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Showing most liked content on 05/13/18 in all areas

  1. 3 points
    hewwo everyone! im doing alright and im feeling pretty safe bc my decoy worked and since my dad thinks it's broken im going to get it out of the house and say i threw it out...my qpp stella has my working phone so it's 100% safe and i hope i can get back to you guys soon. also i have silly art of my polycule to show u guys soon sdhskjdgksjdfs
  2. 1 point
    when do prayers become bedtime stories, when do holidays become histories? when is candlelight a memory? why must star necklace become a weapon? why do i nail blue glass to wood frame, and do it because i feel i have something to prove? (why do open doors become silent thieves, why must i resent what i should welcome? when does adopted bird become unwelcome cuckoo, resting in my nest of sparrows?) that song is a call above— rather, it is a history. i open my arms and welcome you, but inside i ask myself cruel, unfair questions. there are my ancestors, heads bowed in forbidden temples. where are your ancestors? where is your history? i clutch my necklace and my histories and i cannot stop the beat of my heart that turns your words into lies. why must your presence turn me into the liar? (this is not a torah but a history book. this is not a religion but an identity. i am defensive of that which i should not be, there is bitterness in my welcomes.) i wish i could greet you warmly. (i am sorry that i cannot.)
  3. 1 point
    waxen citrine sunlight turns our eyes to tinted crystal from the side, they look evil- not like i'll destroy half the universe and call it mercy evil, more like i'll slice you down to marrow with a smile we sit on bottle green park benches three girls, with nihilism seared into our cerebrum (someday, our generation will get a better name) laughing into the golden hour around the peridot-hued grass is cold under bare feet, so unlike the tar lines in the road we sing hallelujah as we walk home harmony melting into the pavement and into our hearts
  4. 1 point
    i. find a subject. perhaps life? (gold-red ichor in veins and laughter on rushing wind) or, perhaps, death; (bones in dirt, in earth fed to plant roots and worms, dark crypt-shadows, ashes on wind that is dry and tastes of smoke) or nature, emotion, love, pain— pick something. (find those worms in your bone-dirt and find the life and death tied together with handwoven red yarn, red like blood in veins and lips for kissing) ii. get out your paints. your alizarin red your yellow ochre your ultramarine blue iii. paint me a sunset (bird calls in the night, cricket song; paint me i love you's in the violet evening) paint me your pain, your love— paint me a sensation. iv. realize your subject changed. it's fine. (love turns to anger or vice versa; grief becomes tranquility with the cyclical patterns, the geometric consistencies.) perhaps this was intended. v. write on parchment with old black quill. scritch-scratch of metal end on paper, words forming in loops and lines— condense your canvas onto the end of a pencil and place your sunset in the alphabet. twenty-six letters to paint a universe. (twenty-six letters for the birth of a star, the spinning of a galaxy, the first cry of an infant as she opens eyes into a ever-moving world— twenty-six letters for eternity.) vi. name it. name it 'my heart is here' or 'the sun is bright' or 'the world is burning'. or, perhaps— do not name it at all. (names hold power, after all, and your poem already holds your heart; take care not to trade away your soul as well) leave the outside of the envelope blank. let it be a surprise. (here is a secret that is not a secret but a gift) vii. press your lips to the seal. this will mark it yours for eternity. even without your name, it will hold your essence— and your essence goes beyond your dna. (it is beyond your blood, your name—your essence, perhaps, is closest to your heart.) viii. nail it to a tree. tie it to the leg of a bird. trade it to the fairy queen for something precious. (leave it untitled for the latter. to fae, your words are weapons when named, and perhaps they are right: the pen, after all, is stronger than the sword.) 'this is my heart,' you will cry from the hilltops, or from the barstool, or from the lonely tree trunk. and though you may think you are alone— someone is listening. ix. 'i don't think it's very good,' you will say. 'perhaps i should not be a bard.' 'ah,' the old beggar will respond, for all old beggars carry wisdom immeasurable: 'but it is yours. of course it is good.' x. breathe out your essence from the tree stump, the hilltop, the corner of the inn— (the crackling fire, the people laughing, the mead sitting warm in your stomach.) bid the old beggar goodbye. (his songs will follow you on your journey, humming in the back of your thoughts.) your mark is made— immortality is at your fingertips.
  5. 1 point
    i. drunken bees dip and bow through blueing twilight and past solar-powered pseudo-suns gilded flickering wings ii. toeing the sunset lines stars lift borrowed light from topaz-yellow honeycomb iii. may tastes like summer's first kiss like pirouetting barefoot from tar line to tar line to streetside curb like bolting through the forest heels kicking up and out as if they don't touch the ground at all may tastes like things might be okay iv. and after the rain falls, all that glitters is gold.
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