Deopoet.

20s / a piece of my soul is here.

[deopoet]

Hello, traveller.

I'm a twenty-something poet with a lot on my mind. This is where I find poetry in the nice, the awful, and the fictional. You can find my works under original poems. Thank you for stopping by.

— deo

Previous url: doremipoetry

[anasabdin]

Tree of Life 🌳 a 400+ years old tree in the middle of nowhere in the desert island of Bahrain with no known water source. Life always finds a way 🍃

[witchrealms]

(x)

[remanence-of-love]

[remanence-of-love]

[oversorted]

[anasabdin]

Abandurance

[somewordsarebiggerthanothers]

[anasabdin]

Ed-Deir

[deopoet]

don't tell the world about me.

transcript:

i shall scrape my nails through the dirt and vines of castle walls as the famous ones party above and pour wine from balconies. i shall be content with the bottom of the castle. i shall not scrape my nails climbing vines. i shall scrape my nails to discover how they look after, brown, speckled, one with the earth. i shall make necklaces from these vines and sonnets inspired by crawling. i shall live in the solitude of squalor and try everything to love the world deeper, not to tell it about me.

[remanence-of-love]

[lascitasdelashoras]

Wim Wenders, polaroid (1970s)

[lascitasdelashoras]

William Blake, Stonehenge

[deopoet]

the siege.

the beautiful woman has your mind in a stronghold.

the fictional man has your heart in a chokehold.

so seize back your control. let no one siege your mind and heart. they are yours.

[deopoet]

transcript:

my wrongs and mistakes have made me merciful and forgiving of someone who makes my same wrongdoings.

[deopoet]

some sell.

transcript:

some sell their things for pennies, some sell their things for gold. some sell the golden earrings of their 2- and 4-year-old daughters to pay the medical bills. some sell billion-dollar companies for a couple billion more. some work in skyscrapers and their time is bought and sold and their honour is on-hold until they're CEO. (the odds are slanted) some scrape the bottom of garbage bins and their time is ticking fast and their flesh is invisible until they sleep on public benches. (make the benches slanted) some sell themselves in pennies. some sell themselves in gold. some have the luxury to never sell themselves like things at all.

[deopoet]

thinking.

transcript:

i think about not thinking too much. i think about not thinking enough. i think about saying the right joke, i think about not joking at all. i think about talking too much, i think about not talking enough. i think about the oven and the dishes, i think about the carpets and the curtains, and i measure their volume, length, and circumference against my energy levels. i think about if you hate me, i think about if you love me. i think about if i hate you or if i'm just cranky. i think about the countless "if"s and "but"s and then i try to count them myself.

i count the money in my wallet and i deliberate on how much to put in my pocket— and which pocket: the one in my jeans; the one in my jacket?— how much to put in my hand, how much to leave in my bag for when my wallet runs out, how much spare cash to give when someone asks, how much to budget and how in the world i could earn more. then i count the money i'm willing to spend on food and i query myself, "how many hours longer can you stand an empty stomach?" then i obliterate the thought because i don't go there anymore, i swore to myself.

i command myself not to think too much and subtract the momentum from my thoughts, before they snowball and spiral, but then i start to wonder if i'm bottling up and then i start to think if i'm not thinking enough, so i trace back my train of thought and i review the reasoning of each thought: is it correct, do i need it; where did it begin; why did it begin; did it sprout on its own, fathomless, without reason, or was it born from the result of something breaking in my childhood, then i scoff, recoil—how cliché, and then i try to end at a place of thinking just the right amount.

it's an equation i try to balance every day: add a little nonchalance; subtract some nervousness; put it all in the parentheses of the reticence of thinking; multiplied by the mental energy remaining in decimals.

carry on, carry the one, carry your brain in a schoolbag.

i think about ending, ending on a question mark? i think about the build-up of "sinces" and proofs leading to a "therefore." i think about continuing; a semicolon refusing to stop. i think about ending on a comma, then i think about ending just to end.