#Poeming

[fianne-0123]

My sisters do not look at me as much as I look at them.

She thinks that I am my mother’s favorite but they are each other’s favorite and I have nobody if not my mother. But my mother does not listen to me, so in reality, I truly have nobody.

My elder sister will not know how I make my fried rice. She will not know about my 6th grade unrequited love, about my favorite authors, and my talents. She will not know.

But I will know her like the back of my hand; I know how she loves watching true crime, I know how much she adores dogs and how particular she is about her stuff and I will take all of this to the grave.

(I do not want to, I think, but I feel more than that.)

I know how she’s still hungry after, in a fight with mother, she says she isn’t. 

I know she is so I will stay behind and eat a little bit slower. I’ll whisper to mom hushedly, “I’ll wipe the table and wash the dishes” to get her off my back, even if I don’t want to, but because I want my sister to eat.

I see her and she doesn’t see me. Or, she does see me but she doesn’t understand me. She looks at me like I’m darkness looming through her and she looks at me like I’ve somehow ruined her life and I don’t know what I’ve done. 

I haven’t done anything but it’s almost like I’ve died in my mother’s womb, and I am now just a ghost haunting them for when I speak they respond but their arms dig past my heart and instead of feeling through me, they feel past me.

I’m here and they’re choosing to ignore me.

I’m here and it’s like I’ve never been. 

I stand on my right foot and contort my body into a woman when I am barely a teenager, and I would do so again and again just for her to see me.

I would tear my body in half for her to see me for me.

I am afraid that she will only do so when my body has long decomposed in its casket and she receives my folder of files just like this one, detailing how I’ve felt.

Shivers may pass through her veins, and instead of satisfaction, she will feel guilt. She will feel rotten and disgusting. I do not want that.

I am torn into bits and pieces and my lungs have been removed and yet I am still breathing and I am already inexplicably dead when I feel shame for dying out of guilt for living.

[poetic-titan]

April 13

corrections of the figure

forecasts of reduction

in chocolate

Type: remix

Orwell, George. “Chapter 4.” 1984, , 1949, pg 50. Free Books, 1984 novel.

[diabollicallyangelic]

I'm sorry to see a face I knew turned so sour

Eyes once sparkling with joy now hollowed with the remains of grief

[awickedpoet]

Catching up. Here's day 2

[holdingdarkness]

Poem 7

Welcome inside the mind.

We have marvels before us,

so many little odd rooms.

The Others might be there.

Here is the heart of the house,

our center of operations,

a kind of common room,

entirely inside the dark,

but we who live here can hear

each other. It’s not hard

once you get in to practice.

Process: Remix

Source: Jackson, Shirley. The Haunting of Hill House. New York: New York, 2006. 41, 77, 78, 45, 46, 55, 78, 72, 79. Print.

[politicsofpoetics-poeming23]

POEM 1

casually repeating

gossip behind doors

daggers

Source: Found haiku from R.L Stine's 'What Holly Heard'

[octoberloved]

[lucidloving]

@roach-works // Melissa Broder, "Problem Area" // Mary Oliver, "The Return" // @annavonsyfert // Koyoharu Gotouge, Demon Slayer // Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance // David Levithan, How They Met and Other Stories // Tennessee Williams, Notebooks

[jayvespertine]

– Audrey Hepburn

[becomingvecna]

— David Cronenberg, Consumed

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

{Words by Anaïs Nin, from The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4 (1944-1947) / Cynthia Cruz from diagnosis,The glimmering room}

[poetic-titan]

April 7

kaleidoscope versions of truth

Type: 1 line poem

Orwell, George. “Chapter 4.” 1984, , 1949, pp. 53-54. Free Books, 1984 novel.

[typhlonectes]

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

imagination (1963) - harold ordway rugg

"chekhovs cat / schrödingers razor / occams gun"

[holdingdarkness]

Poem 6

Welcome to the haunted house

of the mind. How best to prepare you?

The house does have its oddities.

It’s like the crazy house at the carnival,

rooms opening to somewhere dark,

doors swinging shut when you come

to see something not intended for you,

mirrors that make you face yourself

from the inside; there is no way to the outside;

no way you remember, anyway.

But there is no danger for you, of course.

We have done this before, many times

but not with ah…company.

We have only to go through the door.

Process: Remix

Source: Jackson, Shirley. The Haunting of Hill House. New York: New York, 2006. 41, 77, 49, 46, 73, 144, 79, 140, 82, 108, 75, 106, 145. Print.

[poetryforall]

-Rumi