fleuronterrobang

[fleuronterrobang]

Potentilla indica

Deceit, my mind supplies, upon seeing red, warted fruit,

peeking upwards, demanding, “pick me, eat me,”

blatant, obvious, herring-like mimicry,

alas, a mockery of some better counterpart.

Might a weary traveler trance upon it,

and bite, with hardened, bloody determination,

they’d be met with bland, watery lies,

disappointment upon a single morsel.

And yet.

And yet, it is red, still,

bright, amongst the weeds, still,

spring, amongst decay, still,

and would you blame man or plant, still?

And might our traveler have felt then,

if for just one fleeting second,

sweeter than any true strawberry,

suspended in fermata, a taste of hope?

Spring, my mind supplies, upon seeing red aggregate fruit,

peeking upwards, as if saying, “hello, hello!”

adapting, surviving, against these odds,

I seek out thee, the mock strawberry.

-

2025.05.20

[fleuronterrobang]

You have two options.

As it stands, both will hurt.

In one, someone will find it, eventually. Inevitably.

It won't be pretty. You cannot control it.

You will not find anything.

The alternative that you seek cannot exist sans witness.

More simply: There would be Nothing.

In the other, is pain. That does not change.

It will exist, for you will too.

Entropy increases regardless. The eventuality is promised.

A longer route, of course. But you shall be permitted to ask.

This is a plea.

Why hurry?

-

A note to self. 2025/04/26

[fleuronterrobang]

At other times I am dragged down by the trenches beneath my eyes. My skin, a cling film barrier blasted with six-hundred watts for three minutes, tender, tender, a whisper from melting. This is my skull, I say, and all shall witness its fracturing under unyielding gravity. My limbs do not lift; my hair, mycelium; I am decay.

At times I feel fuzzy around the edges, like someone had drawn me into existence from the tip of a worn whiteboard marker and onto a white sheet crinkled at the corners. Like the plumes of a feather, or the thistle seed, far less appreciated than its golden-haired compatriots, I float from place to place wherever the currents may take me. And despite knowing otherwise, I feel small, inexplicably small, as if I ought to be snuffed out by a mere droplet or a careless tread.

2024/12/19

[fleuronterrobang]

At times I feel fuzzy around the edges, like someone had drawn me into existence from the tip of a worn whiteboard marker and onto a white sheet crinkled at the corners. Like the plumes of a feather, or the thistle seed, far less appreciated than its golden-haired compatriots, I float from place to place wherever the currents may take me. And despite knowing otherwise, I feel small, inexplicably small, as if I ought to be snuffed out by a mere droplet or a careless tread.

2024/12/19

[fleuronterrobang]

At dark I ride my silver steed,

its gallop, barely a whir, rhythmic,

from yond rounding a glow, a spirit,

fellow traveler, weathering this frigid realm.

The being nears; a star, a pulsar,

humming at is grows, swiftly, blinding,

and just as it comes, it whirls by in a flash—

—leaving me, once more, to cycle alone.

2024/12/14

[fleuronterrobang]

The Paducah Sun-Democrat, Kentucky, August 21, 1939

[fleuronterrobang]

You are eighteen.

It's strange, isn't it,

how long it's been?

Maybe you forgot,

it was a real thing,

or maybe you yearned,

for this proverbial spring,

to bloom in your life?

But you are eighteen,

and you sit there and wonder,

because what does it mean?

Neither adult nor child;

Somewhere in between.

But now it's upon you,

and you cannot leave.

for try as you might,

you cannot flee.

You are eighteen.

[fleuronterrobang]

an automated message

[fleuronterrobang]

[fleuronterrobang]

Shout out to all the Third Culture Kids who still wonder what the smell of home even is

[fleuronterrobang]

roots, entangled, enmeshed;

the fate of the untended pothos.

depotting is a kindness, for all of its violence,

to break what its molding has wrought.

coils, dense, straining,

as shallow as this dwelling was,

what once had housed must be felled,

once comfort, now heavy with woe.

hacking with shears, trowels,

or butter knives, chipping, breaking,

through sweat-slicked hair and angry red knuckles,

grant emancipation from its own flesh.

roots, clumps, loosened,

gone now, the form of the pot

mangled, mauled by a wounded beast,

leaving freedom, only melancholy.

soil, fresh, inviting,

to rest your protruding feet,

might serenity be granted here,

even temporary, might this be home.

when did i become too big for this house? or, leaving, for the root-bound third culture kid. 2024/08/29

[fleuronterrobang]

Yellow-tinged, like looking through film,

or washed blue through a digital camera lens,

starkly, I know, right as I live it,

this shall be the stuff of memories.

From eye level I lower my phone,

for this refuses encapsulation.

Nothing I could've done, no sleight of hand;

These moments are not made to last.

A dissonance of present and past, a wrongness,

for this is too fleeting (why must it be fleeting?)

If only we had eternity in this single minute—

together, forever, in cinematic bliss.

"Do you ever wish you had the skills of great artists so you could capture what those moments feel like?" 2024/08/19

[fleuronterrobang]

sunshower - 2024/7/9

A thunderous applause as the skies open up,

to the cries of the unsuspecting below.

From the heavens—still bright and unassuming grey,

string beads of twinkling glass and quartz.

From the streets—a susurration as cars go by,

like ocean-static, crawling, crawling, receding.

And just as it begins, the choir hushes,

as if naught a blip in the ordinary calm,

leaving only steady drips from roofs above,

and the unmistakable smell of petrichor.

[fleuronterrobang]

You are eighteen.

It's strange, isn't it,

how long it's been?

Maybe you forgot,

it was a real thing,

or maybe you yearned,

for this proverbial spring,

to bloom in your life?

But you are eighteen,

and you sit there and wonder,

because what does it mean?

