my father used to sing a song about the ties that bind us:
a man tied to his home
and a man tied to moving on,
and the question of love or glory.
in the song,
the lock-keeper had his son
and the sailor had his stars.
what i am saying is that i have spent my whole life leaving.
what i am saying is that every place i land, i hope it’s the last.
what i am saying is i wish i weren’t the sailor,
but you won’t understand why until it’s far too late.
i want you to know: i have found new love every time i land,
but i have never yet caught up to glory.
i have never tried to disappear before, and it is so unsatisfying: did you know that every second you're below the surface, you have to hold your breath? the poetry is useless, snarling defiance at skies that know not who i am and care less, laboriously transposing regret into rebellion and tucking the hurt back in between the lines when no one's watching.
you did something kind today and someone needs to help me, because underneath it all i am a good person and the inside of my head just whispers don't like those helpless cinema girls i used to hate.
soon, Ani will ask me again if i'd prefer the easy way, and i never thought i would.
i wi
if you hadn't been there
when I came home, it would be
different. but i've been
systematically
disappointing everyone
i care about, and
you're next in line. i'm
gone again and sorry, but
sorry saves no one.
dear rapunzel, i owe you an apology. i watched you shout down to us from your tower and despised you for never leaving. now my throat is hoarse and the people are fuzzy so far away down there, because the telescope in my heart is pointed the wrong way to see them.
(to the people who love me: i will come home and my hair will smell of wood smoke and i will miss the stars when i think of here and i do not know if i will ever be able to stay in one place without yearning, and for that i am truly sorry. -- i love you, you know that,
if the world has
eight-year-old boys with
freckles stretched like stars over
bird-winged cheekbones and
smiles like gap-toothed crescent moons below, who
cradle babies like clumsy giants and
want to go so bad to india
(because of the chickpeas),
then
i think we're going to be alright.
so i was too smart for my skin, and look what happened - the words that once rioted like the jungle chorus, graceful, wide-winged ships to better worlds, they grew spikes and came back to attack me. just one, just one, that was all i needed, that Grecian suffix laughing like the lunatic it made me.
they said that everything, everything is a cry for help, like if i am in a burning building and refuse to tell you there's a fire. by that logic my flesh is blacker than prejudice could concieve to be shocked by, and my hair really did burn away like i told them. tearing it out isn't a figure of speech anymore, so what language can w
i have a sharp tongue, nice legs and a gift for languages.
it isn't enough.
i blend my edges to fit around everyone else, but you, you never compromised. you were brave and it made me ache for you, because pride always weighs more than you'd think.
(if i could ask you anything it all, it wouldn't be a question, it would be: tell me everything.)
hey. you have me hoarding words like flowers in october, like letters from home, like something that matters.
hey. you have everything anyone ever said i could be, and how the hell is that supposed to make me feel.
hey. i miss you. but that doesn't fall on your radar, does it?
(i don't mind bein
it is summer, and the girls down the street have a lemonade stand. they offer free face painting with a sale, so i sip my drink - ten cents each - while they write love, literally, on my arms.
(i tipped them a dollar, for "excellent service". they awarded me flowers, daisies and delphiniums, and banana-boat, face-splitting smiles. i should have given them a hundred.)
it is summer, and somewhere the men on the streets sleep warm, saving shelter money for food and maybe a drink or two. the streets, now, smell sweet like garbage and acid like fire. snow, at least, pretends to be pure.
it is summer, and the beer flows faster as the mercury ris
my father used to sing a song about the ties that bind us:
a man tied to his home
and a man tied to moving on,
and the question of love or glory.
in the song,
the lock-keeper had his son
and the sailor had his stars.
what i am saying is that i have spent my whole life leaving.
what i am saying is that every place i land, i hope it’s the last.
what i am saying is i wish i weren’t the sailor,
but you won’t understand why until it’s far too late.
i want you to know: i have found new love every time i land,
but i have never yet caught up to glory.
i have never tried to disappear before, and it is so unsatisfying: did you know that every second you're below the surface, you have to hold your breath? the poetry is useless, snarling defiance at skies that know not who i am and care less, laboriously transposing regret into rebellion and tucking the hurt back in between the lines when no one's watching.
