And How Do We Forget All This Glory Around Us?

mother of otherness, eat me.

(Sylvia Plath)

Dripping chaos everywhere I go.

There are things we do not talk about here.

Do not mention the lines that once

Ran along the length of your left hand,

Carved by you trying to play God

When you were barely a person//

Perhaps that was the point.

Half a year trying to make the scars disappear,

The other half spent convincing your own damn self not to.

Listen.

There are places in your head

You could disappear off to,

The ones which will make you so, so happy

And perhaps even a maniac,

But aren't maniacs just people

With enough conviction

To want to live in a world

That was their own mind's doing?

I am proud.

When the Earth tumulted and collapsed on me,

Trying to throw me off itself,

I held on with bare hands.

I dug my claws into the brown soil,

Trying to become one with the Mother,

Trying to grow myself some roots to stay.

I have already been here longer than I had imagined,

To have a place at all is magic in itself.

I have so much life left to grow roots out of.

so maybe there will be no coming of age.

maybe there will be no moment, signifying glory;

hell, maybe there will be no glory.

maybe we'll simply be two people who were here and then weren't.

the gods will not line up moments for us to scavenger hunt our purpose;

maybe we will not have a purpose.

or a god for that matter.

in one moment you're driving home and you're singing loud with your best friend;

in another you get mistaken for a man with your helmet on, the bulky death bike and then you get out of a ticket when the policeman sees your face and you come home in giggles.

in another moment you've decided to live through another day.

so maybe we will not be anything that aches when it is gone.

maybe we'll be mundane and chaotic indecision floating in an abyss of our own selves

and maybe you never get to meet that famous 2010 singer you liked as a teenager,

and you never get to learn the fourth language,

or go to that remote country

or kiss the love.

maybe there is no love here.

maybe we will go quietly, with naive hope that is false but you hold on to anyways

because if you do not have this hope to hold on to, there is nothing else.

to hope is to have the courage to pray, against all odds,

to pray that there is someone out there lining up things for you,

lining up lives and people for you to become.

to have hope is to be terrified of all the realities.

we'll go quietly, unnoticed;

and yes this does not match what we wanted to be,

but there are happy endings in all those poems and stories to make up for all the ones you never get to have in your reality.

A.G.

Please don't let the government or anyone erase any more of history. It is on you. You have a responsibility.

EDUCATE YOURSELF.

Be neutral for long enough to realise that perhaps you are in the wrong.

Form educated opinions which are backed up by facts.

Try reliable sources and if reliable sources fail you, try to gain perspective from different ones.

If you don't know enough to have an opinion, SAY SO. Don't just sprout some bullshit to sound intelligent, you don't. You sound ignorant and hateful. When did it become wrong to just admit that you don't have enough information to form a well educated opinion?

When in doubt, always take the stance which doesn't undermine a person's life or belief or belittle them or discriminate against them.

BETLİKE GİRİŞ ADRESİ 2025 - BETLİKE RESMİ ERİŞİM - BETLİKE GİRİŞ LİNKİ

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The first memory I have of this town

Is of wanting to leave-

To stand in a place and know you do not belong;

Scratch that.

I remember rain like I remember birth.

I remember puddle jumping in pristine clothes and

Trying to remember things I have long forgotten.

I forgot the light, I forgot existence.

But this? This I remember.

I remember the streets I walked all the way back home, aching;

I remember the loss of that day;

I remember feeling unbridled joy

Of the very next at the glorious win.

I remember screaming songs LOUD

With my best friend on our way to school,

Our own voices echoing in our heads

Like we were masters of a world

That did not exist just yet.

I remember the sneaking out of practice

To meet someone I hadn't seen in months;

I remember not being able to

Lift myself up from the bed

With a body so intact you'd think

I hadn't ever lived through a day.

I remember running miles

On a broken foot,

I remember swimming through all of this dread on broken toes.

I remember punching holes in walls and staring back at hands that were still hands.

Not god, not the powdered dust of my bones yet;

I remember broken knuckles but an intact heart.

I remember thinking I will never be able to get out

And I remember not wanting to leave.

I remember the solace in coming back,

Coming back after days, weeks or months.

I remember coming back.

I remember grocery store chains

And drunken new years';

I remember being 16 and staying up all night

To watch the sun rise; it rained that day.

I remember walking out of the train station,

Rubbing the drowsiness out of my eyes at age 6

And seeing the most gorgeous sky

Like it was yesterday.

I still wake up in hopes of a morning the sky looked that gorgeous.

No. I think I forgot.

I see the city change herself and she has parts I do not recognise sometimes.

I remember coming back to her like I remember birth. Not so much as a definite event

But as something that happened.

She will be here,

Smiling.

A.G.

Bless the hands that fed us, and may there be scars on those who harmed us. May we never become the things that hurt us. -Anika

I was not the broken thing anymore.

I cried and fought and fell

And scratched and clawed

My way back from hell.

I made an armour out of this body,

Grew my heart into a soldier,

Marched to once friendly lines

To cut off all ties

And fought you off

With all my might.

You weren't here anymore

And I grew myself a garden,

Planted my heart in its bosom;

Took the armour out to let it rust,

Felt the sunlight burn my thick skin,

And I almost could feel the years turn,

And could almost feel myself turn to dust.