Griff/Choban

I post my weird poems - 4/1/07 - they/them 🎹 🏳️‍🌈 beginner artist, poet and composer

[griff-crimson]

💐

What is the point

Of a plant fighting its life,

Through birth and growth,

Just so it might flourish?

Only for the blossom

To wither in less than a day.

Even if preserved,

It is knitted into a bouquet.

God, what am I to do?

Should I end this misery—

Cut it and forget,

Let it decompose early?

Or should I let it be,

Wait for the slow death?

Its leaves curling brown,

Rotting into black.

Looking at the droplets

On the downy petals,

I feel my own slow surrender.

We both come undone.

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

💭

[INTROSPECTION]

Inside of my dull head,

Not a rose in sight.

Trekking the steep hills,

Rowing through hurdles

Of my own design.

Slopes are few and far between,

Predictions can drastically vary,

Even if it's imaginary.

Clamped tight, it's not failing;

The seal is everlasting.

In my echoing, concave world,

Only reverberations remain...but

No truth is found within the dream.

‎

[griff-crimson]

🧢

Blueness guides me away,

I see in monochrome,

Like sun bleached posters,

Placed upon the edge of a cliff.

How long have they hung

On frayed threads of tape?

They must be holding strong,

If the wind can't swipe them.

I'm patient; I'll wait for them

To snap at last.

Anticipating their demise,

I'm terrible after all.

Plucking the cornflowers,

Trying to hush the sapphire,

To keep the abyss at bay,

But my head is already flooded.

I look into the cyan—

A mirage of perfect falling.

It doesn't ask me to trust it;

It only asks me to let go.

‎

[griff-crimson]

🪼

Orchids in various shades

From off whites to pinks,

They are placed upon windows,

Facing all directions.

Yet none of them live,

Like the plants in natural soil,

Which face the east.

And meet the warmth first.

Water striders glide,

On the brittle surface tension,

Knowing they'll never drown,

As long as the water lifts them up.

If what I once saw was true—

That jellyfish can thrive in lakes—

Then what is stopping paper cranes

From rising with the sun?

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🌧️

The smell of ozone,

Sharp as ever.

Silver splashes

Paint the firmament;

It’s going to rain.

It has been raining

For a while, hasn't it?

Can it stay like this?

Please, keep on crying,

Weeping clouds—

Don’t fly away.

Spill the tears,

Hit the ground,

Form dark pools

Where life might grow.

Wail louder, howl,

Just a little more.

Thunder strikes,

Hushing that pulse,

Leaving it motionless.

Unnatural white

Sears the palpitation,

Suppressing existence—

Keeping it still.

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

Hey I wonder why you use emojis as a title for your poem ?

I find it very unique and cute too 🤗

And a very silly question

What will you do after using all of the emojis ? (Nonsense curious mind of mine just ask this not me 🫣)

I'm glad you noticed and asked! It's not a silly question at all, I use emojis as a soft entry point to the heavier themes I tend to explore in my poems, and as you mentioned, to stand out amongst other poets ( it's also kinda hard to decide on a single title so an emoji keeps it vague ).

As for when I run out, I honestly don't know, I'll have to resort to using symbols, or maybe when I've used them all, that'll be a sign that the collection is complete💛

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🍄

In sickness, it's best to forget

Your goals and ambitions.

How much pain can one endure

Before surrendering?

Spores grow in my lungs,

Eating, stealing my breath;

Fungi stall my airflow,

It's difficult to go on.

I have been blighted

Since the very beginning,

Rooted there even before I knew—

It was carved into my bones.

So as I lay on the grass,

I wish for nothing at all,

Not one person to visit,

To ease the soreness.

When I look in hindsight,

I could've said more,

I should've asked for aid,

But stubbornness is a disease.

It's woven in my muscles,

Dictating my actions,

Or lack thereof;

And because of it,

I'm unable to arise.

‎

[griff-crimson]

👁️

On the hill, a panoramic view;

A dozen lights stare—

The whole city watches me.

Those I have lost,

And some I have yet to meet.

It's winsomely sweet,

But untrue.

The last eye shuts,

A forced, heavy blink.

Tonight, I won't return;

I’ll stay in this place,

To be buried here.

I can't go back—

What will they think?

The hill pushes me off, I try to climb,

But stumble back toward the town.

Legs buckling with each footfall,

As the tide rises to meet my feet.

This can't be happening—

What will they think?

Oh–they weren't looking at all.

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🦆

My eyelashes are crooked,

Poking my membrane;

It is nettlesome, but manageable.

I am soaked through, lying in the tub.

Left to my own devices,

I turn my thoughts loose—

A herd of wild horses,

Stamping the earth to dust.

But the lukewarm water

Anchors me to reality.

Soap bubbles pop in the air;

In them, I see chromatic aberrations.

My focus drifts,

Landing on a rubber duck—

Bright yellow against porcelain white,

Slightly tilted, floating on the surface.

If an unneeded item can serve a purpose,

Is there hope for me still?

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🪸

Near a coral reef, in the depths,

Passing a school of silver sardines,

A moray eel moves like a ribbon,

Waltzing in the briny dark,

Jaws clenched tight.

Impatiently anticipating the prize.

It catches the light falling from above,

Then slips backward toward its cave.

