TheMysteriousPoet

a tired soul

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nothingness by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

What Now? by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

What Now?

What Now? So... What now? I've decorated the cap, Walked the stage, Braced for the flashing photography lights... What do I do now? The flowers are dead and the humidity emphasizes this, Their stench potent in the kitchen. I've always liked the intricate details of dead flowers, The way they droop and the wrinkles of the petals. What were once vibrant pinks and reds, Are now yellowed with pink tips and black. What do I do now? I've requested my transcripts, Sent out the job applications, And polished up my portfolio. I feel like I've done everything I could do, Every possible thing that could be done, is done. So then why do I feel so empty? This was one of the biggest achievements of my life... And yet, I feel nothing. No swelling of pride or accomplishment. I feel bland and dreary. "Congratulations!" "Thanks..." It's what I was supposed to do. And maybe that's why I feel the way I do: It's what I was supposed to do... And perhaps it is this feeling of obligation that ruins

Sleepless by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Sleepless

Sleepless I always find night-befores to be sleepless ones. The night before a harrowing event in my life, And I can't get a wink of sleep. I was a bit tired earlier (due to the alcohol), But now I'm wide awake. In about eight hours, I'll walk across the stage. What does life have in store for me? I've done what I've set out to do. What do I do now? I'm reminded of a song from Dear Evan Hansen. "Does anybody have a map? Happen to know how the hell to do this? I don't know if you can tell, but this is me just pretending to know. So where's the map? I need a clue, 'Cause the scary truth is, I'm flying blind, And I'm making this up as I go!" I don't know what I'm doing... I feel like I don't deserve this, Even after all six years of work. It's a numbing pang in the soul. I'm just about in tears. I do deserve this, even with my mind playing its cruel tricks. I worked so hard to get to this very day, to that very moment. Maybe it would be better if I got some sleep...

April 29th by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

April 29th

April 29th I look at the calendar and see the pretty little date. Just a normal Tuesday for most. But for me? It's just a stepping down for the countdown in the kitchen. As the sun sets, And the number resets, I realize I have four days until I graduate. I'm not sure how I feel about it. It took me six years to get me to today, An endless amount of struggle and hardships. Friendships gained, friendships lost. It all led up to this moment. I don't regret my sacrifices-- everything comes at a cost. I'm reminded of this as the sun drips into the horizon. The world resets in a few hours, and another day begins. One day closer to the goal I so desperately crave to achieve. I'm proud of myself for sticking through the end. It's been tough, but I'm glad I'm finishing. "She can't do it!" Oh yes I can, and I did!

At The End by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

At The End

At The End I'm at the end. Well, not totally-- I've still a few weeks to go. In approximately 33 days I will walk the stage. I've spent six years trying to get my degree-- gnawing, clawing my way to the end. I thought I would be elated to be here, But a deep pit forms in my stomach. It reminds me of when I graduated high school-- How terrified I was to walk across that stage! What comes next? I'm unsure. I anticipate a need to get a car, save money-- all those little things. Most importantly: a job in the field. I've had a hectic, tumultuous few weeks. I'm not sure if I want to even be in this profession anymore, If I'm to be frank. Yet again, if an opportunity should arise, I am no fool... I am at the end.

Little Again by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Little Again

Little Again And suddenly, I'm little again. Listening to their voices for the first time in a long time, I was hysterical within the first two minutes. Hours upon hours of videos I have now, Both with and without sound. Christmases, a wedding, a baby shower. Seeing them act the way they did before. Sometimes I forget how much I miss them, Even with the intricacies of emotion at play. Her playing with her niece reminded me that she wasn't all bad. That, at some point, she had been an ever-doting, maternal being. She wasn't always the nasty drunk. As I watched her play with patience, I wished I was little again. I wished that was me. But I know that wishing like this is in vain; It's emotional torture, in a sense, To observe what I once had and knowing the downfall.

