@yosh Well you get bragging rights for sure! As well as a lovely badge that tells of your accomplishments, and your name in the yws book of records. Pretty cool!
@herbalhour there is not a redemption round this time~ you had an amazing poem though! You should participate next year as well!
that the powerful play goes on And you may contribute a verse
If you ever need to talk I am here for you<3
"All great change is preceded by chaos" - Deepak Chopra Fight through the chaos, there are good things ahead<333
the conversations always vibrate so loudly that sometimes you can be convinced the windows are about to erupt, and heat radiates off skin until the air blurs the same way the air above an asphalt road in the summer does. there is music playing but it has lost the melody and the lyrics; it is a mess of hoarse voices, worn-off deodorant, and stomping feet.
but tonight I wait out the first half, until the playlist is abandoned and the windows are propped open by hazardous stacks of pens and erasers, and the curtains are gently swaying, and everyone has thrown themselves onto the chapped leather couches. by 2 a.m. I am caught up in it all: the way that limbs start to move more loosely, gazes are held more intensely, and suddenly you can feel the fibres that tie you to these people.
When you're faced with something you don't understand, I think the most natural thing but also least interesting thing you can be is afraid.
You married your mother, course, narcisstic, addicted, just an upgrade from pills to alcohol, your planted your childhood home in the dirt outside, but told us you were just burying it.
You married your father, loud, angry, drunk on the power of being the man of the house. You taught us how to cower when the hits came; only because your father taught you first.
You married your childhood, embraced the chaos like a stab victim keeps the knife in their chest out of fear. You call the bruises and cuts growing up, or maybe you've forgotten how to see them at all.
You married a broken promise. You always told us that you wanted to be a mom because you wanted to love a child, give them a better childhood than you did, but you never knew what that looked like.
You married your legacy. You put me through the meat grinder of abuse, smiling like this is normal, because this is what feels normal. You flinch away from peace and clutch the storm.
They/he
“the wist i knew would never allow a straight boy in their stories” ~Omni “Hi Omni can I request wist get the role mom friend :]" ~winter “ah yes, fear Wist's smile :) <- speaks of layers and layers of secrets” ~mint
every day i send desperate thoughts into the universe, hoping for the health and safety of my parents and loved ones, as if i could keep injury and death away by force of will alone. i don't know why i am so arrogant as to believe that i, not even a millisecond, a nanosecond in the eyes of time, could influence anything. i don't know why i try when i know we'll all die someday. but can you blame me for my futile efforts to appear like i have some semblance of control over my life? and look at me trying to rhyme like i'm wresting control of my language yet trapping myself at the same time.
one day, in the future, i will know grief. and my heart melts like icicles dripping dirty water into grayish puddles at the thought of that future loss. of my future dead. of my parents growing old and me, unable to stop the steady stream of time, despite the watch i wear and the clock i consider. already there are gray hairs. already i am drowning.
they say time heals all wounds but they don't mention that time is the one that causes them. and maybe i'm terrified that when the time comes my eyes will be dry. if i could, i would take the salt and pepper from your hair and rub it into my wounds, giving you my life force through my tears and making you young again. but then again, sometimes i think grief is yet another performance put on for society.
when it is my time, i hope they will read my will. i hope they won't grieve for me. i hope they won't weep or whisper about what coulda shoulda woulda been. my last wish will be for them to play games over my grave. please. lose track of time as flowers grow over my headstone.
Good luck everyone! You've all done great so far. <3
Spoiler
This is a poem for waiting,
A poem for early, misty mornings and a poem for the hopefuls that inhabit them, in predawn pilgrimage;
A space to store the way you wish the clouds away, to summon the sun.
This is a poem for the visitors here, the strangers to this land, gathered in a holy communion around their telescopes like a prayer to a higher power, clutching each other and crying afterwards like the answer lies in each of us;
And maybe this poem is itself a prayer, for the voyagers, stargazers, truck drivers and construction workers, gods and men; angels, who bear witness;
i want you to know i see those wilted flowers poking out of your pockets, and cupboard drawers, and billfolds, and eardrums, and fingernails,
aren’t you afraid all this decay might attract pests, i ask as i tuck another dried geranium behind your ear, and into your mouth, and try to lick an auburn petal off your jacket without you seeing.
you tell me not to worry, she’s been gone, for so many years now, so many-many-years, that you can’t even remember what her voice sounds like, but still you laugh as you say her name, like it’s forbidden, like you are still in-love and don’t know how else to say it, like she’s standing right there and asking why you are lying to me again; but i know better than to clean up a home that isn’t mine
so i will bury myself deep in all the cobweb corners until this place becomes a living flower garden or a makeshift cemetery.
you should know i am a time traveler & there is no season as achingly temporary as now
“It is always sad when someone leaves home, unless they are simply going around the corner and will return in a few minutes with ice cream sandwiches.” - Lemony Snicket
would the cracks of my soul whisper all my secrets under their breath if I let them be seen? would the dust I placed on the windowsill unveil the carefully placed lies I’m so fond of using? I’m partial to half-truths and fragmented stories, it seems—they tend to fog reality quite nicely.
I am made of glass shards and mirrored attributes, I take each lie and glue them to my body because maybe I can become something worthy, maybe I can rid myself of the imperfections in my skin, but every word leaves a bitter taste on my tongue and every thought drives me further and further to sublimation.
and although I pretend I am stone, really all I am is a glass box. you can see right through me; watch the swarm inside me consume all that I am; watch the bees hum and sting, watch the honey drip from gold to silver to ash.
I try to wash my sins away, but I am still stained glass. I am lying to myself every time I smile and say "hallelujah" because I am wreathed in guilt and I am still a pretender who pretends to be vibrant when I am nothing more than a fabrication of sharp edges and rotten honey.
