ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do
because being okay is expected,
if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,
what can we do to be okay?
we can scribble illegible words
on a canvas made for by painters
masquerading as notebook paper,
and hope that we can sell the burn
of stinging emotions for some paper.
but the funny thing about that thought?
is that american money isn’t paper,
it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.
so even the money you'd earn from your misery,
isn't anything you can write on
when you realize your money isn't
made to heal. even if it does talk.
but it never really ever says enough, does it?
But that's okay...
being okay is the hardest thing we do
because sticks and stones do break bones,
but you can hide the scars
with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.
or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.
words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.
and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,
the way your brows furrow when you feel belittled,
or the way the corner of your mouth twitches
down in that quirky little way when you're anxious.
or that you bite your fingernails when you're anxious too.
anxious too.
anxious too.
you're way too anxious too.
But that's okay...
because you can't convey "okay" with a gesture,
thumbs up doesn't cut it
and it's easy to lie with "okay."
but these letters that make up 'okay'
and that make up language
can't hide the fact that you're really not okay.
because none of us are ever really okay.
it's a fleeting moment because there's always something,
like a pendulum swinging one way then back another,
the subtle collision a metaphor for life always hitting us back,
and the only time life stops hitting us
is when those hands stop transitions,
like when a clock finally dies.
But that's okay...a dead clock is right twice a day anyway.
being okay is hard, okay?!
because being okay means things are stagnant
and things aren't changing and things aren't moving.
we're not improving, we're not feeling, we're not doing.
and that's not okay.
so how can there ever be okay when okay is comfortable.
when are we ever comfortable for more than fleeting moments?
we always want something,
need something.
eat something, drink something,
do something, write something,
feel something, be something.
But that's okay...
i need something, i need to drink something.
i need a hug or something.
arms wrapping around my torso or something.
because love is okay.
it's more than okay though, y'know?
do you understand what I'm saying?
nothing you do is okay,
it's more.
i strive for balance
but tonight i feel like shit,
but tomorrow i'll be better,
and yesterday's yesterday, i was good,
i felt like a king
(but what's a king without a crown?)
till we got to last night
and i felt like...like..
a microscopic minutia of a lone iota
floating in the air of a vast amphora.
but i'm not stuck in a vase or urn
because I live on the edge of Earth.
and gravity entraps me to its sphere.
i honestly can't remember the last time i was okay.
But that's okay...
if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,
what can we do to be okay?
we can scribble illegible words
on a canvas made for by painters
masquerading as notebook paper,
and hope that we can sell the burn
of stinging emotions for some paper.
but the funny thing about that thought?
is that american money isn’t paper,
it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.
so even the money you'd earn from your misery,
isn't anything you can write on
when you realize your money isn't
made to heal. even if it does talk.
but it never really ever says enough, does it?
But that's okay...
being okay is the hardest thing we do
because sticks and stones do break bones,
but you can hide the scars
with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.
or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.
words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.
and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,
the way your brows furrow when you feel belittled,
or the way the corner of your mouth twitches
down in that quirky little way when you're anxious.
or that you bite your fingernails when you're anxious too.
anxious too.
anxious too.
you're way too anxious too.
But that's okay...
because you can't convey "okay" with a gesture,
thumbs up doesn't cut it
and it's easy to lie with "okay."
but these letters that make up 'okay'
and that make up language
can't hide the fact that you're really not okay.
because none of us are ever really okay.
it's a fleeting moment because there's always something,
like a pendulum swinging one way then back another,
the subtle collision a metaphor for life always hitting us back,
and the only time life stops hitting us
is when those hands stop transitions,
like when a clock finally dies.
But that's okay...a dead clock is right twice a day anyway.
being okay is hard, okay?!
because being okay means things are stagnant
and things aren't changing and things aren't moving.
we're not improving, we're not feeling, we're not doing.
and that's not okay.
so how can there ever be okay when okay is comfortable.
when are we ever comfortable for more than fleeting moments?
we always want something,
need something.
eat something, drink something,
do something, write something,
feel something, be something.
But that's okay...
i need something, i need to drink something.
i need a hug or something.
arms wrapping around my torso or something.
because love is okay.
it's more than okay though, y'know?
do you understand what I'm saying?
nothing you do is okay,
it's more.
i strive for balance
but tonight i feel like shit,
but tomorrow i'll be better,
and yesterday's yesterday, i was good,
i felt like a king
(but what's a king without a crown?)
till we got to last night
and i felt like...like..
a microscopic minutia of a lone iota
floating in the air of a vast amphora.
but i'm not stuck in a vase or urn
because I live on the edge of Earth.
and gravity entraps me to its sphere.
i honestly can't remember the last time i was okay.
But that's okay...
Literature
Stand Against Suicide
I know the pain is perhaps unbearable,
But darling, please put down the blade.
Release your emotions through tears and smiles,
Rather than dreading these days.
Do it for the little girl, whose mother can’t be there,
Or for the boy whose father drank too much.
For the boy who can’t sit in elementary school,
Because the bruises from Daddy hurt to touch.
For the teenage girl lying face down in her bed,
Thinking, why can’t it all be done?
For the elderly man looking up at the stars,
Counting the days one by one.
Do it for the children who wonder, does it end?
For the ones who feel left on their own.
For the ones who think, maybe
Literature
i gave up on trying to write about you
there are millions of poems
detailing the beauty of another’s eyes,
but your eyes, my love,
put all their cherry-picked words to shame.
ew, that verse is disgusting.
way too sappy.
I’m no good at love poems.
okay, hold on, let me
just start over.
you’re freaking excellent
no.
shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
thou art more lovely and more temperate
wait.
i can’t take credit for that.
sonnets aren’t my style,
and anyway,
shakespeare beat me to the punch
four hundred some years ago.
uh, i mean, you’re funny
and really cute, like
i seriously love your eyes
because there’s meaning in the
Literature
Joy
May life whisper
joy through your veins
before lidding your eyes.
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
because we all just need love. Not "okay."
© 2014 - 2024 chromeantennae
Comments118
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
I remember reading this a million years ago, and I copied it down and read it again every night for a week. Today I remembered this poem and frantically looked it up again, only to find out that you wrote it. it hit me in such a real way the first time I read it and it still feels the same today. thank you