and i will learn by studying the lessons in my dreams. |
My icon was gifted to me by Furrit
#12 - soft breathingIt seems that the moment I settle on a theme, I change my mind again; there are too many beautiful skins out there, rippling with impatience, but this one fits the rambling thorniness of my mind far better than any other and so it is that I curve to fit it, hands stained with photosynthesised rubies.
I have been quiet lately, caught up in the whirlwind of my own mind and the poor weather beating down outside it, and I am ready to return.
It's been too long since I left pieces of myself beneath the pieces that you lay out for me to look at, to read, to love, and I am rusty, hesitant in my movements; at times, I can find nothing to say except that, for a few moments, I found comfort and beauty in whatever you laid out.
My inbox is utterly still, void of content: tip yourselves and fill it, please.
Take something for the road, won't you?
December Lit DD Round Up :iconIrrevocableFate: Features by IrrevocableFate
words to say to your reflection by aprilwednesday
:icongrimface242: Features by inknalcohol
Show It, Don't Tell It by GoldenNocturna Said the Peasant to the King by TruthisTruth Joy by haphazardmelody 7:00AM by Canis44 The Husband by rsbohn Hometown Glory by sense-and-stupidity Misery by SurrealNacre Birth Marked by betwixtthepages Lady Fey by PennyDiamond to Nat, my own catcher in the rye by brokengod--veins 64. Frost by ViciousGalan Winter Intimacy by Breath-of-Nefertari Almost by MadamGuillotine
:iconSingingFlames: Features by SingingFlames
Oblivion Songs by TimtehGrey The Only Thing Missing Is You by marchingclock Verbatim by G-R-Fracassa The Writer and the Switchblade by RangerRed09 Not All Things Will Fade by Clockchat A Victim of Circumstance by SloppyDreamscape Address Unknown by DropDeadKrislyn Ode to the artist by Kizin-of-kaplumba
spring in winchester.where does apple boy go when the sun dies? over the hill—
two years away, in the crook of the arm of a stubborn river
that keeps running away from her problems—he sits and eats
and doesn’t get fat, and tosses his trash into the water,
hoping the seeds will stick in the mud and grow into trees
that will grandfather trees, that will grandmother tires and
ropes—i watch him from my hole in the ground, ripping
blades of grass apart with my nervous fingers, and wonder
if his hair is really as soft as cotton clothing, or more like the
straw that makes up the broom i sweep the floor with at
the restaurant—he mistakes my eyes for two large, white
insects that blink and burrow into the dirt whenever he
looks my way—as morning comes, he grabs his blue bag and
walks for seventeen thousand hours to school—i bury myself
in earth and silence and sleep and dream of apple blossoms
sailing down a river, looking for home, finding love along the way
what to say when you can't say i love you anymoreyour eyes were always soft, even when
your voice went hard. for a while,
i treated you like a god and i’m
not saying that i worshipped you,
but i let you hold my hands
and i told you all the sins i carried
in their grooves.
i have since been told that they were never
your burden to bear,
but that doesn’t stop me from aching for you
every time i catch myself thinking
about how it would feel to kiss the girl
two doors down. it’s been a while
since i’ve confessed and i’m not sure
i remember how. the thing is,
i don’t feel that guilty anymore.
the thing is, holding hands is only
ten fingers away from letting go
and we got so good at toeing the line of the cliff
that when you finally jumped, i forgot
i was supposed to follow.
i swear i thought i could keep you floating.
i swear i didn’t mean to let the water
into your mouth. sometimes i wish
i could kiss you dry again but i know
that’s not how this thing works, that’s
not the way
fingers soaking in, harrowing condition(ing/er)cisgender man speaking here, stumbling in hazy, surely non-existent delineations that is perfectly incapable of describing what it means and feels like to be something they are so naturally inclined and comfortable inside of. if i look into the mirror and see the prickling roots of stubble, i see myself. but i also see a man. but what does that look like? what does that feel like? how do i know what my more-than-likely imaginary consciousness perceives as a man is such? to be a male is the biological process of having a male reproduction system; that is easily understandable. but what does it feel like to be a man?
i don't have an answer for that and i don't know if that's brilliant (because i am not tied down by an intrinsic force that creates a dichotomy i did not ask for) or terrifying because i am unable to describe the one thing that changes and flips things in my favor in some factor due to some societal notion about what a man is (i.e. pay wages, perception of strength) a
if gifted a singularityfirst, find the event horizon.
dip your fingers into the melted
dimensions of space
like some cosmic egg yolk.
then taste it. put your tongue
against that inky blackness.
feather your lips across the heat,
the fission, and when you have
memorized the bitter-sweet
and maudlin scent of light
trapped so deep it forgot its brilliance,
look back toward the stars that roil outside.
you've reached what they
must die to achieve; admire
eternity, that bleak static
we seek from within
our frenzied utopia.
You.You told me once
you would break my stars,
tear them from the sky and devour them
s l o w l y.
I neglected to tell you
they all had their own feelings
and your bruises form my own constellation
in the quiet valleys of my firefly skin.
I am the milky way.
And you, my sweet-
You are nothing more
than a dead star
with a pretty name.
Alzheimer'sHis house is made of crumbling slats
of rotted knotted oak
and weakened joints.
The wind blows unfettered
through unshuttered apertures
dragging fresh sunlight in
and memories away.
Even on the clearest days
he visits the front porch
less and less often.
He prefers to explore
those rooms further in
where tide and time have yet to reach. Sometimes
he might be gone for a week.
And one day, too soon
(not soon enough)
his ramshackle dw
to love and to cherish 'til punctuation do us parti only love you in my poetry:
my parenthetic utopia where i can make
you into the eighth world wonder, make
my freckles swim into your skin, make
out with you in paradise's garden, make
you into a dandelion, blow you & make
a wish: i wish you would make
love to me,
in my poems,
let's have our honeymoon
on the moon, honey
(and we do)
like dreams, all poems die
when their lines di vorc e;
(the trick to living forever
is to never write the end