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Warmthalone in space
as I float through reality
no way to propel myself
in any direction
I see a star in the distance
and think that would be
a comfortable way to go
it's so cold
and I'm tired of sleeping alone
and so I reach
Some Nights at Seasome nights I'm in an ocean
with seaweed sadness and anxiety waves
I am held to the sandy floor
and I feel
I would like nothing more
than to hear your voice
The closest I've ever comeI can still feel
the warmth of your leg
where it overlapped mine
and the brush of your hair
on my shoulder
the heat that I felt
when I laid my head
It was a quiet moment
of fleeting rest
but it was new to me
the feeling of another person
breathing so close
I wanted then,
to lay my hand on your knee
to rest it there
as a silent assurance
but I was afraid
A Brief Anthology of Death, AbridgedBy my estimation, I have been to seven funerals in my twenty years of life. I have been to one wedding. This ratio is important, as I have always believed it dictates the tone of your life. They are both formal occasions, but one is an ending, and one is a new beginning. They, whoever they are, seem to believe that the more you are exposed to death, the easier it becomes to live with. I do not believe this is the case. I think each death in our lives adds to the one preceding it—they become linked in our minds as each funeral—each ending—reminds us of every one that came before. I do not think it is possible to become used to death, simply because it is impossible to imagine a state where everything—every single thing—that we experience in our existence, ceases to exist. My own experiences with death have been many and varied, and I attempt here to lay them down in words in an effort to understand.
To understand death, and in turn, to understand life.
I've Written Many Poems About Road Trips I have always had a love of road trips. I could sit in cars and drive for hours—probably because I was conditioned to do just that on countless trips as a child. I don’t even blink at the 3 hours from Flagstaff to Bullhead City, Arizona. John Green once said in a post on his tumblr in which he mocked himself that we get it, road trips are metaphors for adolescence, but I love them for more than that. It’s the romance of a car on a road under the moonlight where you never have to stop if you don’t want to. Nothing is holding you down and you never have the pain of stopping—you’re allowed to run forever. It’s the singing, and the conversation if you have company. Road trips are all about the past in your memory and the immediacy of the tires on the road. You don’t have to worry overmuch about the future as long as you can make it to the next gas station.
I wish I could run forever. Stopping the engine terrifies me to my core.
The Hallway It’s a hallway. Sometimes it feels I’m always walking a series of hallways, and I never enter a room. This is not some glorious hallway of yore (are there glorious hallways of yore?), but it is a recent hallway—not in terms of age, but of its significance to me.
I can feel the memory of chilly linoleum on my out-stretched legs as I wait for class or a performance. It is long, cold, worn, and dusty, not that I ever minded. I’ve slept on this floor. It was the morning after The Cast Party and my head pounded with the echoes of shrill freshman cries of “Ohmygod, I just took a shot with Annamarie! I’m drunk with Annamarie!” and the cigarette smoked pants sticky with spilled vodka-coke. It’s 7:45 a.m., and I wish I was dead because I’ve never been so alive, and so I take a nap on the dusty tiles till the professors rouses me for class.
The door to the classroom is thick and wooden with a nameplate f
midnight aches and inside strangersevery night
I wake up to strangers
(No, it's not what you think.
These aren't one-
or tequila lungs
They're the oaths
kept in the
depths of my
of the fears
the dearest dreams
slithering my spine]
these are the cups
in my sorrows
in the riverbed
of a throat
from the vine garden
they found a way
They are the ones
in my blood
shuddering my bones
There's no fright.
folded like a contortionist
in my chest
while the moon
my sky's pendant,
and just listens.
IciclesWarm, soft air,
Breath as a ghost on the breeze
condensing into a fine mist,
Dancing bitter pirouettes
and whispering silken omens,
as petals in the snow.
Cold, hard earth,
Crunching miniature cities
with a single, gentle footfall,
Loping, silent, singing
liquid silver racing,
Urgent, fateful missions
as glacial rivers flow.
