A Love Letter to my notes app and bad poetry.
The following is a series of poetry that I’ve written but never shared. So, in order to break this cycle of allowing my writing to collect dust within the comfort of my notes app, I am publishing them here for those who would like to read. I don’t really consider myself a poet, so though they may not be very good, here’s my love letter to my notes app for giving me a space to write anyway:
Grown.
I think I've grown up. Grown out of the things I once esteemed. Grown tired of the make-believe and fallacies. Ceasing to lust after the life’s dream that a younger me had oh so longingly seamed. I think I've grown sad. Grown numb to “childish” themes. Now rendering them extremes morphed by a “premature mind” who failed to understand the irrelevance of her “juvenile” schemes. And I think I’ve grown unimaginative. Grown so dull one would think it unbecoming. I’m now lackluster in spirit. Monotonous in tone. And ridden with shortcomings. I think I've grown careless. Grown sloppy [for that I reign supreme]. Devoid of my might and what I’m unsure was even once a gleam. But worst of all, even while wasted away, parched of qualities to redeem. Those are simply the side effects of growing up; relief found only in muffled pillow screams.
- Elizabeth Desir
Love.
You are a growing mass in my underbelly
Clawing your way through the pit of my stomach in search of a pathway to my heart.
Your fingernails are jagged.
Your hands are well coated with blood.
You use them to inch eagerly.
Rabid.
Tearing away at tissue
A slasher wanting of love.
You’ve already absolved yourself of guilt.
No doubt entitled to your prize.
And once you’ve got it you’ll stand before me,
pride buried beneath that remorseful guise.
“You’ve worn me down” I’ll tease,
and do so with a smile.
Aware of how you violently nestled yourself there,
somewhere deep.
Lips propped open, eager to utter that "be mine."
- Elizabeth Desir
Emotional Creeper.
He peered into her windows
A stranger misplaced
centered in her shadow
And bound by her lace
She was unforgettable he reasoned
A thought impossible to dismiss
“The kind of woman you would hoard for a single touch of bliss”
He’d wanted a peek in
A trespass but not a sin
But overstayed company
Is often not welcome to begin
So, she shut her curtains
Once again veiled from his view
Still, there was so little to regret when there was so much about this woman he’d wished he knew
The intrusion might have gone deeper
“Anything to see her.....”
No lines to be left uncrossed by that emotional creeper
- Elizabeth Desir
Dangerous Daydreamer.
You live your life in cinema. Well-edited storylines to distract from an existence over which you have no control. Master of none but conqueror of all. Framing parables turned portraits after having painted with the most vibrant hues. Each finished work seemingly more alluring than the last. You like to revisit the gallery once in a while. Observing and reliving the near-perfect pieces in their originality. You love to think of them as memories of a past that never was or as divine depictions of a future that will never be. And the imperfections of life’s inevitabilities never truly bother you, because stored and preserved are these ideals in your mind. So enraptured you are by them, you sometimes even catch yourself reciting the scripts aloud. Quietly when afraid you’ll have your work plagiarized if anyone were to ever listen in. You take a slight pleasure in it though. The secrecy. The thrill of having knowingly constructed a universe that no one else can indulge in but you. And sure there are times when you question yourself. Once riddled with guilt and left to ponder your selfish ways, you ask: “How dare I not let them take part? How dare I leave them to dwell on their miserable lives?” But, that’s because you have carried on so long with the lies that lay in your head, you now understand the lasting luxury of possessing the sole ability that ensures eternal ecstasy. That escapism. The rare power that allows you to drift away and choose to exist freely. That is not one to be shared. It’s one to cling to forever. And it is precisely what makes you forever dangerous, daydreamer.
- Elizabeth Desir
These aren’t all of them, but rather some that I’ve grown to like very much. We’ll see about the others.
Bye until then - Liz
