For god’s sake, don’t say what you’re thinking.
49ers panning for gold a few decades too late
A few centuries, a few failures, a few serpents
In the garden: cart up your nuggets of wisdom
And the surveyor scoffs at a barrow of mud.
And maybe it’s good exercise but the mystics
Call it what it is: smut and unrighteousness
On my mind all day long.
Virtue is named in the negative.
Neti, neti. Not this.
Not me, not us, not this life in the dust.
Definition through evasion:
Run the numbers and call it hope.
After all, more dirt in my bucket
Means more gold to strike tomorrow.
Speculate. Dance around it,
Cover the ark of
and thank goodness we wear paths
to our chosen art forms
while we're still young-
reaching adulthood means
carving ruts for ourselves
under the rickety wagon spokes
of convention
and packing them flat,
painstakingly,
soiling the soles
of our wonder-washed feet.
to an education that inspires me
to write in the dark-
you terrify me.
you teach wisdom-
i have none. i spurn companionship
for flattery, a misfit dragon hoarding
fool's gold and plastic compliments,
craving synthetic sweet talk.
you preach justice,
and i wallow in justification
of my excuses, sacrificing truth
to craft perfection by veiling my weakness
in a false, flickering image of meekness,
poverty, and submission.
i have forgotten how to rail.
if there were a gavel to silence the clamoring
of my self-acquittals,
i would be far too weak to sound it.
i am too tremulous,
too soft and unassuming to stand.
you demand a straight bac
regurgitating the past
avoiding the piano
and the refrigerator
one denial after another,
negative, negated, nestled in
love love angst desire:
i live an insufficiently
unexamined life.
a fool ripe for the picking,
the quiver in your fingertips
as you kill an inspiration:
you almost spoke the truth,
didn't you?
but we don't take up the pen
anymore. we take up drinking
and staring at ourselves in the mirror,
at alternate selves in sweatpants
and sultry profiles.
suck in your stomach,
strike out your words.
you sink in small talk,
same as yesterday.
the truth you avoid is nothing
but the pillar that keeps
your cowardly paralyzed spine
u
The world is letting me live again.
It’s unlocked my multi-layered cage and
My winter coat shackles, and I’m
Baking myself until I sweat out all the shivers.
I’m so in love with my friend Spring,
Her swaying air and entreating Sun. I listen.
I bare my shoulders and walk outside.
The weather has always been my bass line
It sets my rhythm, the shrill tones of shivering
When all my cells are imprisoned, rigid
In the ice and the whip of the wind. Winter
Is grating, and I pray for the days when the air
Is soft. I rock to the old-guitar strumming of the wind.
When spring flips the radio dial, I crawl into the sun.
Stretched
The world is letting me live again.
It’s unlocked my cage and
My winter coat shackles, and I’m
Baking myself until I sweat out
All the shivers, and I’m so in love
With the swaying air and the pounding
Sun. The weather has always
Been my bass line, it’s set my rhythm,
And sometimes I’m shivering and
All my cells are imprisoned, rigid
In the ice and the whip of the wind,
But there are days when the air
Is soft and I complete this summer scene,
My optimism and teenage limbs resting
In the embrace of “This is all I ask.”
I only ask to pink shrinking shoulders
In this sidewalk hotplate, forever.
I am n
we've clicked the help button
on the tool bar.
we're the first to admit we're confused.
this morning the council met with a proposal
to replace god.
there have been complaints.
"dear eternity, i'm disillusioned
your god is a single snapshot of deep space
and a soundtrack of silence.
i tried pressing reset.
my old model featured google images,
a personal blog, and a comment section.
yesterday's god had to be recharged.
it was a rough way to be hardwired,
but there was a five-year money-back guarantee
and excuse me, but i'm dissatisfied.
i'm not so sure about redemption,
and i saw it on the news yesterday:
they recalled the golden rule.
it
so narrow, you'll never find my core
the only dimensions i slide through
are "up" and "down."
it's possible to cast one's lots with mindsets
of weeping trees protecting willowy women
from the sun, but it's a letdown when we glimpse
their roots stretched thin,
spoiled by the tears and the muck.
i'll warn you: never satisfy
your creeping desire to peek.
the pounding of faded photographs means little,
because relevance wears down with your own heartbeat.
don't look at me when i'm beautiful.
i'm afraid of the day it gets old.
every goddess has cracks on her pedestal.
i'll never make the transition from life
inside my head,
so it's better t
For god’s sake, don’t say what you’re thinking.
