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Found 7 results

  1. anthills to himalayas

    without fuel, the engine will not turn. i, faulty word-machine, am low on oil. the tortured artist paints with blood their own blood, the blood of those they lost. the blood of those that harmed them. my brush is wet only with water thin lines of pigment left by small misfortunes. what is a poet without the tales to tell? i have written novels of lives that are not mine, i have poured emotion into experiences that are not my own. but the words were lies and so i stopped and made do with the anthills beside your himalayas. when i was younger i won an award. 'congratulations! your poem is great!' and i stood before a crowd of family and friends and i read: 'cherry blossom, cherry tree' soft and sweet. and then, smiling, i sat down and listened and what i heard was raw, beautiful pain. i do not have that pain. i do not have those words. but i have a mind. and so, high on the sense of freedom words provide, i write. AN: this is not my best.
  2. stardust and cherry blossoms

    shine, cherry blossom. reach out with your petals and forget about the fall. look up at the stars and say, i am one of them. look down at your own naked, blemished, perfect body and say inside of my chest is star just like those. and then reach inside and share it. when a star dies, it does not end. it explodes. when a star is born, it is nestled in a gaseous cloud of its sisters and it holds around it a careful-crafted collection of its children. planetoids and such, holding millions of stars of their own. we are all made of stardust. did you know that when a superstar dies, it does not disappear? it goes out with a bang and becomes a black hole. and the thing about black holes? their gravity. when a cherry blossom falls, she does not hit the ground. she soars on the wind and joins the clouds. pale pink and sweet-scented and filled with joy and even the wilted ones form a blanket of softness like the asteroid belt in a solar system. you, my friend, are a cherry blossom. and you are a star. when you die, your planetoids will die with you. they will weep and cry wilted blossoms around the tall, sturdy trunk that is your skeleton. and then they will grow trees of their own from the seeds you left. and every tree, and every flower, and every you: stardust. so, little star: do not forget to fly. A/N: sometimes when i decide to write random words come out and i don't even know what they mean but i think this one is a result of my hopeless optimist bleeding through.
  3. throat

    it lives in my throat. my tears, my laughter: in my throat. hey, that's kinda interesting; that's where my words are. that's where my breath is. that's where my life... i come from my throat. that's where i find my voice. that's where i find my passion. my throat is what i stroke with anxious fingers when i am afraid when i am nervous when i am sad. it all comes back to my throat. funny, that's where i get sick, too. or at least, that's where the sickness starts or where it ends with fire in my throat and silence in my mouth. it all comes back to the hroat. my throat is where my voice is and who would i be if i could not sing? perhaps that is why i fear suffocation. when i cried my father came upstairs and said, at first i thought you were laughing. and when i laughed myself breathless, i thought, it sounds like i'm crying. perhaps it is because they came from the same place. perhaps it is because they really are the same. in a crowd of the grieving, a laugh is like a breath. it ripples through the crowd like a moment of relief. it is hysterical and tear-filled. it comes from the throat. perhaps emotion lives not in the heart, but in the lungs. in the throat. for, after all, who would we be without our voices? A/N: I have no clue what this is.
  4. love is

    love is a complicated game. a whirlwind of new experiences. a hurricane in stasis. love is terrifying and impossible to distinguish. love is what you feel for you mother. your father. your brother. your dog. what you feel for your friends. love is what you feel for your best friend. what you think is something other than it is. love is a mistake waiting to happen, a trap, a loaded gun. love is falling. but it’s too easy to mistake the fall. love is something you’ve ve felt. something you thought you felt. something you got wrong. love is your best friend’s hug and how it feels before and after you become girlfriends. love is comfort before, and terror after. love is the lie society forces you into. the lie you convince yourself of. the truth you discover in your girlfriend’s clasp hand. love is not what you think it is. love is knowing there is a right, for some. knowing this is wrong for you. love is the emotional email you’ve got saved in your drafts. love is the mistake you wish you’d never made. it’s the distinction that doesn’t exist, the confusing line that lies between love and Love. loving someone is not the same as being in love with someone. floating is not the same as falling. loving someone is a distinction you don’t know how to make. love is freedom. love is fear. (A/N: in short, help me. I may have made a terrible mistake.)
  5. ocean canvas