Though its eyes fail to track the prey,

It senses the radiating warmth—

A subtle shift in the temperature—

And coils away into the stone.

In the black, it hoards its treasures:

Memories stolen from others,

Things that drowned from the sky.

It hugs them tight so they cannot flee,

Merging with them, a hook in the flesh.

Yet, in the silence, it wishes for more.

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🚫

Baby, it was never about love.

It’s easy to like, hard to adore;

Just look at the fisherman

Who claims the silver skin of the cod.

He doesn’t speak through gills,

He can't breathe the water’s weight;

The cod is trembling in his palm,

And he calls his hunger, fondness.

Left to believe that devotion

Is born of fear, or perhaps,

Of the malice found in forest fires

Sweeping through the unsuspecting wood.

Flames don't wait for the green

To surrender its hold on the bough;

The birds flee the canopy,

Abandoning their young to the embers.

What does passion imply?

A tunnel impaling the hill,

Hollowing it out from within,

Leaving it desolate and gray.

Affection is stifling,

Admiration suffocates,

Stealing away the final breath;

Baby, it was never about love.

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🎱

A plain gray corridor stretches to infinity.

Somewhere down, I see you—

Perfect and graceful, I'm not mistaken,

Smiling from ear to ear, arms wide;

I'm unable to hold myself back.

Placing my hands upon your shoulders,

I plunge forcefully into the embrace,

Only to pass through and hit the floor.

Sprawling on the ground akin to a snake,

I try to shake it away; I've never been wrong.

The paintings mock me, some are falling off,

Patterns on the wall are hypnotising.

If this is all it takes to descend from the top,

Then I'm currently in the darkest pit,

Accompanied by the faintest speck of light.

As the candles begin to dim,

I find myself starting to dwindle,

Startled by the lack of weight,

Swearing I feel the ghost of the touch

Left upon my fading hands.

‎

[griff-crimson]

how long have you been writing poetry?? :>

I started in my freshman year of highschool, so about 5 years! Although I took a year off from writing somewhere in the middle of the road. Thanks for asking :-)

[griff-crimson]

🦋

Stagnation is a constant.

Tethered to a single straight line

That doesn't stray from its path,

And never, ever fluctuates.

In the corner of my eye,

There is a hummingbird moth,

An outlier amongst the bees,

Nurturing the daisies.

It bridges the gap of night and day;

After every spin of the earth,

Its moon remains the same—

A serene, fixed routine.

So then, if the moth is faithful,

Unmoving in its ways,

Why does it oscillate?

What compels it to change?

Perhaps I will never know.

I have been stagnant far too long:

A path that never seesaws,

A line that never bends.

Is there no grace found in patterns?

Repetition is all I ever sought.

But the moth lands on my hand,

Begging me to evolve.

‎ ‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🚬

Ashes burn;

As the last traces of my dignity

Are swept far from me

Into the forest I once looked up to,

Onto the delicate moss

Growing on the northern side of trees.

Gray on green, like mold it forms—

I have ruined the beauty of it all.

Smoke sleeps on my hands;

I pant like I have run uncountable miles.

The world tilts on a jagged axis;

Each gasp I release is wasted,

Ascending to poison the atmosphere.

I reek of char, caught in a slow pyrolysis,

While embers circle the woods,

Scorching the very nature that raised me.

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🐙

A giant red octopus,

Dwells uncertainly at the bottom of the sea.

Its movements are mimicry and intellect:

Inking the dangers aside,

Camouflaging into the shifting terrain.

But the doubtfulness cannot be masked,

When its three hearts beat out of sync.

One heart pulls, the other craves to push,

And the largest one wishes nothing more

Than to remain lodged in the ambiguity.

Yet, when the enemy strikes–

Sunken deep in the blue–

Tearing away its reaching limbs,

Hesitancy has no answer.

Only impact and courage do.

‎ ‎

[griff-crimson]

🏳️‍🌈

I’m prideful, I attempt to be,

While stuck between the bars

Of black and white piano keys.

The semitones are there,

But I yearn for much more—

Something a monochrome hue

Simply cannot grant;

Only the colourful shades can.

I know the second I let out

A shriek of true chromaticity,

Or attempt to texture the rainbow,

To view the light from a different angle,

Is the moment I’ll be put down.

Some are bewildered;

Annoyed that they don't understand—

But this is all I’ve ever known.

I’ve resided in their heads

Just as any other typical being;

Under their eyes, I’ll be whatever they need.

But when the deed is done and the coin flips,

I retreat once more—not out of fear,

But to express my virtues:

My dearest, truest colours—

Finally, entirely, me.

‎ ‎

[meowmeow-yourmomsacow]

(Sorry if I've been missing for some time, the last few days I've just been super busy)

The cat has reapared.

After missing some time, weird.

It came back looking dazzed

By the colors and the haze.

The pride is something the cat had aswell.

But quieter, keeping to itself.

As it considered love is all that mattered.

The cat looked at a little flag.

Maybe a little in,

Decorated in yellow, pink and blue.

And decided-

- "yes this is my hue"

In solidarity for it's keeper.

It jumped apond their lap,

Trying to help them out of their shell

Of monochrome and despair.

[griff-crimson]

Omgg i adore this😭 hit the nail right on its head with the imagery, love the little collection of poems we're building! 🩵🩵