49ers panning for gold a few decades too late
A few centuries, a few failures, a few serpents
In the garden: cart up your nuggets of wisdom
And the surveyor scoffs at a barrow of mud.
And maybe it’s good exercise but the mystics
Call it what it is: smut and unrighteousness
On my mind all day long.
Virtue is named in the negative.
Neti, neti. Not this.
Not me, not us, not this life in the dust.
Definition through evasion:
Run the numbers and call it hope.
After all, more dirt in my bucket
Means more gold to strike tomorrow.
Speculate. Dance around it,
Cover the ark of
and thank goodness we wear paths
to our chosen art forms
while we're still young-
reaching adulthood means
carving ruts for ourselves
under the rickety wagon spokes
of convention
and packing them flat,
painstakingly,
soiling the soles
of our wonder-washed feet.
to an education that inspires me
to write in the dark-
you terrify me.
you teach wisdom-
i have none. i spurn companionship
for flattery, a misfit dragon hoarding
fool's gold and plastic compliments,
craving synthetic sweet talk.
you preach justice,
and i wallow in justification
of my excuses, sacrificing truth
to craft perfection by veiling my weakness
in a false, flickering image of meekness,
poverty, and submission.
i have forgotten how to rail.
if there were a gavel to silence the clamoring
of my self-acquittals,
i would be far too weak to sound it.
i am too tremulous,
too soft and unassuming to stand.
you demand a straight bac
regurgitating the past
avoiding the piano
and the refrigerator
one denial after another,
negative, negated, nestled in
love love angst desire:
i live an insufficiently
unexamined life.
a fool ripe for the picking,
the quiver in your fingertips
as you kill an inspiration:
you almost spoke the truth,
didn't you?
but we don't take up the pen
anymore. we take up drinking
and staring at ourselves in the mirror,
at alternate selves in sweatpants
and sultry profiles.
suck in your stomach,
strike out your words.
you sink in small talk,
same as yesterday.
the truth you avoid is nothing
but the pillar that keeps
your cowardly paralyzed spine
u
The world is letting me live again.
It’s unlocked my multi-layered cage and
My winter coat shackles, and I’m
Baking myself until I sweat out all the shivers.
I’m so in love with my friend Spring,
Her swaying air and entreating Sun. I listen.
I bare my shoulders and walk outside.
The weather has always been my bass line
It sets my rhythm, the shrill tones of shivering
When all my cells are imprisoned, rigid
In the ice and the whip of the wind. Winter
Is grating, and I pray for the days when the air
Is soft. I rock to the old-guitar strumming of the wind.
When spring flips the radio dial, I crawl into the sun.
Stretched
The world is letting me live again.
It’s unlocked my cage and
My winter coat shackles, and I’m
Baking myself until I sweat out
All the shivers, and I’m so in love
With the swaying air and the pounding
Sun. The weather has always
Been my bass line, it’s set my rhythm,
And sometimes I’m shivering and
All my cells are imprisoned, rigid
In the ice and the whip of the wind,
But there are days when the air
Is soft and I complete this summer scene,
My optimism and teenage limbs resting
In the embrace of “This is all I ask.”
I only ask to pink shrinking shoulders
In this sidewalk hotplate, forever.
I am n
we've clicked the help button
on the tool bar.
we're the first to admit we're confused.
this morning the council met with a proposal
to replace god.
there have been complaints.
"dear eternity, i'm disillusioned
your god is a single snapshot of deep space
and a soundtrack of silence.
i tried pressing reset.
my old model featured google images,
a personal blog, and a comment section.
yesterday's god had to be recharged.
it was a rough way to be hardwired,
but there was a five-year money-back guarantee
and excuse me, but i'm dissatisfied.
i'm not so sure about redemption,
and i saw it on the news yesterday:
they recalled the golden rule.
it
so narrow, you'll never find my core
the only dimensions i slide through
are "up" and "down."
it's possible to cast one's lots with mindsets
of weeping trees protecting willowy women
from the sun, but it's a letdown when we glimpse
their roots stretched thin,
spoiled by the tears and the muck.
i'll warn you: never satisfy
your creeping desire to peek.
the pounding of faded photographs means little,
because relevance wears down with your own heartbeat.
don't look at me when i'm beautiful.
i'm afraid of the day it gets old.
every goddess has cracks on her pedestal.
i'll never make the transition from life
inside my head,
so it's better t
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half truths, half lies, half wishes by toxic--sunrise, literature
Literature
half truths, half lies, half wishes
i.
it's like rain in the middle of an ice storm, you can't explain it and you don't know why but that doesn't stop it from happening and freezing your porch- but you don't find out about that part until the next morning when you hurry out because you're already five minutes late and there's going to be traffic and you suddenly go from walking briskly to black to waking and wanting to claw for the covers that aren't there because it's too cold for comfort and you're already two hours late and fuck traffic, what you really need is a warm cup of tea with a splash of something stronger because if your head is going to pound like that, you might a
You have a way of doing this to me. by dietcocaine, journal
You have a way of doing this to me.