Neither adult nor child;

Somewhere in between.

But now it's upon you,

and you cannot leave.

for try as you might,

you cannot flee.

You are eighteen.

[fleuronterrobang]

This means so, so much to me, thank you!!! I really appreciate that you pointed out your favorite lines. Knowing that there's someone who gets it really does makes it just a bit less lonely. Your infodump resonated with me :') Thanks again <3

Thank you for your kind tags on my poem :) it's so lonely being a third culture kid. I'm just glad my words reached someone who understands.

you are most welcome!! i was so happy to find it like. every time i remember there are people who know the tck life it makes me feel less alone

god.... like... im fighting the urge to share my life story rn but yeahhh..... gonna point out some fave lines now. rambling below cause i really liked this poem and it hit WAY TOO CLOSE TO HOME SO IM SHOOTING YOU WITH MY INFODUMP BEAM /silly

"what is a childhood friend?" AAAAUGH. /pos. like. i remember asking my current friends what 'counts' as a childhood friend

"I can't find you, and maybe that's my fault for not trying, harder, earlier." I FEEL THIS... my friends from when i was younger... i didn't start trying to get people's numbers and stuff until i was in highschool, and i rarely message people that aren't right in front of me, so to speak. god. feeling like you were the one to leave them behind when really it wasnt your fault...

that line about loss and "grief becomes diluted over the course of seventeen years"... like that is so true. that's what it is. it seeps in but it feels like nothing. i have no memory of crying because i missed someone. i cry cause i fear the future, or i fear failure, or i get stressed out but not because of what i missed. it's only really now that i've finally started to be scared of leaving things behind but theres so much i think i ought to miss more

THE MENTION OF THE YEAR 2013 AUGH... i was six then!!! three years before we left the country!!! man.... the grass was ever-sweet...

and then feeling guilty for it... yeah. i do have a lot to be grateful for, genuinely!! but i don't know what will happen when i'm back in my home country for university and i stop trying to keep in contact with my friends... ive been at this school longer than any other before. im worried about growing apart. short shared existence,,,,

so yeah. god i kinda want to explain everything now but not gonna put everything on a public post lol. if you want to dm and talk about stuff and swap stories feel free but also feel free not to! keep writing sick poems!!!

[fleuronterrobang]

(An Orchestra) We Need to Hear

art is not an algorithm

it's unorthodox, unpredictable

it's unconventional, discomforting

experimentation stirred

gingerly with provocative innovation

without formula for mass consumption

artists intend to impose

meaningfully push the envelope

suggest, disrupt, challenge

dare us to dare ourselves

to open oceans of emotional discovery

unpredictable and unprecedented

personal . . . spiritual findings

no need to follow or subscribe

artists need not belong

to any fans nor stans

who needs white noise or demands

when creation is manifestation

passion's unfiltered expression

the art of fully iving . . .

living fully in one's reality

tapping into sensibilities

an eternity of empathy

salvation of a symphony

an orchestra we need to hear

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

©️ @followcb ☆ April 29, 2024

[fleuronterrobang]

naught but the faint buzzing of my desklight. i sit and read of madmen.

my blood rushes. the light, orange, glows too bright. serifs float before my eyes but i see not.

a yellow post it falls off the wall, about some biochemical mechanism, i care not. krebs, calvin, light dependent reactions. why should i care when i have not seen the sun?

memories, then. memories i shall care about, because what else am i to do with myself? i have memories a-plenty.

exams i must study for. a grandmother i can't mourn for. mistakes i can't atone for. friends i'd give myself for. the loop of henle, lung surfactants, the heart, systole, diastole, systole, diastole. i'd give it all.

the man on the paper despairs, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! my finger skips right over. trepidation agonizes my bones. you must study, they tell me. we cannot rest until this is over. sixteen exams decide your future. why do you rest?

i do not rest. my mind refuses, my heart refuses. traitors, they all are, filling me with dread. memories rise and fall against me. all that could have been. all that must be. all i have yearned.

i would like many things.

i would like to stop feeling like a failure. i would like to visit my grandmother's grave, bid her farewell as I have failed to. i would like to have an honest conversation with my history teacher and with my father too. i would like to cry before leonhard euler. i would like my traitorous body to stop.

i would like my friends to ask of me, without a tinge of obligation, without prompting.

i fear. perhaps i've crafted my facade too well. a friend, as i've always wished myself to be, as i've always wanted for myself. ever-prepared, ever-caring, worried naught. someone who gently reaches for you and asks if you are well.

it is so selfish of me, so rude of me. i wish for someone to look at me, see me truly, ask. ask me, without me asking first. look at me without my hand reaching for yours.

ask if i am well.

who am I supposed to tell all this to? who? Who? Am I an owl screeching into the forest? I fall in this forest and nobody hears me? for all I do, I yearn for someone to do for me too. Hey Fleuron, are you doing okay, Hey Fleuron, how are you holding up, Hey Fleuron, would you like to go get some bubble tea sometime? What am I to you? A good resource for revision? A set of arms to hold you? A well you cast your demons into, deep into the ground where it poisons none but myself? A source of entertainment, a little court jester to entertain you with feigned outrage and provide you with a platter of memes and flattery?

and i anger at myself, because it is so childish.

if i wish for someone to notice, i must ask. but the wounded animal howls in me; if they cared, then would they not See? would they not Try as you have for them? Would you Notice if I dropped off this earth? I admonish it; they are not evil; they are my friends; i love them. all I must do is ask, yet i petulantly scream inwards.

metabolism, respiration, sensitivity, homeostasis—i know it all, i know it dearly. biology has always been a favorite of mine, yet tonight i feel each distantly. movement, is one of them, the signs of life. how long since i've moved?

the light buzzes. paper, smooth against my skin.

perhaps i need rest.