of the title and reads: -ylm @whyylois