This is to My Youth.

To the Fallen, the Tragedies and the Misfits:

You were born to be everything more,

And nothing less

Than a carefully crafted

Wonderful mess.

You are a part of the Youth,

Who is dead and alive,

Intelligent and misunderstood,

Vibrant and dull,

Quiet and loud;

A paradox, within a paradox.

You are important.

You are unimportant.

You are significant.

You are insignificant.

You are whatever you choose to be.

The mold that was crafted for you,

Is not your mold at all.

You are a part of the Youth.

And we are reckless,

And we are insane.

We are hurricanes,

And many other storms.

But we are not—

We never will be

Clear blue skies.

And goddammit,

We’re proud.

Always.

Mirrors.

There are only three things that can turn man into dust: The power of God, the inability to properly understand freedom, and the realization of the fact that what had been dead, had always been alive.

This had begun some time ago when I had looked in the mirror, and I’d seen the series of lies that I had been carefully fashioning around my bloodied flesh. I spoke of Satan, and I’d said I had killed it, when I had merely paid no heed to it. Then It was a couple of days ago, when I had realized that I am more than just a bundle of faults. I am a Fault, always less and never more. Because I have collected everything that had scarred me and buried it in my soil, then I let its roots grow until I could feel them. And it wasn’t until I had felt them that I had realized how idiotic I was. How idiotic I had been.

It was when I looked in the mirror and I saw, how I had never looked myself square in the eye; that the sensation had all seemed so foreign; that I was still a seed among roses; that I was never what I had announced myself to be; that my smile had always been fleeting—that I had never smiled to mirrors

And it was when I looked in the mirror that I had realized, how I had despised my skin, and how I wished to tear my core and yell at it—scream at it for being so menacing, so cruel and silly and gullible. But who am I to put the blame on what I had made? Who is a man, who blames a storm that he had built?

I am writing this down because I am with the Frauds and the Insecure, and even though we do not deserve to be heard, I am writing this down because it simply must be written down.

Empty/Full

I sit in a room where silence is kept. The windows sealed, the fire dead. I sit in room filled with so many people, and no people at all. Here you hear the laughter of a woman swept away by the charms of some talented liar; You hear the whispers and the music. All together forming this sort of… sound. And it’s not loud, but it’s not quiet either. If you don’t listen with precision, you hear the sound of the ocean. A collection of a thousand voices that together form a different language entirely-- How could you put a sound into terms? I guess it’s only by experience that you can hear the sound of a thousand people: The Language of Conversation, you could call it. And it’s so strange, so beyond strange. The feeling of a thousand voices all speaking at the same time, forming one common voice…

And they’re all in this room of mine.

You smell the wandering scent of heavy alcohol mixed with the despair of the rich wandering through and the drying and aggressive smoke of their cigars, and a sort of underlying—literal and metaphorical—coldness. You see the golden ceiling that could reach the stars, as it bent in its center, forming a cupola. And in its middle came dangling a star of our own—A chandelier with so many diamonds, that you can’t quiet tell if their all very large diamonds, that entwine to form a bright orb, or if they are a collection of smaller diamonds that accumulate to form this spectacular orb. Either ways, once you look up, you can’t possibly look back down. You wouldn’t want to, anyway.

And there were so many things, so many incredible things in this loud and lively and dead and silent room, that I’ll never be able to list—and as I look I see that I’ve built an empty kingdom filled with too little many-s. But all I want is that sense. All I want is that sense of honest laughter; the sense of honest jokes, and people who look at you, and with the simplicity in their look—and all it takes is a look—you sense that you could mean so much.  So, yes, if I could trade my chandeliers for a wildfire, I would. I would trade my empty kingdom for a cottage brimful with beautiful stupidity. And only then will I be able to look up at the sky and look at it.

Only then will I be like them, the ones who laugh and laugh and joke and laugh even more, with all the little care in the world, because what they have in their grasp is a power so great, so beautiful, so humongous, so degraded, that not even the shiniest of chandeliers can fathom.

--

You are worth it. You're worth every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year and eternity. You're worth all , the the pain and all the fights and all the days when you felt your highest, and all the days when you just didn't. You're worth it all. And yes, just like the stars and the galaxies and the sun and the moon and the mountains and the trees, you deserve to be right here. Right on this very spot. You deserve to feel excellent and happy. You deserve to look at the mirror right there, and call yourself beautiful, because goddammit you are. You're loved and you're wonderful. Maybe not by everyone, and maybe you have a bundle of flaws, but it's okay. It's okay because there's someone out there who loves them, and if you haven't yet noticed, you're human. 

We were born to be everything wrong in a very right way. 

He and She.

NOTETHING:

Love stuff makes me feel weird. But I like love stuff. Cheesy love stuff, to be specific. And I wrote this a while back, and had completely forgotten about it. It's a short simple thing, so.. yeah.

I hope you like my cheese fest, I guess.

He was baffled by how so much beauty found no beauty all. He had fallen in love with Love itself, and he had expected it to love itself. He instead had fallen in love with Love that fell victim to hatred. So in turn, he was a victim her labyrinth, and he hated to love it, but he couldn’t help it.  

She was baffled by how a man as potent as him, as strong as him, as wonderful as him, could have ever found such little littleness in her pathetic little. He held the entire world on his shoulders, and he smiled as if the weight of the world were only his wings. He laughed as if he could, and he can. And he knew it, but he was never the type to flaunt it. He brought her so much that she didn’t deserve. He was beyond her words; Beyond her littler words; Beyond her might; Beyond her. But he was all she ever needed. And who would’ve known how mesmerizing a single smile was? She could have almost felt herself floating in that crooked smile. How the world lifted, and she was invincible.