    i want my paint the color of the sea i want the salt blood and the brined lungs i want the bird-cry voice and the dull gritty crunch between teeth. i want the ocean on my canvas and i want it to feel like freedom i want the marsh grass scritch scratch grass and murky, boggy mud i want bird wings as delicate strokes small white dots that aren’t clouds pieces of sea foam detached from the sea free spirit and flashing, splashing silver wriggling and swimming and sparkling scales i want the underwater flight and the midair swimming floating through air or water, what’s the difference i want paint the color of the sky on a clear day the color of the wind rushing, roaring, blowing hair caught and flung like kite strings and the kite flutters away in the wings of the gulls i want the waves on the end of my paintbrush i want the ocean on my canvas i want a moving portrait of the sea.
  6. your flower in the snow

    I want to be your flower in the snow. in a day of darkness, when you are drowning, when you’re on the edge of breaking down and screaming to the sky, i want to be your salvation. i want to be your stranger on the street, a smile and a kind word turning your day back to the light. i want to be your island in the storm. i want to be your sunshine behind the clouds. i want to be your flower in the snow but I’m not. People say that I’m sweet and it’s flattering. it is. but it’s not true. oh, thank you, i smile, and it tastes like a lie. my sweetness is a carefully crafted falsehood a mask, to hide the jealous cruelty of my thoughts. he’s ugly, or her voice sounds so awful or i could do better. i am better. I am your spice to your sugar and you don’t even know it. i am the acid burn of lemonade down your throat once you’ve gotten past the sweetener. i am the wilted flower in the snow, the posturing balloon-girl blown full of air that’s hideous. what is she wearing, she looks like a SLUT. and then no, no, she can wear whatever she wants. screw the patriarchy. you go girl. you look great, i say, and you blush. thanks, you’re so sweet! I am poison. i am the delicate flowers of nightshade, the inviting pain of a wooly caterpillar. I want to be your flower in the snow i want to be your flower in the snow, your bright spot. i want to be your restoration of hope in the goodness of humanity. i want to be liked. i need to be liked. your irritation is pain, your dislike torture. so I am quiet. i sit and watch and smile, because to be silent and delicate and kind is to be your flower in the snow.
  7. sometimes

    Sometimes I want to scream. I stand in a crowd of my peers and look up and out and think, what’s stopping me. what’s stopping my mouth from opening wide, jaw dropping loose like the unhinging lips of a snake swallowing its meal, what’s stopping me from shouting and screaming and bringing the world to its knees with the force of my voice and the breath of my lungs. Sometimes I think, what if I changed the world. i am strong, and I am willful, and my best friend’s voice echoes in my ears: you can do anything you set your mind to, you can do anything you want because you are strong. And sometimes I think, I could. I see the media, and it says, get out there and do something. change the world and shape it in your own image like clay on a wheel or mud between your fingers. paint it on the canvas of your life with oil and pigment and let it dry so it sticks. I hear the voices of my peers rising up and fighting, see their posts on social media, see articles written about their ingenuity, their bravery, see our elders condemning and praising the initiative of my generation and I think, I have a voice. Sometimes I open my mouth and try to scream but all that comes out is a squeak. Sometimes I try to hit that high note but I didn’t take a big enough breath, sometimes I try to jump but my legs just aren’t quite long enough. Sometimes I try to change the world and all I get are the self-same responses that I’ve always gotten, relative’s commentary on my own maturity, when really what I want is to make waves. Sometimes I wish my voice was a megaphone. Sometimes I wish I was famous, that I could stand on a podium and speak in a whisper and still be heard. Sometimes I stand on a stage, in the spotlight, and scream at the top of my lungs, but all they hear is the character I portray. Sometimes I wish I could change the world. Sometimes I am angry and I am powerless. Sometimes I write meaningless words to give to no one. Sometimes I write speeches I know no one will read. Sometimes I want to scream.
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