I wanted only a male flower
"Nurturing Masculinity: The Quest for a Singular Bloom"
I wanted only a male flower
be my own
understand my pains
Let there be peace in the storm, the fierce storm.
But none of them were ever mine.
I had not!
All I wanted was a male flower
be my own
understand my failures,
Hope in the tears of happiness and sadness.
But none of them were ever mine.
I had not!
All I wanted was a male flower
be my own
understand my emptiness
Time and time again, difficult and helpless in danger
Have faith in the days.
But none of them were ever mine.
I had not!
I wanted only one male flower to be mine, mine alone
On which no one but me will ever
Can't claim rights.
Whose mind, soul, body and soul will be mine only.
My, my, and my,
Only mine!
But no one was finally found!
To whom it was found the heart gave only half,
And love is also that half,
kept the rest,
He gave it to someone else!
That's why my own man could not be found in anything else!
He didn't match anything else
Never match in any way!
Even with many, I have remained so forever
Alone, alone and alone!
Only alone!
About the Creator
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More stories from Aranna Hasan Delwar and writers in Poets and other communities.
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 Bogdanova2 days 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 Stewart4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
So intense and poignant. The repetitive of lines really added emphasis. Loved your poem!