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About mouse

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  1. pinterest?

    pinterest is soo hard for me??? idk, maybe bc i'm old?? but i mainly use tumblr, and tag posts with certain tags for projects. i'm wesmallsparrows on tumblr, lmk if ya have a url :)
  2. a week

    HAHA im not crying, just something in my eye. that refrain. seriously choked me right up. haha. i love the phrase "the chaos scale" but i might suggest adding punctuation to this whole poem to bring some clarification. i would probably add the punctuation to everything except the repeating lines. i agree with @woundedbirds on the second stanza's first two lines. i got the pill illustration, and i find it beautiful and well done. those who don't take them probably won't get it, and will be waving their arms over it, but it's actually subtle and lovely and well done. i like the way those last two lines are phrased. on the quote below, i'm not completely sure that we get this. we are told this, but not really shown how they make everything worse. ik this is important to you, but idk if this even needs to be in the poem. it could be a poem about needing pills, taking pills, and needing/taking pills, rather than the side effects... again, punctuation throughout this poem would be helpful. otherwise i have to reread it to figure out what word goes with which. once i do, i reeeeeeeaallly love the way it's written for rhythm and tone. and those lines!!!! dude!!!!! "believe because it is mandatory" DAMN and the last two! gaaah! finally, i like the lack of question mark, bc these kinds of questions are rhetorical, more of a statement, and i like it that way. so i guess my punctuation comment does not include everything. babe. this is haunting and beautifully written. seriously, i feel it in my chest. thank you for this. xxx
  3. gutters

    my little sister collected pennies, she picked them off the concrete and wiped them copper clean. she put them in her pockets. she hoped they were lucky. i collect memories from the dirt-dust corners and from all the days i swept under the carpets. i collect you in the places you touched me red; i collect the blood rush blush, the bitten skin, the flood and the float. i collect the shade of your eyes in dim afternoon light, the tune of your hands along this body and mind. i hold it all in rib bone shelves. they rattle when i walk too fast into something new, when i stand in the kitchen with darkened window glass staring at the image of god they say resides in my body and there is no mourning for me, because i know no sense of rest- me and my sleepless eyes, awake at four a.m. with shaking manic hands: soft mango in the right, knife sharpened in the other, and i stare at this god mirror girl in the night window and i breathe aching, craving blood and i do not make gutters out of these wrists. note, ye so this is something i've been sitting on for months and i don't like it v much, but i keep it bc of the last lines. haha. of course. *sigh* and yes, i always love critiques.
  4. hush, boy

    damn. the clause "he's yelling back" is powerful. and the med threats... like hard candy in red... and the last line... damn. yeah.
  5. tired girl howls, act three

    green jeans is a reference to a later poem in the chapbook. i rewrite dr. seuss's the pants with nobody inside them to be another disassociation poem, this time with a body with nobody inside it. that is why the ending is "and somedays / well," bc that is the beginning to the pants with nobody inside them (and so, the beginning of that poem). sorry, i meant to add a note on this, otherwise it's super weird and confusing :) dim bed as in the light and mind is dim and fading, in this bed, the bed. i could probably better explain this, my bad. the orion thing has been a point of discussion in the past, and i'm always curious to hear what others pull from it, bc usually everyone create something that fits. i guess i chose it mostly bc of the idea of overkill, trying too hard, or trying to impress or fulfill your crafted identity, resulting in being put into the sky next to your crimes, and being immortalized, forced to remember and be remembered, for everything you did wrong. your other critiques and praise- thank you so much!! i so so appreciate this, it means a lot. seriously. i'm going to keep fine tuning, and this is helpful.
  6. tired girl howls, act three

    critical is good
  7. chapbooks!

    a couple things, half based on poems i have written; hands, reaching and/or clasping. also thread. thread as what binds people together. the red thread legend. :)
  8. tired girl howls, act three

    every day my understudy sits up in my bed and walks across the carpet, rehearsing her lines. she slips into green jeans and walks across the hall looking for something to live for. some days it takes twenty minutes to stand up, and on those days, my understudy makes up her face. she outlines her eyes in black, pretty girl war paint. my understudy walks across college campuses and listens to the songs that direct the dances she will do that day. she’ll smile at professors, because she knows that somewhere deep inside, we truly love this moment, these books and words that we try to read, that my understudy pretends to have studied. my understudy smiles at my rapist when he sits next to me and rubs my knee, telling me it’s my fault we aren’t happy, that we are so very hipster beautiful together, that they could make movies about the barista poet and the librarian poet, opening a bookstore and cuddling cats in dim bed, kissing. soft. ladybugs and summer parks and backpacking through europe. open windows. that’s who we are. my understudy nods, says silently, we are open windows to jump from? my understudy nods when he says that i should be happy that i am alive. my understudy stays inside my body, while i float away. i climb among the rafters, closer against the sky. my knees covered in cloudy dust. the wood sends slivers down my fingertips, and through my mind, and i climb across the roof and i look towards the sky. my understudy, she holds me like a balloon. she carries me with her, always. my understudy holds me down every time i curl up around my migraine mind, when i wish i had more bottles than i have. more alcohol, more pills, more anything. she looks at orion and sees more than his bow and arrows. she sees personal mythology. and somedays well, the first poem in my capstone chapbook. critiques welcome, as always,
  9. podcasts!

    i love them! please recommend anything! some of my essentials: on being (spirituality + poetry/science/sociology/history/art/literally whatever) ear hustle (made by inmates of a prison) the hilarious world of depression (comedians talk about depression and other mental health issues) desert oracle (like real life night vale. weekly radio show made in joshua tree) the orbiting human circus of the air (adorable fiction taking place in france, just so cute) flatsound radio (who doesnt love mitch welling) this american life (stories about xyz) with friends like these (politics) write now (writing) the dark place (gotta love depression)
  10. intro things :D

    ey there, i'm mouse, have been here for mmmm 4 years? 5? was under small.sparrow for awhile! i work in a public library and at a publishing house/radio station and i write a lot of poetry. a lot of it. i'm the worst at writing intros. the WORST. for a long time i was hella stan for certain bands, but lately i have gotten too tired (re: depressed) to keep up, THO i'm always (truly) listening to nothing,nowhere and levi the poet. i also love podcasts like on being. always up for podcast recs. IN FACT, i'm going to start a page for it. :)
  11. Some tips

    love this!! three things, if you're using chrome, zoom out from 100%, everything will fit better that way. also, some of the images/icons are showing up as squares? like in that toolbar, i think they're links to cicada's socials... also have to keep logging in. loving this, THANK YOU.
  12. heart strings pluched

    some days we are the musicians playing the cellos as the ship goes down. there is no quiet way to end this. in an alternate universe, love is a flat rock that never sinks no matter how often we skip the stones across lake reflected skies. so let us stay strangers. let us breathe right here still and empty handed.