Realization Poems
Forged Flaws
by Kara Prince
I was made to love but learned to fight,
not for you or my dreams,
but for a safe place for the night.
I learned to thrive alone,
because love hurts,
And it's all I’ve ever known.
I see now that it is not living,
the lie of solitude,
never taking or giving.
Strength without softness,
......
I’m Getting Too Old For This Shit
by Kara PrinceHiding under the neon lights, the curly-haired boy asked me if I was using a fake, too. “Sorry,” I mumbled, confused why thoughts of his mother now consumed me. At work, my coworkers found out I will be 22 soon. I see their image of me once blurry as I had engineered through vague comments and outright lies sharpen into focus on the form of an ingenue. My round, cherubic face pinkens as I want to remind them I have been here 8 years, but only a child would validate their own professional identity. The woman with hands like unmade sheets tells me that my generation can't seem to wake up early enough for birding, that we don’t value life’s natural gifts. I wonder if she heard me on the phone later, counseling a grieving daughter while my friends had to awkwardly pause the collective girlhood memory we had been forming that Saturday morning. My mother asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year. I think of the massage I’ve been meaning to get for the past 3 years, and the visit to a podiatrist I have considered, but she always thinks I am joking, so I smile and say nothing. When my alarm goes off at five in the morning, and I roll from my floor mattress, I regret witholding from my mother. I like starting my day before the sun, acknowledging the scattered headlights of others just as weary when I see the flock of starlings. I am reminded now of the first time I bathed a cold human form, how I reminded myself that this was a woman who lived and loved, not a task to be charted, and how the starlings had gathered by her window as if to accompany her that evening. I want to go back and tell the rugae-skinned woman that my generation saw birds at all hours, but a need for vindication seems childish.
Continue reading3 Peaks Of Happiness
by AiR - Atman in Ravi
What is Happiness? Is it Success?
Is it Achievement that creates so much stress?
Success creates money that creates Pleasure and Bliss
But this is not what true Happiness is!
Happiness is not money, otherwise the rich would be glad!
There are people who are successful, why are they sad?
Happiness is not Pleasure that depends on many a thing
True Happiness is Peace, it is a state of being
......
You are Here
by Iris Joye
I've been missing something here,
And needing someone near me.
Why can't I see it's real?
I know I'm missing something here,
Wanting someone with me,
And now I know you're here.
I look in your eyes,
And I see the skies,
I'm soaring there with you,
......
Conversations on Life with AiR
by AiR - Atman in Ravi
Who am I? Why am I here?
What is the Purpose of my life, my dear?
When somebody asks me, 'What is the Truth?'
I tell them to get to the bottom of the root
My life is all about conversations Conversations that become Inspirations For one needs motivation to seek Realization
And Realization will give Liberation
Must I suffer right till I die?
Am I just meant to live and cry?
......
You are Here
by Iris Joye
I've been missing something here,
And needing someone near me.
Why can't I see it's real?
I know I'm missing something here,
Wanting someone with me,
And now I know you're here.
I look in your eyes,
And I see the skies,
I'm soaring there with you,
......
Forged Flaws
by Kara Prince
I was made to love but learned to fight,
not for you or my dreams,
but for a safe place for the night.
I learned to thrive alone,
because love hurts,
And it's all I’ve ever known.
I see now that it is not living,
the lie of solitude,
never taking or giving.
Strength without softness,
......
I’m Getting Too Old For This Shit
by Kara PrinceHiding under the neon lights, the curly-haired boy asked me if I was using a fake, too. “Sorry,” I mumbled, confused why thoughts of his mother now consumed me. At work, my coworkers found out I will be 22 soon. I see their image of me once blurry as I had engineered through vague comments and outright lies sharpen into focus on the form of an ingenue. My round, cherubic face pinkens as I want to remind them I have been here 8 years, but only a child would validate their own professional identity. The woman with hands like unmade sheets tells me that my generation can't seem to wake up early enough for birding, that we don’t value life’s natural gifts. I wonder if she heard me on the phone later, counseling a grieving daughter while my friends had to awkwardly pause the collective girlhood memory we had been forming that Saturday morning. My mother asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year. I think of the massage I’ve been meaning to get for the past 3 years, and the visit to a podiatrist I have considered, but she always thinks I am joking, so I smile and say nothing. When my alarm goes off at five in the morning, and I roll from my floor mattress, I regret witholding from my mother. I like starting my day before the sun, acknowledging the scattered headlights of others just as weary when I see the flock of starlings. I am reminded now of the first time I bathed a cold human form, how I reminded myself that this was a woman who lived and loved, not a task to be charted, and how the starlings had gathered by her window as if to accompany her that evening. I want to go back and tell the rugae-skinned woman that my generation saw birds at all hours, but a need for vindication seems childish.
Continue readingDissipating Exchange
by Aditi Hayaran
Showering messages day and night,
That was my excited self,
Seen the messages as soon as they came in my sight.
Just realised you're just responding,
Am I forcing you to talk?
The thought is haunting.
Trying to fix the things again,
That was my fool self,
......
Petals & Pigsty
by Blossom Brewer
Petals & Pigsty
The tendrils of my hair fall down to my feet,
Covering my body in a curly black silk.
In this form, I grasp my mortality,
Born to live and die in vain.
I keep count of the petals I pick.
Flowing down towards my toes in a synchronized dance.
The beauty of nature now turning to stare me in the eyes.
A wounded fawn,
......
