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Young Writers Society
Menthol Cigarettes in the Springtime
Sat Mar 14, 2020 11:17 am
Write Hard and Clear About What Hurts.
Last edited by
on Mon Apr 27, 2020 1:34 am, edited 4 times in total.
Sun Apr 05, 2020 7:23 pm
I remember when we slaughtered
the bison calf in that springtime,
when I still knew you, and your name didnt burn my tongue, and
you let me name it anyway; you let me name the calf
right before you slit its throat,
and I'll never forget the dying eyes that watched me
as the blood poured onto your boots.
(you should have fed it to
your hungry heart, heavier than hoofbeats
and pounding just as hard, mourning just the same)
but instead the leather
kept us warm for the winter,
and it almost made up
for your coldness;
why wasn't i surprised
when you didnt thaw in the springtime?
i try to forget
our unspoken conversations
in the early morning hours
on the front porch swing, between the smoke
of my menthol cigarettes, watching dandelions
slip through sidewalk cracks, as tentative as our tongues,
and so unsure of what to say.
it was never supposed to be you.
the heartache, and the paleness, and the shaky hands
punching brick until they're bruised and bloody;
it was never supposed to be you.
it was never supposed to be this way.
not with you.
Sat Apr 11, 2020 8:45 pm
There has only ever been
Mon Apr 27, 2020 1:32 am
I don't swim in the ocean,
but I'll walk along the water's edge
searching for soft starlight, and
messages written in the waves -
beginnings and endings and the in betweens,
always in between, just being, a question
with no answer, and even worse, no one
even asking to begin with.
They have you think that cliffsides warrant cautionary climbing,
that if you watch your footing, you're sure to avoid your fate;
they don't mention how the edge is transient, like the water
beyond it, a slithering, ever-growing slope,
wrapping you in its grace, in its forgiveness,
a gentle whisper of "I don't know how to love you,
but I'm trying" -
and you better enjoy the view from halfway down -
if you close your eyes you miss the show,
and if you scream then you must admit
that your grief is real,
has been real this whole time, has pumped your
bird-heart so full of love, so full of longing, of yearning, of begging -
"I don't know how to be loved,
but I'm trying - please -
I'm trying - "
all that love with just no place to go.
I was hoping it would fix me,
all that love, with no place to go,
no choice but to seep outwards -
gold in the cracks of my skin, as precious
as the flowers in my lungs, and just as bright -
something lively, something beautiful,
a meaning for the tragedy -
my suffering seeking symbolism,
but instead this grief doesnt fill me at all;
the emptiness as vast as the void, an
ever-expanding edge, and just as desperate;
a cacophony of frantic, of need, of loneliness,
a never ending "please, come forth, and let me
consume you whole-heartedly;
I have spent a thousand lifetimes as alone as I am now,
and no-one ever seems to last."
What is the point of love
if I'm not drowning in it?
If I am tottering at the edge in all of my unsureness,
tongue as tentative as papercuts and my thoughts as sure
as bullet holes,
what do I gain from a life lived half-breathing,
when the death that awaits me is as whole and complete
as the prayer in my heart, and my lungs refuse
to give into the grief, fighting for every gasp of breath
they can manage?
I want you to overtake me
in every sense I can imagine,
and yet I don't even
know your name;
and perhaps that's what I'm searching for, on the shore,
among the stars, folded into the indigo velvet of the sky,
next to the meaning and the answers and the
perhaps I am looking for you, or
perhaps I am looking for a will to live
so overwhelming it burns me from the inside out, envelopes me
in its grace, and so pure and scarred
that it takes me by my hands and it forgives me,
evident in the way it
pulls me from myself;
searching for something so scarce,
and with the sand between my toes
I begin to understand that perhaps
it doesn't exist at all;
perhaps I must find my will to live
next to the scraps of myself I leave
throughout time and life;
dandelions in the cracks of sidewalks, and
a marble from my childhood,
and poems like this, and cigarettes,
and that moment when you're in a grocery store
and the baby in line in front of you smiles,
so soft and understanding,
so full of promise - and for the smallest moment, in that smile,
you know that everything is going to be okay.
I don't meet God in some doped up haze
as I always expected I might. Instead
the footprints in the sand signify certainty, and as I gaze upon
the view from halfway up, I remind myself how firmly
my feet are planted, how every fiber of my being
is threaded with the heart of survival and the whispers of wanting,
and as the waves take on ever changing shape
the beauty of the indigo sky scrubs across my brain
like hair in need of a good wash.
Everything looks so much different up here.
I wonder why it took me so long to move on.
Mon Apr 27, 2020 1:48 am
Ramsey, that was a beautiful inspiring piece. I'm glad you shared it with us. <3 Keep fighting. Keep writing.
Respect is felt and lack of respect is also felt. If we all would respect eachother then the world would be better.
When Larry King retires in 120 years John Mulaney should replace him.
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