I write this in the hopes of sounding sincere,
As you are a woman of the highest caliber with the finest of qualities.
You radiate with Greatness that is classified as S-Tier,
Between being an Independent Working Woman, & a mom with more than her fair share of responsibilities.
From the way you present yourself alone is desirable,
&, the way you gracefully speak is admirable.
I am intrigued by you in a way that I never thought was possible,
It's safe to say that I am fascinated in a way that is more than memorable.
You are a woman of integrity,
Which entwines deeply with your modesty.
Your brilliance is present in your achievements perceptibly,
May your future endeavors come swiftly as you build & maintain comradery.
I hope to someday learn more about you unlike any other,
As I pick your brain & hopefully touch your heart.
Even though life takes us down different paths instead of bringing us closer together,
I want you to know that I knew your worth all from the start.
I hope this poem plays in your mind as your face lives in my mind so vividly,
Because you truly are an amazing woman, that's why I wrote this 1 For Brittany.
About the Creator
J
Gather around everyone... It's Storytime
& maybe, just maybe, one of these can help you through the day..
- Jacob
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart3 days ago in Fiction
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