Today by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Today

Today Today is December 30. It's an ordinary day for most. It's the day before New Year's Eve, A day before festivities and merriment. Today would have been joyful in my house, Oh so many years ago. Today was my grandparents' wedding anniversary; Or, rather, would have been. He died many, many years ago now-- eleven years, almost twelve. Days like today, the sting bites and gnaws at my soul just a bit more. She lived nearly eight years after he did, Dying just weeks before another anniversary. Time is ever-fleeting and everlasting. A paradoxical cliche that eludes us all. I think about it heavily on this day in particular. NYE around the corner doesn't help, either. I think, had she lived to see the following anniversary, It would have hit her like a truck: Being alive ten years after your last good anniversary. It would have left her a mess, and I don't blame her. Time merely flutters her lashes at us, And we fall like flimsy cards at her feet. Ten years flew by like it was

Freedom, At Last! by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

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22 by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

22

22 The world feels like it's going on without me. I don't really know how to feel about that. It's strange, it's crazy. Quite frankly, it's a lot of things. I'm in the school I wanted to go to. The classes are nice, but a bit hefty on the workload. I'm enjoying the quiet, but also despise it. It's interesting, to say the least. I'm a year and a half into the best relationship. He is so great. He's a good man. Anything I could dream of in a partner and more. We talk about anything and everything. The baby is getting to be so big. She's almost one, and I can't believe it. She was so small the first day I held her. I stood among the dead and the living. I just turned 22. It's a weird, eerie feeling. I feel like I shouldn't be here. I feel like I'm in a dream. I just turned 22. I'm seeing my career unfolding before me. I'm seeing my relationship blossom. I'm watching my family grow. I just turned 22. He would have been 83. He would have been 25. She would have been 78. I was a very

TheMysteriousPoet

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A Curious Cat: DreamUp Creation by TheMysteriousPoet, visual art

A Curious Cat: DreamUp Creation

TheMysteriousPoet

Deviation Spotlight

Baby Nimue by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Baby Nimue

Baby Nimue Oh but to be an infant cradled with love. To have the softest skin of man, And all of a mother's love. To be eternally cherished and swooned over. That is my hope for you Baby Nimue. We will meet years from now. I hope you will be mine, if you'll have me for a mother. I know I didn't have the best examples to work off of, But at least I know what not to do. That should count towards something, right? I hope you have your grandmother's eyes. That's the only thing I could ask for from her. They were her only redeeming feature. A kaleidoscope of humanity's diversity and yet uniformity. Give my Irish baby the most beautiful Irish eyes. Although I may regret it, I hope you'll have your father's stubbornness. He takes no shit, nor should you. Nimue was a wielder of the sword, after all. Your tongue shall be your sword, But be careful of who you cut. Please take your great-grandfather's wisdom, Have your aunt's selflessness, But be careful of which great-uncle you learn

Baby Nimue

TheMysteriousPoet

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Burns and Bruises by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Burns and Bruises

Burns and Bruises I've got a burn, Right in the middle of my hand. It's from a tray rack I touched it too soon. I was trying to put it in the dishwasher. I've got a bruise, Right above my knee. It's from pressing buttons with my knee. Trying to do things while I'm busy. Moving fast, feet shuffling quick. It's not easy working in food. I've got the minor bumps and black n blues. My coworkers have permanent scars Along their arms and hands From working in the kitchen. So, I'll take my little Burns and Bruises And write a little poem or two, Immortalizing our experiences In the world.

Runaway Child by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Runaway Child

Runaway Child "My runaway child..." She taunted me from across the table. We'd gone on a cruise for Spring Break, Approximately three months after I'd tried to run away. I was struggling to keep my composure, And she knew it. She knew I wouldn't make a scene, Despite ever so wanting to scream at her. Drunk and being an asshole. I think back on this moment sometimes. How the dim lights looked in that restaurant. My stomach doing flips when she called me that. Antagonizing me for the hell of it. Imagine doing that to a child. I had tried running away because I was overwhelmed. I was being bullied, Home wasn't so great, And being rejected by my crush Sent me over the edge. I was twelve. It made sense back then. I was just running away from my problems. I didn't know what else to do, All I knew was to go. No place, no plan. Just go. Compared me to my father. And in this current time, I can't help but realize that He and I are alike in more ways than one. We both tried running from

Who's There? by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Who's There?

