Drowning at the shore

You were born too smart for your age,
Your words too venomous for a child,
Your eyes too sharp for a girl,
Your feet too fast for your life.
Oh young lady, how did you never see the fear in their words?

You were told that
Life isn't a race to be won,
Survival isn't fighting for a cause,
That it will all amount to nothing,
Because everyone who had once dreamed
Can tell you the tale of waking up.
Oh young lady, how had you not observed the failure in their wisdom?

Your home was built on the sea,
And the elders searched for cracks to seal.
The water slipped through the walls;
The creak never stopped boring holes.
They never knew the taste
Of a burning flame.
So young lady, what had shielded your eyes from the handwritings on the wall?

You were told that
The gods laid a curse on you from infancy;
You were sin before you sinned,
Sad before you knew happiness,
A witch before you knew charms.
They promised to wash you off the
Filth you're filled with.
Oh young lady, what made you think it was love?

You were taught the right way to speak,
The best way to act,
The finest way to greet,
That the best thing is to sit
And be still—
Still,
And watch your life flee.
Oh young lady, how had you agreed to this?

All you knew was the sound of waves
Crashing,
The eyes of disapproval,
The scornful faces,
The abusive lips,
Whips—countless whips—
And the sound of your muffled cries
With bloody hands.
Oh young lady, why did you give your life to them?

They once said you were too much;
Now they complain you're too less.
They once said you spoke too much;
Now they shame you for speaking so less.
They once worried you lived on your tiptoes;
Now they urge you with whips to walk—
Walk, as long as it's for their cause.
All you do is mourn the child you were;
You wished you had never listened to them.
Oh young lady, when would your mourning end?

And when you realized it was all a sham,
You paddled across the sea
With your life at the brink.
The waves crashed;
The rain beat down on you.
Hell, you got to the shore.

That is why,
In a room full of people,
All you see is an ocean.
And when your little voice
Is drowned by their words,
You hear the sounds of waves crashing.
Oh young lady, when will your pitiful existence end?

— Myra

2025
First of January
Wednesday
01 - 01 - 2025

Happy new year poets of the world! May you find poetry in every sunlight that seeps through your curtains in the morning, every moonlight that reflects on your pen as you weave words, every laugh, every tear, and every smile.

HAUNTED

I see you everywhere—
like a damn ghost haunting me,
a memory I can’t shake.
I turn, jump, and run, yet still,
I can’t escape you.
You’re there,
Right outside my comfort zone;
It says “NO ENTRY.”
Yet you stand there, tapping on the fence,
a specter of my past.

Then there’s the phantom—
the one who appears when I leave my safe space,
almost bumping into me each time I turn,
and my eyes meets yours for a fleeting second,
and so we both turn our gaze, and walk rapidly away;
like strangers in a crowded room.
My heart keens for you,
beaten and bruised,
and I don’t know why that is,
nor do I know why I sneak glances at you
when you’re not looking.

And finally, there’s the worm,
digging into every moment,
forcing itself into my thoughts—
I see you in everything:
every camera flash,
every pen you touch,
slithering through my memories like a serpent,
reminding me of what I can never forget.

Tell me,
Isn’t it cruel to be haunted
by what you once loved—
a ghost, a phantom, and a worm,
each tethering me to the past?

My cat’s claw ensnared in my blouse,
leaving a hole.
I panicked,
ran to the craft box,
fumbled through it until I found a needle and a thread.
And as I was sewing the hole—
my hands cold and trembling, chilled by the December breeze;
I couldn’t help but to see the irony in that.
I pondered : if I’d rush, anxious to mend the hole in my favorite blouse,
to fix a mere garment;
an object, an inanimate thing, mere cotton,
what of those I love?
Would I not extend the same roughed up, bleeding hand for the living?
That’s the standard we need to set.
But if I’d rip my blouse
to tie it around their raw wounds
to slow the bleeding;
What does that say about this piece of clothing, woven from threads of care and despair?
Does it suddenly lose all meaning in comparison to the living?
All the fuss I made about it simply just loses its value and gets thrown in the category of overreacting?
For in mending the inanimate,
Do I also not yearn to repair this world
that’s becoming ignorant to the meaning of the word kindness?
To stitch together the broken pieces
of my beloveds aching hearts?

I don’t remember the last time we clearly spoke,
Had a full conversation, where we laughed and actually enjoyed it,
Without one of us setting the other on fire,
Then suffocating on the smoke,
Without that hidden tension,
Without that pain and anger,
Hidden away in the depths of our soul,
We treat us like a precious ancient vase, a fragile glass,
That could break at any moment,
Handling us carefully and delicately,
One wrong word, and I’d lose you forever,
And so I stay silent,
My tongue never dares to speak,
And I would’ve drowned in my own words if not for the whole in my heart,
Dripping word after word,
Eventually becoming lines,
Then poetry.
It was rather unfortunate,
We never really gave us the chance to grow,
Always avoiding that conversation,
And the anger kept building up,
To the point where I was scared to even mention it, fearing we could shatter at any moment.
I know that you’re mad at me for leaving,
But you don’t know that I am mad at me too,
And I will wait until you’re ready, I will be patient, even thought impatient is the word everyone uses to describe me,
But I will be patient for us,
For our friendship never really had the chance to bloom,
So I will wait for eternity because I know,
I know that we will be those two old ladies,
With matching sunglasses,
Sitting on rocking chairs on the porch in mid-June summer,
Chuckling at old memories.

A Cruel Poet

Is pain the motivation that I, as a poet, seek?
Is heartbreak what I, as a poet, long for?
Is devastation what I, as a poet, crave?
I yearn for answers that do not exist to questions only the poet can answer,
Yet I haven’t heard the poets voice in a long time.
(The poet have been screaming, yet she is drowning, and therefore not heard)

I sit alone in agony, with ink and paper, desperate for words, desperate to rebuild what I broke,
People walk by me and I hear them murmur;
“Isn’t it beautiful?” They say,
“The poets mind? The poets words? Isn’t it beautiful?”
(The poet isn’t drowning anymore)
Isn’t it beautiful?! The poets pain? The poet drowning? The poet breaking a heart? Isn’t it beautiful?!

The poets hand shake,
And her tears stains the paper,
A heartbreak, a fatal mistake,
She stumbles and falls into the ink, drowning in it deeper than before.
And her heart aches knowing that your eyes are swollen and sore.

How cruel it is to be a poet, doomed to be stuck in an eternal loop that never ends, an elevator that never arrives,
How cruel it is to be handed your heart, only to shatter a piece of it,
How cruel it is being responsible for those tears, your beautiful eyes shed,
How cruel,
How cruel the poet is,
How cruel I am.

Sincerely;
~ I am sorry.

There is at least 25,3 trillion miles between the stars and I,
Yet there is stardust in my blood, running through my veins,
And oh, how I wish to be up there and dance amongst the stars,
And hear the melody of the moon,
Perhaps it’s tune would heal my scars.
25,3 trillion miles,
Yet I feel further away from you,
Than I’ve ever felt from the stars…