Why would windows wail whenever weaning was witnessed?
Witnessed, while wandering wherever we wean what we’ve withstood.
Woefulness we’d welcomed with wry wishes.
Words woven with wretched whispers wherever we’ve wrung.
We’ve won, whereas we were winless.
Won, when we were wholly wronged.
About the Creator
anthony giglio
I'd love to but, all my writing would be augmented to a persona in a way manipulated by my bio. If I say I am a saint, you'll either believe me or think the opposite. How bout you use your mind and decide who I am, then tell me.
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SISU
Hellsinki You keep showing me I am “less than”, and I kept believing you. But there is irony in this joke you think is reality. As you have always been “less than”, and I have always carried you with your head held, while ensuring it stayed above the waves, all while I drowned. I breathed water knowing it would cost me my life, for your life, and for your solace. And I would do it again a thousand times over, even if I knew it would only provide me with the masterpiece in front of me, which is your shame. What was your delusional idealism of the outcome? Did you miss who I am so much that you thought I would just let you win? Do I seem like a person that would just give up? Oh, yeah, maybe I do. Maybe because you made me smaller than you at every corner, and then believed your own lies to think of me as weak. I was not , and I am not, and I will never be weak. I let you grasp, maybe even become obese in your facade of happiness, even if it was at my peril. You are nothing now. Nor have you ever been, anything close to the place my imagination and my grace excelled you to. I guess I gave so much that you became greedy. Well, so be it, have your cake, eat it too. But, you, you manipulative fucking amateur of self loathing, with your cheeks stuffed beyond their limits…Please know, that I see the pig you have always been. I saw it at first sight. I decided that I would roll around in the shit with you, because otherwise, you would just be rolling in shit alone. Superior to me? That is what you had told me. Superior to Americans? Your education that was paid for by Finland, and your made up society driven accolades. Though my debilitating disability kept me from that luxury, and I’ve still ended up smarter than you. It’s because I have empathy, you have nothing, or apathy (essentially the same). You are animate about your causes, causes you have never shed a tear for, blood for, or any support besides trying to boost your inflated, yet fake, ego. I have been at your level, yes once before, then I inhaled my first breath. Your dedication to being apathetic?Is akin to a joke at a funeral to me. Inappropriate, and utterly equally dysfunctional to the society you curse and direct any blame for your suffering. All while abusing it by stealing its resources for your greed. You own nothing, yet you naturally blame everyone? You may find your happiness, sorry I mean delusion, but it will never be pure. Purity cannot purify the embodiment of evil you are. You had one light shinning on you, and now, the curtains are closed, the house lights dimmed, and you will look for someone else to clap for you. Did you ever pause to ponder; “Are the claps for me or because they are relived to see the curtain rather than my show?” I can assure you it is, and has always been because they did not have to see another second of your self serving lies. I would glow if I had the ability to be your reckoning, but I will have to leave it in the capable hands of karma. You made yourself this way, and the longer you play these games the harder it will be to become even a half decent human being. And through it all, my arms are open to you. I love you, and will roll around in the shit with you in hopes you’d become anything more, maybe even find empathy.
By anthony giglio3 years ago in Poets
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 Bogdanovaabout 18 hours ago in Poets
The Piggy Project
I’ve had so many names in this life I lose track of which ones were ever really mine and which ones I wore because someone needed me to. Some were handed to me before I had words to refuse them, before I knew what they meant, before I knew I could say no. Most weren’t meant to hurt. That doesn’t mean they didn’t leave marks. Marks that told me who I belong to, who I am by way of who claims me, recognizes me in the good and bad, who walks beside me.
By Fatal Serendipity7 days ago in Confessions
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