Delicate, crystal bells,
Delightful, intricate daggers
deceiving battered flesh,
Garnished, bruised, marked
fantastic rainbow shades,
Radiating fractures leak
as veins of shattered pearl.
Harsh, rasping nails,
Driving blizzards shrieking
blue, murderous claws,
Acute fangs clenching
against blasphemous vows,
Fall to the depths
of ostracised perdition.
Trying to HuntThere was a tear sometime into winter
It was deep onyx and browbeaten
Bleeding murk that grayed the snow,
In an unknown portion of the cedars;
Cold filled the sandwich up with slime.
“Time” said Rex, “the seer of all things
has found you out.” (Trudging went the boots)
Winter looked soft but wetly it chaffed, it made
One’s feet miserable; the gun kept slipping
And the jacket decided to forgo its warmth.
There was no grand effulgence amongst the Ether,
There was no “I” in the clouds; what was one hunting?
Geese they flew in an echelon that burned in white
Every year feeling it out, knowing better; ‘they must feel
Love? They bond for life;’ no “I” was in the cloud.
Horrible is a truth that one can find, reflected in
A swath of nature, there is no help in the hollows
Or the brooks, no solace when blood is in one’s ears
Consciousness buzzed along, and breath labored;
One listened to the heartbeat atop the clinkin
What if the sky had feelings
And it's clouds were its face
If it rained, it was sad
It it was clear, she was glad
If it was dark and stormy, she was mad
But I wait everyday
For it to one day just snow
Eventually it would snow on a grey sky
The sky was exceptionally sad today
It was winter and no one liked the cold
She felt lonely and empty
And kept her clouds just as grey almost everyday
Because no one seemed to care anymore like they used too
One day she thought maybe it was time to wake up
Maybe bring in something beautiful she recently created
It started snowing, scared that no one would think it was beautiful
It was just a light snowfall
She was wrong, the light ice crystals that fell from the sky pleased many
Finally, she felt welcomed by the fellow people
And her heart had felt warm and less alone
She smiled in the winter
Because she felt accepted
(In general I enjoy winter, yes it's quite lonely and well that's me xD but I think it's a beautiful season, don't judge it by
SeasonsH-hi my name is Spring..
people like call me Shy a lot..
im the most calm of all 4..
normally I hate to talk but,
ill bring in a little chat..
sometimes if im not making my drizzle entrance,
ill put up a kite in the breezy sky..
its very peaceful during my time,
maybe even putting some freshly new flowers
while wearing my green wispy dress.
even though me and autumn don't have a lot of time,
ill make sure nature will show who i really am by then..
Hello! The name's Summer!
people love to call me outgoing!
I'm the pretty radical season here guys.
haha yo im not afraid of others,
so I ain't worried of chatting with folks!
ill bring in my sizzling heat entrance (whoops!)
with a friendly atmosphere during my period!
eh ill just put on my Muse hat + sunglasses
along with my epic shirt n' pants
luckily me and winter last for a while
so hopefully the heat and fun will help shows me off!..
*Sigh* oh sorry, im Autumn
the complaining folks calle
winterIt is 21 degrees Fahrenheit outside
and the air shudders in its icy grip:
pine needles frosted in fairy dust
and breath lost in the elegance of silver spiderwebs.
Ice, white and black, coats sidewalks,
sliding dogs' paws out from under their owners
and disappointing children in its solidity;
ponds drip like spoiled milk onto the pelts
of voles burrowed in their homes for the winter.
Harrowed birds flutter and squabble
over the remainder of seeds lost
under a bench by the rats' nest.
They wheel and peck above summer-flung stones
hurled on a day when a different kind of pond froze.
The Smell of Freshly Laid Rainthe smell of freshly laid rain
blossoms as you inhale
it cuts deep
dissolving the headache from
too much caffeine
or too little
it clears your mind
and ignites your sense
as you feel it curling your hair
you open your lungs wide
and breathe deep
and cough as it tickles the
bottom of your chest
buried down below
closing your eyes
you bathe in it
the steam of your breath
screaming to the clouds
your soul is washed
and you are reborn
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