Who's There? Knock, knock. Who's there? More importantly, who's not there. And suddenly I find myself alone, Or at least I will eventually be alone. Sure, he will be around for years to come, But eventually he will leave me for the pearly gates, And I will once again be alone. Is life a joke? No, but it seems like it sometimes. Maybe this is why I refused to love: Because in the end they will leave, And one finds themselves swaddled in solace, Soaking up tears shed for those in the ground. Despite this, I pursued it anyway. Knock, knock! Who's there? A love like any other. My sun, my stars, and my moon. I am the Earth, trusting myself In the celestials to keep me at ease. Part of me wishes I did not find him, Because I know of the heart to come. I've seen the empty-eyed stare of despair. It is full of remorse and solace. The anticipation of it, too, tortures me. Knock, knock. Who's there? The inevitable loss, For Death claims us all. I shouldn't worry about these things. I

Pokemon by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Pokemon

Pokemon I remember watching the show when I was a kid. Ash, Brock, Misty, and little Pikachu. I remember being excited, laying on that green carpet. Happy to see how cute Pikachu was, And all the different pokemon. And I also remember her saying, "That's a boy show." "That's a boy's toy! Put that back." I wasn't allowed to watch it much. So naive. I'd go watch something else, But I never forgot about Pikachu. Wandering through Toys-R-Us, We'd see all the bright pink aisles. I was more of a Polly Pocket girl, And Littlest Pet Shops were my favorite. But part of me still wanted Pokemon. As I got older, I wanted to try the Pokemon videogames. She'd still tell me no, "Those are boy games." Then off we went to the "girl section." Sure, I'd fall in love with Animal Crossing, But I can't help but think about all those Pokemon games. And as I get older, I realize this: It wasn't the Pokemon that bothered her, But the fact that it was advertised towards boys. Because her daughter can't

That House by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

That House

That House I remember that house all too well. It's one I knew for two decades. The house I ran to for comfort, The house I needed saving from, And ultimately the house I ran from. I didn't always feel that way about the house. Back when it grew tiny but stinky cherry bushes, When the kitchen had fruit wallpaper, And there was always laughter. I miss that house. I miss the house that it was, Not what it became. It became a shell of itself. Hollow and unhallowed, Filled with nastiness. What was a refuge became a prison. I fucking hated that house, My room showed my distaste. I never unpacked a single box, Only did so when I sorted things to move again. I spent five years miserable in that house. Family members knew but couldn't act. When I finally left, They all agreed I looked better, Happier. That house suffocated me. Scooped every ounce of anything out of me. I became cold, rigid. Empty. My relatives knew what I was feeling, Having lived it themselves. The house became like

Nails by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Nails

Nails The scent of acetone fills my nostrils. Technicians and clients chat and giggle. It's just another day in the nail salon. "Welcome, honey! What you getting?" The petite Filipino woman smiled at me from behind the counter. I'd tell her an acrylic manicure. I've been going to this nail salon since I was ten years old. Some of the techs I knew are gone, Others have stayed even after all these years. I've seen them move storefronts and rebrand. Their store has really changed! It's nice to see a business flourish. Sometimes I wish I could go back there. They were always so nice, Asking me about school and what I want to do. They could tell I didn't want to be there, That I looked miserable As they looked over at mother cackling away. I think they knew she was the reason why. She'd insist on thinning my brows, Or try to get me to wear pink when I wanted black. Nail salons keep secrets. Maybe I should go back one day And update them on my life.

