A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads only lives once ~George R. Martin Life isn't about finding yourself; it's about recreating yourself. ~George B. Shaw
1. Today I gave blood because someone didn't want to
Today I gave blood for the first time and my friends didn't stay but I like to feel old and mature. My heart spilled, was armed with want and from lungs the breath had stilled (but I felt only a sharp sting as the needle passed).
Today my lungs breathed and time was still as the needle and I passed like old friends and I didn't only feel mature, but had felt the blood spilled from my heart to arm, for I gave with a sharp want (but the first sting stayed).
Today my mature heart was stilled and I gave lungs and blood spilled (as from the arm) but the needle didn't sting for I had passed. My friends feel with time but only want the first to stay sharp like a breath and I felt old.
I let the ocean rock me against it's coral reefs drown and dead, sunken for all my air was stolen by the sharks and the feeder fish swarming around me nibbling at my flesh.
It was my most useful moment yet!
Now I sink, skull without eyes chin without tongue finger-less so they'll never know me
I have a hard time believing that if my fingerprints were taken, I could be identified for real. No one has a record of them with the nicks and scars of life etching through my natural swirls.
No, they'd come up with someone else. Search me, and they'd see my successful self a writer, well loved, respected, alive. They wouldn't know my DNA my sister owns that.
If I die here, let go of my skeletal mass and evaporate like ink in the vast ocean I am not a murder victim, I am gone. Right now? I'm okay with that. And so I loosen my hold to the coral and with each crash of the waves my parts pull away tumbling to the ocean floor to chip into sand.
Here's my entry; it's the poem I wrote yesterday as part of the poem workshop (which was absolutely lovely, might I add. <3)
Spoiler! :
I Don't Think You Know What That Word Means
Bluntly, life is slapping a penguin with a sausage; senseless, violent, bizarre. Zookeepers run forward like an army charging into battle, though this one is wide-eyed, their screaming more frustration than anger.
You are a citizen in a state of laws, and the sirens of their administrators are the edge of your hearing and you have the impression they're coming for you. You've broken a rule, somewhere in the pages of paperwork signed without your permission by people who aren't yourself in the signature you were too young to develop, but you aren't sure which one.
However, you know they've come for a reason and somewhere in the infinite bumbling of infinity you'd made a wrong turn at Albuquerque. So you ponder what led to this point, the turn of events acting as the rising conflict to your surely imminent demise. You come up empty handed, save for the many little errors you've made today which you never noticed until now.
But, since you have a scapegoat, you're hitting yourself on the head with your spare hand, detracting points as you point out each mistake with an unflinching and sausage-smelling finger and wondering how someone could be so cluelessly stupid. Of course, you do it anyway; it's more logical than what you've dragged yourself into, as only hindsight and sound reasoning are 20/20 when dealing with past mistakes, not present ones.
As it happens, penguins are not as cute nor as cuddly as you'd previously imagined, especially not when they've discovered that they love the taste of sausage, not to mention the fleshy, bone-covered substance that's grasping it. While the zookeepers are frantically arguing over whether to call for an ambulance or a vet (though they're leaning towards the latter), you've delved into that mass of pink and gray matter in hopes of drowning out the memory with a sea of memories.
Naturally, you think, as you comment on the way that your shoes landed on that carpet stain that, while fresh, could not be identified, you'd rather not tell your grandchildren the story of the attack of the killer penguin. Their childhoods are already ruined enough, mostly as they've had to stare at your grizzled face scrunching up and exhaling foul words and comments about your dentures, not to mention why the newspaper isn't as good as it used to be.
Your reverie is cut short by a taser to the face, thanks to a confused officer who now has the urge to slap the penguin herself.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
if you think twice about coming to my grave holding onto the flowers you once promised to give me, tears still in your eyes and that poisonous smile you drew on your face
if you think twice about the love we shared under the starry skies in your grandpa's old truck and when you said i love you i thought we had a chance
if you think twice about how i was the dream you wished and then realized that dreams like me are nightmares in disguise
and if you think twice about me in your arms at night and how your heartbeat was the drum, beating away the pain
if you think twice about coming to my grave your eyes red and lips quivering don't break the moon and cause the stars to fall
You are like a blacksmith's hammer, you always forge people's happiness until the coal heating up the forge turns to ash. Then you just refuel it and start over. -Persistence (2015)
You have so much potential and love bursting in you. -Omnom
We're spending the majority of the time at the Distracted Drivers lesson texting and talking because, secretly, we don't care if a pole is the last thing we're gonna see in life.
It's a Friday in April and the juxtaposition throughout the crowd is overwhelming. Half of them will be participating in underage drinking, a quarter will be going to the movies, and the rest are no-names in the category 'Miscellaneous'.
The speaker gives a constant reminder on how we can all die if we don't treat "our bodies correctly". Everybody falls silent.
Not because of the reality alert, but the U.S. has just bombed a third world country. We all got text messages about it.
I stare at the mouth of the speaker, the tongue hiding in the back of his throat emphasizing how shocking it was that we're all distracted.
I pay attention to how his face wrinkles when says Ridiculous!. After a minute of yelling, I pick up my book and leave the library.
"When you drink and drive tonight and you hit that car, your life will flash in front of your eyes and you'll be reminded that I was right all along!"
Life isn't going to flash in front of my eyes, instead it'll be an epilepsy warning written in strobe lights letting me know that what isn't meant to kill you will end up disappointing you in the end.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
Morning chill placid lake and scenic mountain grandeur the snapping of a twig skipping stones and sliding silt filtered sunshine green leaves and golden.
Montana rocks like candy rock mountain remnants or jewels sparkling like something commonplace never does. Rainbow pebbles and silver slender fish darting toward a fisherman’s lure, knowing they must be thrown back.
Autumn memories or maybe the ghost of fall not driven out yet by spring’s exuberance.
ii. The way the soil smells in the afternoon and the buds peeking through, wondering at a silent threat of snow and the way no one quite believes that it is actually warm (They have their coats draped over thier forearms). But spring is screaming with her usual vibrancy: Petaled frills and windy chills and a woodchipped cusion for a sleep in the fledgling sunshine.
iii. Light filters through the leaves again rich with sweet shine as laze hangs heavy over the leather couches as we talk in familiar patterns, comfortable, a blanket of words. A spring breeze sways flyaway hairs that were missed by the rubberband. Gooseflesh finally absorbed with softly billowing fresh linen curtains and the residue of steam from a recent hot shower. The greying spring evening sun, not quite golden yet, creates a soft sunwake on maple floors as the stonework of the cool fireplace nestles together, creating a silence never noticed.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
The fine lines that colour my skin have long since sunk in and I am a partial print of another time repeating against itself every moment I move. I say this because (there are more reasons besides but this is key). Fabric wearies but I cannot fade. Lightning sparks cluster on my hips, beneath my belly, kinetic energy trying to escape. The pattern seeps again and again trying to breathe.
I like you as an enemy, but I love you as a friend.
ok, you get this one. unless i change my mind. i might. who knows.
Spoiler! :
#4 fault lines run underneath this city tracing from your aunt’s house on a hill through the parking lot of her favorite restaurant downtown unheeded by that which stands on top because three times a lifetime isn’t reminder enough that mother nature’s mean streak doesn’t care about your karma.
***Under the Responsibility of S.P.E.W.*** (Sadistic Perplexion of Everyone's Wits)
Medieval Lit! Come here to find out who Chaucer plagiarized and translated - and why and how it worked in the late 1300s.
Gender:
Points: 37216
Reviews: 346