Love seems to be one of the many things which humans cannot fathom, in any sense. Any sense, we do not understand what it is to love something with our entire being. Our entire being is ours; it does not belong to someone else, so why would we devote it to anyone but us? It’s selfish, plainly. Plainly put, we do not love because we are selfish. In any sense, humans are vile and we cannot allow love within our entire beings because we need strength and love makes us weak. It’s simple. And we cannot fathom this-- why? Any sense, any sense at all, we cannot love because love is weakness but we are so tired of being strong. Weakness is not unfathomable, not like love is-- we gather our weaknesses and keep them within our beings because they protect us from the vile and selfish feelings that our bodies force us to have. Love has no room within me. I am too full of weakness to be handed a strength disguised as weakness. We cannot fathom this, in any sense-- strength is hidden within weakness but we are selfish still. Is it not vile? It is vile to witness this lack of sense, this lack of sense in any sense. My entire being is love, plainly put. Yes, plainly put, there is no room for love because that is what I am made of and is that not vile? To preach of humanity’s selfishness and be made of the weakness which we fear. Our being is ours. Our being is weakness. We are made of love, but we cannot love ourselves. Love does not want to be understood.
— ODH
About the Creator
Olivia Dodge
22 | Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Olivia Dodge and writers in Poets and other communities.
Haunted Earth
The haunted earth tells me the angels are watching over me and have felt my sadness and are sending me love and healing. There are puddles on the sidewalk and I look for the clouds but it is a man watering his grass. Why don’t I believe him— that the universe in its haunting can recognize despair. My footprints remain for mere minutes in the sun, I know this. I am sure we are made of discontent. I’m sure of it— the ghosts and apparitions long to consume our sadness in their endless days. It is warm in the sun. How they must wander. Wandering haunted plains as November approaches and trees become barren. They watch over me— us— humans— all things living. I wonder if the sun is a ghost. Apparitions send warmth to our chambers and hope we will feel them with us but we cannot. We shade our eyes with our hands and how he must scowl at us. I want to welcome the sun— oh, but what of wrinkles? My eyes cannot become old. Without belief we cannot begin to heal, he tells me. The haunted earth scowls. Apparitions hold their palms open— they collect our pain and it becomes a passing memory. Our sadness may be a ghost as well. My footprints are no longer visible as the sun has taken my print and transformed it into a ghost because he too wants a friend. November is nearly here, my friend.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
3:00 AM Challenge Winners
B. A. Durham’s False Memories blends dream and reality in a seamless mix. As his father, afflicted by Alzheimer’s, fades away, the narrator is haunted by a dream that may be a memory, returning to him insistently. The piece is full of wonderful detail (the father touching his lip where once there was a mustache, “but now he is clean-shaven—he has been for years” — and moving in revealing the complexities of a family’s life. A worthy winner which shows the power of dreams to influence us.
By Vocal Curation Teama day ago in Resources
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.