Dear A,
It's funny how all it takes is three words from you to spin my world around on its axis and send me flying out of orbit. "I miss you" is your favorite line; you tell it again and again, because you know it will always work.
You don't miss me. You miss having someone around that you can manipulate because it boosts your ego. You'll get bored after a while and do something asshole-ish, I'll get mad and maybe do something spiteful (although I'm trying not to be that sort of person anymore), and we won't talk for a year or two until you're bored and I'm lonely. I miss you, too.
I am entirely unapologetic.
Sincerely Yours,
(such as it
mistaking their uselessness
for immortality
their intelligence
for art
and their obscurity
for authority
they proceed
with their work
to
convince
you
of your own mistake
as well.
things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleep by intricately-ordinary, literature
Literature
things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleep
i
I’m spending most of my time
not crying, and I’m sorry,
but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone
as much as aspirin, or lullabies,
or the cheap wine sold for two dollars a bottle,
or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwards
to make a point of themselves, or the pink petals
blooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,
or the songs named after women
worth loving.
ii
Radical acceptance
is understanding
things may not change,
but you will have to.
iii
I am most alone
surrounded by people
and the buzzing in my head of words
that should have lost their meaning
back when I discovered
they never
add a hundred miles
for every year
between us
find the day
when I can say
that's your best smile
maybe time's just a compass
(and an arrow's accomplice)
and all it's accomplished
is pointing
the way
for a while
i),
The first time I met the girl who started a revolution the sky was throwing down so much rain it felt like we were underwater. It was hard to breathe; and maybe that was because of all the rain, but probably it was because I looked at her face, under this dark red hood, and inside I was a story with all these feelings I could never say. I guess those feelings could only ever become words on paper - words in ink - not the kind I could ever speak aloud to anybody, if only because I couldn't bear for a person to see the look on my face while I remembered. Despite how good it felt - so hopeful, so desperately happy for what it was and could
My juices are for her by Summonaconjurer, literature
Literature
My juices are for her
Your black-laced cleavage looked good,
i hadn't noticed it around your boyfriend before.
the tea used me to talk you up,
created gushy ideas that you were unfulfilled,
because everyone has something left to void.
mellow legs, doused in black glad-wrap,
tinkling up to a sawn-off dress that captures your weight,
and smooths it till it's cupping your breasts,
fully aware of its own self-worth.
I'm brave,
I'm way ahead of the curve.
Poker is for nerds who know how to lie.
she left with three arms
all around her waist
she told me to drink lemon-water
now my teeth are lemons
and my juices are for her
we've clicked the help button
on the tool bar.
we're the first to admit we're confused.
this morning the council met with a proposal
to replace god.
there have been complaints.
"dear eternity, i'm disillusioned
your god is a single snapshot of deep space
and a soundtrack of silence.
i tried pressing reset.
my old model featured google images,
a personal blog, and a comment section.
yesterday's god had to be recharged.
it was a rough way to be hardwired,
but there was a five-year money-back guarantee
and excuse me, but i'm dissatisfied.
i'm not so sure about redemption,
and i saw it on the news yesterday:
they recalled the golden rule.
it
oh, ship. that's how my sister says it.
what if i need to be heard again
introspection: watch me narrate myself off the plank.
images float, saturated in desperate heartbursting meaning.
i breathe in 26 letters,
or drown, and, exhaling, see the light of day.
posterity will enshrine us. our past will enshrine us in light.
hey. how have you been? i've been busy selling out
look at me
oh the golden days when i used to string pretty words together
the hammer behind my words, the terrifying echoes of something immortal, invisible, all-powerful
and then i remember this thing called my voice and you called it unique
i censored it sometimes because it tore shit apart and
now i talk and talk and say nothing at all
but they say i'm pretty
they say
i say
my bird bones say
my phone is a parade of endless monosyllabic conversations
"hey
hey
what's up
not much wbu
same
sweet lol"
every day
every day i meet a progression of people who don't find me intimidating,
ecc