Philosophical Poetry

The Soul's Canvas

grief

  • The Stories of My Tears

    The Stories of My Tears

    Every night, as far back as I could remember,
    I shiver. I cry myself to sleep.
    It was the only way I knew how to fall asleep,
    The only feeling I knew.

    Tears are my friends. Each tear is a story,
    A real life tale with colorful characters,
    And the self I only knew through struggle, pain
    And a mind separate of the body.
    What I knew was not what I did.

    The environment was hell, and the characters lost.
    There was no writer, nor a script.
    It was always impulse, reaction to an escape
    Of a struggle within a struggle.
    There was no time to pause.
    A moment of reset could not be found.

    I do not count sheep, I peeled tears.
    I escaped so far away,
    I lost the captain seat of my body and actions.
    Born autistic, with no diagnosis.
    Literally forced yourself to speak,
    But words don’t come out right.

    Born in a family of migrants,
    Trapped in a civil war.
    Unwelcomed anywhere.
    At home, at school, outside in the neighborhood.
    The only escape is the mind.

    Every obstacle overcome was never good enough.
    Constantly chasing normal.
    And in my mind I know.
    Yes, everyone is constantly chasing normal.
    And we are all tired.

    Can I be me? Can I find me beneath the graffiti?
    Live your life. And I’ll live mine. A dream.
    Can I live my life?
    Mine will always include tears and smiles.
    But know that my voice is mute.

    I am too scared to speak my mind.
    Always beaten whenever I spoke from the heart.
    The soul is the only dialogue. Loud or mute.

    At the end of each day,
    All of the grima from the excessive stimulation,
    A volcano inside is ready to erupt.
    I take a very deep breath,
    To bring light into the volcano, and simply live.

    I escape for a fresh breath of another day.
    The only possible faith, and only choice,
    Is to believe in today, and in tomorrow.

    Living such a life, God can only be found
    In little moments. Not some place far away,
    Nor living in my house.
    I am in his house, and therefore,
    He is in my moments.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.

  • Footprints Erased

    Footprints Erased

    Memories like candles.
    They burn,
    cry hot wax tears,
    then leave a monument.
    All while shining a light,
    on what you choose
    and how you choose,
    to see.

    I can count many tales
    on my hand,
    and many wounds
    on my arms.
    I lay every night
    on a pillow
    of flame and tears.

    I drown inside my head and
    break into pieces of kintsugi
    inside my heart.

    I try to explain,
    but no one listens.
    Born mute,
    learned to speak.
    Born different,
    learned to fit in.
    Born to be me,
    and I learned to be you.
    I can explain,
    But who’s listening?

    Wrongly labeled
    and wrongly judged.
    Back of a hand on lips.
    A sword cuts through my lungs.
    Thoughts hanged.
    Innocence raped.
    Natural gifts shot.
    And all buried.
    No ceremony,
    and no farewell.
    No time to grieve,
    and no time to adapt.
    I’m ok.

    Here’s a mask,
    put it on.
    I am told.
    You are sin.
    Yes I am sin.
    Hide your soul.

    I can count many tales
    on my hand.
    I rest my head,
    on pillow of fire.
    And I drown
    in the waters of my thoughts.
    I love,
    and I hurt.

    Forgive me.
    Footprints erased.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.

  • Wrap Your Arms Around You

    Wrap Your Arms Around You

    Wrap your arms around you
    Give yourself a warm hug
    You may be grown up and old
    But inside you’re still a child

    You’ve passed the station
    Of asking no more
    And you’ve arrived to a stop
    Of not wanting what you need

    You love many
    And you are loved
    But the devil’s footsteps quietly approach
    Through the people you love

    How can one survives in this world
    Without declaring their wants and needs?
    With others falsely knowing and
    Speaking words that claim your needs?

    How can you live
    By feeling the need to ask?
    When will the uninvited devil walk in?
    When will the body rest?

    Giving is a gift, not everyone feels

    Flooding out of them
    Saving and possessing is a curse,
    That most feel occupied with

    Who is a more willing soul
    Than an earth angel
    To pay for the wrongs and hurt
    That others infected on you

    Mother, what would become of me?
    Father, where will I be?
    Brother, what do you see?
    Sister, how do you feel?

    You came whole
    They broke you
    Wrap your arms around your whole self
    Feel warmth of your complete embrace

    Deep breath

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.