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Phia Mustdie Poem
you built a throne out of your own reflection, mistook your arrogance for eloquence,
try to resurrect what you helped desecrate,
your ego arrived before you did,
while your sense of self suffered
every silence was a threat.
you dissect with vocabulary
but cannot name your own loneliness.
you mistook softness
for submission,
pauses for praise.
and when I left,
you called it cowardice,
as if I hadn’t spent years
trying to decipher a man
who couldn’t even pronounce himself.
Copyright © phia mustdie | Year Posted 2025
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Phia Mustdie Poem
i can write it all down.
every syllable, i never got to say.
on paper, i’m fluent,
maybe even eloquent.
but in the room,
my tongue turns against me.
my throat locks like a vault.
i’ve rehearsed it all before.
in margins,
in drafts,
in dead message boxes
i watch my voice
rot behind my teeth,
while everyone else
converses.
what good is articulation
if it only echoes
inside my own skull?
what good is writing
if no one reads it?
they say speak your mind,
but never hand me the microphone.
so i pass poems
like folded notes,
hoping maybe
just once
someone will open one.
Copyright © phia mustdie | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Phia Mustdie Poem
i will do it
the day after tomorrow.
i will do it
when the sun feels less
like an interrogation,
and my skin stops
aching from the weight of my blankets.
i will answer texts,
fold the clothes,
untangle the mess in my chest
long enough to sweep the floor.
i’ll brush my teeth
like it means something.
but not today.
not while the silence
keeps calling me back.
i know this isn’t living.
i know.
but knowing and moving
are countries apart.
i keep promising myself
a better self.
one that rises with intention,
one that doesn’t let coffee go cold
three times before giving up.
the day after tomorrow
i’ll start again.
the day after tomorrow
i’ll believe that means something.
Copyright © phia mustdie | Year Posted 2025
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