you did something kind today and someone needs to help me, because underneath it all i am a good person and the inside of my head just whispers don't like those helpless cinema girls i used to hate.
soon, Ani will ask me again if i'd prefer the easy way, and i never thought i would.
i wi
if you hadn't been there
when I came home, it would be
different. but i've been
systematically
disappointing everyone
i care about, and
you're next in line. i'm
gone again and sorry, but
sorry saves no one.
dear rapunzel, i owe you an apology. i watched you shout down to us from your tower and despised you for never leaving. now my throat is hoarse and the people are fuzzy so far away down there, because the telescope in my heart is pointed the wrong way to see them.
(to the people who love me: i will come home and my hair will smell of wood smoke and i will miss the stars when i think of here and i do not know if i will ever be able to stay in one place without yearning, and for that i am truly sorry. -- i love you, you know that,
if the world has
eight-year-old boys with
freckles stretched like stars over
bird-winged cheekbones and
smiles like gap-toothed crescent moons below, who
cradle babies like clumsy giants and
want to go so bad to india
(because of the chickpeas),
then
i think we're going to be alright.
so i was too smart for my skin, and look what happened - the words that once rioted like the jungle chorus, graceful, wide-winged ships to better worlds, they grew spikes and came back to attack me. just one, just one, that was all i needed, that Grecian suffix laughing like the lunatic it made me.
they said that everything, everything is a cry for help, like if i am in a burning building and refuse to tell you there's a fire. by that logic my flesh is blacker than prejudice could concieve to be shocked by, and my hair really did burn away like i told them. tearing it out isn't a figure of speech anymore, so what language can w
i have a sharp tongue, nice legs and a gift for languages.
it isn't enough.
i blend my edges to fit around everyone else, but you, you never compromised. you were brave and it made me ache for you, because pride always weighs more than you'd think.
(if i could ask you anything it all, it wouldn't be a question, it would be: tell me everything.)
hey. you have me hoarding words like flowers in october, like letters from home, like something that matters.
hey. you have everything anyone ever said i could be, and how the hell is that supposed to make me feel.
hey. i miss you. but that doesn't fall on your radar, does it?
(i don't mind bein
it is summer, and the girls down the street have a lemonade stand. they offer free face painting with a sale, so i sip my drink - ten cents each - while they write love, literally, on my arms.
(i tipped them a dollar, for "excellent service". they awarded me flowers, daisies and delphiniums, and banana-boat, face-splitting smiles. i should have given them a hundred.)
it is summer, and somewhere the men on the streets sleep warm, saving shelter money for food and maybe a drink or two. the streets, now, smell sweet like garbage and acid like fire. snow, at least, pretends to be pure.
it is summer, and the beer flows faster as the mercury ris
You are a trainwreck.
Ugly and misshapen,
bent in all the wrong places.
I don't know where to look,
but at the same time I can't
stop.
It looks painful,
wreckage and disaster,
but I want to know
everything.
Triple Sat: Three Tables in Three Acts
Triple Sat (Verb): A restaurant term where a host/hostess seats three tables consecutively to one server. The server, while still smiling politely, runs around frantically trying to be in three places at once. It's not pretty, the guests feel like they received bad service, and usually said host/hostess gets cursed at behind his or her back for the rest of the night. This also comes in other forms such as "double sat", a frustrating but manageable situation, and "quad sat", which means find a manager for help A.S.A.P. and cross fingers the host/hostess loses his or her job.
never trust a writer by neverwastewishes, literature
Literature
never trust a writer
It's best to stay far away from us writers. We're double-agents, and can't be trusted.
You see, we just have this terrible privilege of not being able to tell the difference between reality and fiction. We sometimes forget that the emotions in our head might not run with as much passion as they really do, and then we get disappointed in things that make normal people happy. We're afraid to get close to people, and yet all we do is yearn for human contact. That's why we write about it, and that's why we lose touch on what it really feels like to be in a relationship.