Soup by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Soup

Soup I kind of understand now When they say there is memory in food. For example, how certain foods are only for the holidays, So now every time it's out one thinks about a specific year. Stuff like that. Well today I felt that about a can of soup. It's just an ordinary soup, nothing special. It's the pub-style chicken pot pie, The chunky style. It's on the higher section of my favorites. I've had it before and never had this thought, But today eating this soup revived a memory, One that I had forgotten about. It's funny how tastes can do that: To cause one to remember. It was sometime in the fall, or was it winter? I can't quite place it, but I do recall where we all sat. I was young, somewhere around seven or eight. He was still there, and we still sat At that little round table. "Eat it while it's still hot," she said. She'd made chicken pot pie because it was cold out. "We used to eat this all the time." "We'd also eat liver and onions!" And she laughed as my sister and I

The Green Isle by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

The Green Isle

The Green Isle I haven't seen her in quite some while, the green isle. I've been thinking about her more lately. How she rushed the blood through my veins, How the cool air of the mountain hit my cheeks. I miss the lush greenery all around me. Here, the grass is dead, But there the verdant hills are never-ending. Mine eyes had never graced such beauty, And I don't think they ever will again. I miss the people. Their love for a good drink and a good time, The way the bar lights twinkle at the shut-in. Their laughter is truly infectious. I'd give anything to go back. The Green Isle holds a special place in me. As I think back, I remember the ancestral home, It placed perfectly by the brook. Oh, how sad it looks in shambles Compared to the black-and-white photos. Indeed, I'd love to go back. To visit cousins I haven't seen in years, To laugh with them and drink merrily. I'd give anything to be with them again. Too much time has gone by. The nostalgia hits hard around St.

Jealousy by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Jealousy

Jealousy Jealousy pecks away at the soul, Eating away at the heart. It consumes ravenously, Leaving a greasy residue in its wake. Jealousy tarnishes the inside. Makes us feel sick and twister, Fueling anger and rushing emotions. It doesn't care, it ignites desired possession. Jealousy is unhealthy, I know, but I can't help myself. The way the babe coos at its mother, Gurgling with delight at the sight of her. Oh, how I live vicariously through her, Waiting for my own opportunities, Of which are still far out of reach. Jealousy is draining. I try not to be envious, As it is part of the Commandments. But then I see him squeal in glee, And I feel a punch to the gut. No matter how many hugs and sweetness, They will always want to go back to her. Of course, she is not the problem, but I am. I simply want what she has. I want the babies, the house, the husband. I want to bask in the sweetness of a newborn, Knowing that he is mine and mine alone. To love a child unconditionally and

Kitten by TheMysteriousPoet, literature

Literature

Kitten

Kitten A kitten, full of uncertainty, wobbles behind its mother. Its undecided little mind cannot choose: Do I want to play or do I want food? So now it merely mewls in agony. Oh, such is the arduous life of a kitten. Every day is full of uncertainty! Do I want to pounce or do I swat? Do I lick that sibling or that one? But, at the end of the day, A kitten knows one thing: snuggles. It cozies up close to its mother For a nice little nap.

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Madam Froggy: DreamUp Creation by TheMysteriousPoet, visual art

Madam Froggy: DreamUp Creation

TheMysteriousPoet

froggis hehe yay
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𝒪𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒫𝑜𝑒𝓉𝓈

"𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶𝒻𝓇𝒶𝒾𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓂𝓈, 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝒾𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅.” ― 𝐿𝑜𝓊𝒾𝓈𝒶 𝑀𝒶𝓎 𝒜𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓉𝓉, 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒲𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃

“‎𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈. 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒.” ― 𝑀𝒶𝓎𝒶 𝒜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓊

“𝐿𝑜𝒸𝓀 𝓊𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒; 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜 𝑔𝒶𝓉𝑒, 𝓃𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀, 𝓃𝑜 𝒷𝑜𝓁𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝑒𝓉 𝓊𝓅𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒹𝑜𝓂 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒹.” ― 𝒱𝒾𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓃𝒾𝒶 𝒲𝑜𝑜𝓁𝒻, 𝒜 𝑅𝑜𝑜𝓂 𝑜𝒻 𝒪𝓃𝑒’𝓈 𝒪𝓌𝓃

“𝐼 𝒹𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀, 𝓈𝒾𝓇, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑒, 𝓂𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝐼, 𝑜𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒; 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓊𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝒹𝑒𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒.” ― 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑜𝓉𝓉𝑒 𝐵𝓇𝑜𝓃𝓉ë, 𝒥𝒶𝓃𝑒 𝐸𝓎𝓇𝑒