my poetry🌞

[mypoetry-lovealwayschloe]

Hiraeth

Hiraeth,

A home sickness for a home that never was.

Deep and irrational,

Longing for the comfort of familiarity.

Hiraeth,

Desire for the simplicity of the past,

Of your home; of your memories,

Never ending waves of nostalgia.

Hiraeth,

Absent in reality,

Present in emotion,

Sick of you; sick for you.

I guess you are my Hiraeth.

And I am without a home.

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Written on 12 December 2020 11:42, at a time for a person long ago in which I’m proud to say these words no longer ring true. But a pretty poem nonetheless. Not so love always <3

[mypoetry-lovealwayschloe]

Your Making

Everyone is made or unmade.

There is variation in our souls brought on by living.

No one remains indifferent,

No one remains untainted,

No one remains original.

You may be built up;

You may become whole,

Or you may simply become more.

But the universe is not fair enough to deal our cards evenly in the way we’d like to hope.

I’m sure we’ve all heard the phrase that “evil is not born, it is created.”

And I’m sure we all understand why this is true,

Since we are all alterations of our beginnings, as a result of our environment, our selves, and our luck,

Where without them you would not be you.

And this luck that is often disregarded cannot be mistaken as pure,

As it may be bleak beyond comprehension.

And it’s regrettable to know that this silly concept of chance,

May determine our making.

In knowing that we must accept that even greatness is not born, but created.

Happiness is not born, but created.

Even love is not born, but created.

We must understand that we all begin as a blank canvas,

Canvases that may be painted on, layered, or embellished;

But woefully we do not all receive the same paint.

Some may never receive the tools of expression at all.

Some people’s canvases are torn, sliced, set aflame,

And it is within that burning that their original bright light is choked into darkness;

In which the canvas has been unmade.

It would be foolish to assume you have ever truly been yourself,

Since our making is merely a jigsaw of pieces from everybody else.

But it is your place to discover the direction in which threads of your lives have be woven,

To reflect on the paths that you have chosen.

Always pushing,

Or forever falling.

Maybe you should hope to meet your maker,

To understand your making.