Writers often find that we don't fully comprehend the world around us, and,
The day had slowly turned to night; it had withered away till there was nothing left to erase. It was one of those still nights where the moon is full and shines bright, sounds are deadened as soon as they are made and the smell of rain is heavy on the air. Her footsteps were the only sound to live in the quiet of the night yet they disturbed no one; she encountered no one. The streets were as deserted of people as the air of noise-only her footfalls were there, only she was there. She was determined, oh yes, she was determined; you could not have stopped her if you killed her for her ghost would still have kept on walking t
The things I've found: by this-epiphany, literature
Literature
The things I've found:
The beauty of realising that this
is not a love I fell headlong into at the height of day,
but rather shuffled towards sometime after dawn,
slumped down next to at the kitchen table,
bleary-eyed, mumbled at through coffee and sat, slowly,
quietly, companionably waking up to.
And that this, too, is good.
the first letter (veneer)
to you i would send
this bubble-gum thought, candy-blue,
imaginary dream
the second letter (velveteen)
to you i would send
three words, and nothing more
the third letter (vertigo)
to you i would send
this pearl wrapped in paper ink,
this diamond droplet
the fourth letter (violence)
to you i would send
a backwards blessing, thorn-written,
a for(n)ever wish
the fifth letter (and last word)
to you i would send
the broken branch, unearthed root,
heartache and heartbreak
it is summer, and the girls down the street have a lemonade stand. they offer free face painting with a sale, so i sip my drink - ten cents each - while they write love, literally, on my arms.
(i tipped them a dollar, for "excellent service". they awarded me flowers, daisies and delphiniums, and banana-boat, face-splitting smiles. i should have given them a hundred.)
it is summer, and somewhere the men on the streets sleep warm, saving shelter money for food and maybe a drink or two. the streets, now, smell sweet like garbage and acid like fire. snow, at least, pretends to be pure.
it is summer, and the beer flows faster as the mercury ris
"It's not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of grey."
"Nope."
"Pardon?"
"There's no greys, only white that's got grubby. I'm surprised you don't know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That's what sin is."
"It's a lot more complicated than that."
"No. It ain't. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they're getting worried that they won't like the truth. People as things, that's where it starts."
"Oh, I'm sure there are worse crimes -"
"But they starts with thinking about people as things."
-Terry Pratchett
Just because you depend on one single person for your emotional well-being does not mean I have to. It does not give you license to try to find someone to force into codependency with me. It does not mean you can make things up about me. It does not give you license to feel superior to me. It does not mean I am half a person. It means I am a person, singular, and my determination to stay that way may mean I'm cynical, but it does not mean you need to make me open up or come out of my shell or see how wonderful life can be, or whatever you think justifies it. Okay? Okay. I'm glad we had this little talk.
how can I go home
with nothing to say
I know you're going to look at me that way
and say what did you do out there
and what did you decide
you said you needed time
and you had time
you are a china shop
and I am a bull
you are really good food
and I am full
I guess everything is timing
I guess everything's been said
so I am coming home with an empty head
you'll say did they love you or what
I'll say they love what I do
the only one who really loves me is you
and you'll say girl did you kick some butt
and I'll say I don't really remember
but my fingers are sore
and my voice is too
you'll say it's really good to see you
you
HEY WOW GOSH dear lord and heavens to betsy it has been horrifyingly long since i spoke to you.
i hope you're doing well, and even better than before, and i'm so sorry i've been absent and that i missed the posting of your last poem. you are still the loveliest writer i know.
It... has been years, hasn't it? And I'm on here for old time's sake and seeing you posted this almost exactly a year ago, and I really do hope you come on here more often than I do, because it would be unspeakably awesome to talk to you again and see what you're up to now that we're both over the hill of old age.
uuuwwAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH HALLO HALLO HALLO I actually kind of howled out loud when I saw this was here why did I not reply sooner :'D
I'm so old now it's kind of hilarious. I'm wearing a striped button-up right at this moment and my pants are sensible slacks. If not for the fact that one is blue and one is brown I might have resembled a businessdude
I am SO CHUFFED that you are still around haha don't mind the tears *u* oh wow oh yes
How are you??? What have you been doing?????? aaaaaah squishes own face in delight
Er... happy DeviantArt biiiiirthdee? 8D LOFFLEMUCH. Hope the rest of your life goes well, or whatever <3333 And I just want to tell you you've always been great. Ta-daaaa? :0