He knew he didn’t deserve her. She had deserved so much more, and so much grander. He knew he wasn’t quiet enough for her, and the only Enough that he could have possibly give her was a Heaven that wasn’t in his grasp. But he had fallen too deeply.

So he went down on his knee, and he did the impossible—the imposter!

He went down his knee, and he held her hand, and he asked her for her world.

And so they said: I do. 

Our Room

YOU CAN SKIP THIS:
I've been having some problems with writing lately. Everything I've been writing has been absolutely terrible. So, this might be a little... bad. But, I just wanted to share stuff anyway.
This is why I never write introductions or notes or whatever, I'm so bad with them, it's humiliating.

So, yeah! What I'm trying to say is, I haven't written in a while, so this might be absolute garbage, and I might remove it tomorrow.
Thank you.


--------------

We are the people of Glass.

We are the victims of this Black Supremacy.

We are the ones, who have hung above the floor,

In the room where silence is always kept,

As we sing our own lullaby,

To hush that voice from yelling a little too loudly,

Because now, we wouldn’t the other room to hear.

We are the people, who are friends with knives,

And ropes, and other metals too.

Sometimes we dance with our knees to our hearts,

And our hands to our eyes,

In the room where silence is kept,

As we sing our own lullaby,

To hush the voice from crying a little too loudly,

Because now, we wouldn’t the other room to see.

We are the people hidden from the world,

But exposed a little too often.

We are the silent tears,

The friends of death,

The darkest stars,

As we sing our own lullaby,

To hush the voices from screaming a little too loudly,

Because now—

You’re a little too late.

Fifteenth Blogger Challenge: Poetry Ping-Pong | Longing

First four parts were written by these talents: Shahd (@Rambling_sha), Maitha aka Maitou (@Mayoothi), Sophie (@Sosepho), and Faisal (@FaisaliqKhan). In that order.

You may ignore this crap: THIS was a serious challenge for me. Honestly. Because-- To be completely honest-- I don't even know what I'm doing when I write poetry. I just write what I feel, and whatever comes out is it. So, having to continue a poem was more than just a challenge. And in addition to that, their parts were incredible. And I felt a little bit out of place, so I might have run out of their main theme, or disrupted the rhythm. xD (< That was inappropriately necessary. I just had to.)
I'MSORREH. ;-;

(My part's in Bold. Or whatever.)

I’m a long way away,

From who I used to be.

Heading into the storm of the unknown,

Dreaming of what will be

Dreading what was,

Neglecting my past

But it still haunts me

Here I am today,

Dreadful but striving to stay

Fighting and kicking

Begging for help but I’m not heard

What have you done to me?

I want you

I need you

But yet you’re ignoring me

I shout

I scream

I cry

And again you’re scorning me

Am I worthless to you now?

After handling all the pain just to see you smile?

I don’t care

I don’t care

I lie

Hoping one day I believe that lie.

The lie of us coming together,

The fairy-tale I long for,

The tantalizing love everyone rambles about,

I want that.

But there’s a long way ahead of me,

And a past that carves my being.

What if you won’t accept me?

What if you don’t long for me too?

I want to live,

But what is life without your presence?

Tell me.

Do you feel the same way too?

Or am I making up these stories to fool myself?

Because I stand by the shore,

Talking to the sea,

About you,

And the waves clash,

Threatening me from moving any further.

So tell me,

Where do I go from now?

Should I go along with the tides?

As they drown me,

Entangle me, with your feelings about me?

I hope they take me to a peaceful dwelling where you will not exist,

But the nostalgia of our love, plagues my mind, they collide and abide,

I did not know your personality had a twist,

Or was it mine that you denied?

What have I done that diluted our conversations, I only ask?

What mistakes have I done, O loved one, which misguided your trust from my love, and twirled it into hate?

I only wished to be with you, though you thought I was wearing a mask,

I only wished to love you, although I not ever supposed that it could have changed my fate,

I have now travelled across the ocean of our past, and have found someone else. A Mayflower,

Someone who takes me for granted whilst never fails to grant me a happy hour,

Someone who loves me, and ponders that I had been enchanted,

I overthink way too much, she says, that I should ‘be original’, and should learn to create myself because she cares about me, and herself,

I try, I do try for her, but trying is not enough for her,

The thing that bothers me, O dear one,

Is that I only wanted you to be with me,

Leaving the world alone,

But I knew that was impossible, and could not happen,

I cannot adore this new person, because my adorns had disappeared with you,

My life is taken with you, my hopes and dreams travel with you,

I am now trying to be resilient, hopeful, and motivated, that you will return someday back to me,

I only wish, that you were here, alive, in my arms, so I again could give you more love, so you would again be with me,

Nonetheless I fear, that you may hate me more, and think that I am frustrating you, irritating you,

With those three words, with those three sentences you hated, but dear, it is the cold hard truth misshapen

I miss you. I adore you. I miss you.

And it is only that sad truth,

In those sad three little words,

That forced me to look back and see,

All that we had, and all that we used to be.

Don’t you remember?

Or was I the only who danced to our Melody—

My Melody?

Was I the only who could hear the music, or did you too?

If I were alone in this, then do forgive me.

For loving a love, that was never there.

Forgive me, for being enchanted by some false enchantment.

And do forget me, if it helps lighten the moon at night.

But I had only wished to say,

 That even with my New,

I still feel quiet old.

Because I stand in the present with Time,

Yet my heart still lingers in the Past.

Where our hearts had once been bound,

By a secret only I thought were real.