𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌

ari b. cofer, Unfold: Poetry + Prose

Mourning Dead Days

The days

I expect them, wait for them

And when they pass, I realise

They're dead days

Gone and lost,

Rotten days

And of them too many,

That have been too much

I mourn them still

"To forget, to forget ...", Vahan Teryan (translated by Tathev Simonyan)

And it whispers

Maybe I do remember.

The quiet thoughts in dark corners during rainy days or sunny mornings.

I remember losing. Losing against thoughts that snuck up on me.

Is that form beside me a friend? It whispers to me, like a friend would, like we share a secret.

It’s the secret to why I feel like this. The whispers are heavy when they reach my ears. Words with weight to them.

My knees shake. It’s cold. It's the rain. Is it the light breeze? There’s sun. We’re holding hands. We’re holding hands. We’re holding hands.

I don’t know what’s gripping me. I don’t know what’s holding me down.

I can’t stand up.

It won’t let me go. It’s in my legs, in my arms. Weight, so much weight. It holds my hand. And it whispers.

“One day she remembered that it wasn’t her job to make everyone happy.”

— Robin Lee

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

Virginia Woolf

Charles Bukowski, "young men," from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk through the Fire

“Do not confuse my bad days as a sign of weakness. Those are actually the days I’m fighting the hardest.”

— Unknown

Wastefulness

I don’t

know

I don’t know

how to stop

Stop the tears from falling

Stop the fears from showing

Stop a life from being wasted

Please stop me

Stop me from wasting my life

Stop wasting a life on me