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Annika Bushman Poem
One fish two fish fight fish new fish
Hills aren’t mountains
Because mountains touch the sky
Why do we fight to live
But live to die
Meaning is meaningless
Unless you stand for a point
But forever is nowhere
Forever is just a voice
Don't talk, Don't move, Don't breathe without permission
Forget, Don't quit, move silently in submission
Hide in the dark what you know
Fight for the red in the snow
Generations don't change only the style
Become more like the strange
Become less of a smile
Don't cry, Don't pout, leave him alone, you're last
Keep going, Keep fighting, one day, it will be in the past
Past present future don't exist
To think is to know, to know it to live
To live is to die, to die is to give
Dying is relief
But living is hope
Dying is painless, living hurts
But living is fighting at its worst
Worse or not
Life is a gift
Until we choose to sink
We all must lift
Copyright © Annika Bushman | Year Posted 2022
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Annika Bushman Poem
The wind whistles through the cracks of the window that can’t be fully shut. I sigh, willing myself to simply ignore it. Another and another potato loses their form as I slice them into paper slim pieces. Making them as small and perfect as possible, it’s almost a burden but I won’t allow any difference. More whistling interrupts my thoughts. I huff out a breath of frustration as I grab a rag and try to shove it in the opening where the outside breaches in. Damn window. It doesn’t work but it definitely mutes it a little. It will work for now. Finally some peace. However that peace was short lived
Continuing my work I'm surprised by a sudden movement of my hand when a vase of flowers falls on me. Falling and staining me with the colorful water. It seeps into my skin as if someone is drawing on me with ink. Cursing, I go to wash it but it fights me.
Try harder.
I scrub harder and harder but it stains my arms and it bleeds through my clothes and marks my body. Water falls from my face without me even realizing it. Drops land on my scarred forearms as I continued to try and rid myself of this curse. Blood trickles down my skin due to the force I have put through my arms but still the ink remains. But I won't stop, now I'm terrified.
It won’t go away.
My body is covered in ink. And nothing I do does anything. I'm too caught up in what I'm doing until I spot something shiny urging me to look. I stop the torture on my arms to give into the urges that riddle around me. Glass. It's a glass shard. My eyebrows meet together as I try to recall when the last time I swept was.
End of part 1
Copyright © Annika Bushman | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Annika Bushman Poem
There right next to it was another piece. One. Two. Three. There were too many to count. I was surrounded. There are millions of them, scattered every which way my eyes couldn’t contain the amounts there were.
Broken Glass
The window. The window shattered into this. Broken glass. With droplets still falling from my face I ignore the ink that used to be my reason to stop working. I rummage through every cabinet and crevice I can think of searching for something, anything. My hand came across a small bottle, yes this will have to work.
I got to my knees, glass scratching and stabbing them, but I don’t feel it, I can’t feel it.
“Please please no no no” My hands shake as I grab the shards and glue the edges back together. Too caught up in my task I can’t see the blood that my fingertips have released. The glass was killing me, yet I still try to fix it.
Fix It.
There are too many pieces. My fingers are not even mine anymore. Ink still controls me. The potatoes I was preparing rot away. I look up to see a brand new window in replace of the broken one. But I still try to fix it. I don’t want the new one. I long to hear the whistle that I once hated. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please let me have it back.
End of part and story.
Copyright © Annika Bushman | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Annika Bushman Poem
Reflections are liars. They trick you, they taunt you.
Too fat, too weak, too ugly. The reflection lies.
True self is never seen.
Its hidden under all the things your reflection says.
Mirrors are gateways.
Shadows are warnings.
Thoughts are silent.
Cry and you reflection will laugh,
Scream and your reflection will whisper,
Fight and your reflection will fight back.
However you can’t fight your own reflection,
its a part of you,
It is you
So how do you win?
You don't.
You don’t win you simply live or die,
Your reflection cant die on its own.
You either live with it,
or drag it back down to hell with you.
There's a reason your reflection looks identical to you
buts it has too remain a secret else it will kill you.
All it needs is one crack
And it will seep out into reality.
All of a sudden its on the walls
In pictures, watching you closely,
all it does is follow you
Ever so quietly.
It mimics the mask you put up
And judges what's behind it
Yelling, screaming, tormenting you,
on what needs to stay hidden,
what the world should see.
However after months, days, hours,
you’ll start to slowly realize it,
you’ll know,
you’ll feel it.
Look close enough,
and you will see
that you were the reflection all along.
And the reflection wasn’t a reflection at all
but simply a mask
Copyright © Annika Bushman | Year Posted 2022
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