There is something about an ingrown life That breaks you slowly Shard by jagged shard And they expect you to superglue the pieces with your own blood And to wipe away the messy aftermath with your tears They never taught you to be an architect Capable of resurrecting the debris from foundation up You are a self-acclaimed artist All you can do is try and fit together the remnants of the broken window pieces Into a convoluted puzzle of a mosaic Known to the world as a clinical abstraction in a psychiatrist’s absent scribbles
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
bleeding malarkey came home again where tomes of outbreak cast a thousand whistles asleep. (a thousand whistles filling a thousand heartbreaks with evergreen reveries.)
bleeding malarkey remembers spaces between the walls where earthen quakes broke us open,
then left to gather wits and wreak songs against our skins.
but bleeding malarkey knows: change is like a pebble in a river, to be deposited in the wake of a life raft--sailing past Jakarta and past the seventh sea.
dark circles are under my eyes from the sleepless nights and the tired days where i spent my time trying to find a way out of the grave i dig myself every time i think of days when my dark circles never existed because instead there were light sparkles in my irises and bright smiles from my lips.
I believe in that, which is not seen. I call it truth, faith, hope, life.
~~~~Sometimeslifebeckonsus tobe different~~~~
I used to be known as thewritersdream, but now my dreams have taken flight
Periwinkle stars slowly ebb into light Tucked into bed with naught but the Moon's company-- The celestial firemen had kindled their lanterns for the night
...
I have no idea what that was. *hides*
My room is an insane asylum, and I am the patient.
Beware of Dog signs are overrated. Beware of Writer.
Warning! Crappy author at work! Any hapless bystanders/passerbys will be sentenced to an eternity of hell by eye-hurt :3
the most relaxing things: writing to-do lists making dinner watering flowers breathing cold air curling up under a blanket & watching the thunderheads roll in
and when i get comfort [warm, relaxing, finally being able to close my eyes]
thunder strikes
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in my imaginings i am a horse-drawn carriage rattling down lanes and laughing with every bump in the road. i am content to be your vehicle, your grace, teasing yet loyal.
(this is what i think i am.)
but in your imaginings, i am a wild horse that refuses to stand by the roadside, that refuses to drag the carriage (except into the hedge, where it belongs).
it is not surprising that our imaginings disagree; neither of us is true to ourselves anyway.
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