The triumph of a crack
Vibrating through a bill of satisfaction
Trilling thrilling killing,
I sing because I can,
I sing because I have too,
I sing because there’s nothing left to do.
Vocal chords, like strings braided
Tight then loose, depending where you pull.
flying through the air, the speed,
never travelled at such speed
I am blind. Never mind.
What drills into my head which such
And now that shell, i grew with,
storing everything, i had to make it
is crushed into the shards
for future powder.
Eugh, stop that, that smack,
Wake up, sleeping like a log,
I am tired, stop using me for…
I think but I don’t know,
I’m paralysed, I can’t stop
There’s no crack.
It just goes on and on.
My grandmother lives on the third floor of her limestone apartment building in Beirut, Lebanon. When I was seven, my parents, two sisters, and I lived with her for three months when we vacationed there. In the summer, the air is thick and heavy in Lebanon. The car…
Well written, honest, and a political agenda I can wholeheartedly agree with. A true, touching piece from a talented writer with something on their mind :).
I find more truths in arcade games
than inside my own mind
Because I don’t trust thoughts
When I don’t see the wires they come from.
I write to be, a character,
With a quest set at my feet,
And choices between right and wrong,
Rather than different phases of mediocrity
I type poetry on a PC now,
Because handwriting betrays too much,
And the lines I can’t read between
Smear ink on my left hand
That never fades.
Would it be ungodly if I called myself the Mahdi?
Probably, my light fully outshines my body
Don’t mind me, a zombie
You’re all too frightened to be enlightened
Iron sharpens iron
On the march to Zion
Its in this darkness that stars are brightest
Zeitgeist, I guess
Blessed in this essence…
Read this out loud.
Also, the detail of references in your work never ceases to amaze me :).
What is Bohemia?
They ask in hysteria,
Surely not this?
Will O’ The Whisp,
A meaningless kiss
Salt letters and teeth marks.
Maybe something more,
Maybe none the less,
Stitching crosses in the afterlife
Of hemp and wool.
Where is Bohemia?
They cry and a series of
Fashioned in brass is
The antique way to go.
And the needle’s running slow.
Use the north star instead,
In futurity it’s dead,
Stop running ahead
An orbit moves at it’s own pace.
How is Bohemia?
The absolutely liberated
Life of interrogative.
Dear Tumblr people.
I have indeed been missing (in both adjectival and verbal senses).
I have been working on draft novels, short stories, actual university work and, believe it or not - life, which needs tending once in a while.
I have a week before University kicks off again, and so I’m going to spend much of it scrabbling through my back log of dash and reading your lovely words, perhaps posting some of my own attempts also. Forgive me.
Inbox me with anything you’d wish me to read or just by way of greeting.
I’m scared of the sky tonight because I can’t see the stars.
A torchlight underneath a face that deadens eyes and calls for ghost stories.
Come and hold my hand.
I’ll find poetry in the grooves of a fingerprint and music in the pulse of your wrist.
I’ll feel better then.
I always do.
americanicarus replied to your post: americanicarus replied to your post: Dear aspiring…It is. Though, the trouble comes in people not wanting to be. Or at least… not making an effort to be.
Unfortunately, trouble comes from a lot of things. We just have to grin and
bare write it :)
I’m not afraid of the apocalypse.
Because every day, somewhere in my universe, a star becomes a black hole. It starts slowly, a creeping sand of desert becoming quick and absorbing some train of thought, some hope, some hate, some love, some one some…thing.
It’s okay though, because my unconscious spits it out in a dream somewhere, scattered in a constellation that Ovid never wrote of.
And that’s okay too.
Because call me an optimist, but no thing can be nothing like a star can.
“We’re all dying anyway.” Your eyes were far away but your voice rang clear as a silent goodbye, though creased with time. I could see the pain pleating your skin and the ache shivering in your bones as I shivered alongside you and a cold December night, gazing across a moondrunk lake and a starless sky. I wanted to tell you no, to shake your shoulders and kiss you ‘til our lips forgot their stitching, and our heads began spinning like a planet around a sun that never breaks its promise. I wanted to tell you that we are all living. That we write and we love and we lose, but we are turning with a world that is unbelievably blue, and somehow we still manage to send smiles rippling to our eyes and rhythms ringing in our chests. I wanted to tell you yes, there are things that take our breath away, but I have survived without oxygen before, and underwater is as beautiful as under skin, and I know that’s one place you have been. I wanted to tell you that you are never more alive than when you are aching in every cell of your hope, shaking in the skeleton of your sanity, breaking in the home of your bones- because you are here. you are here and you are fighting like the last flower in winter’s grasp, and God, are your petals beautiful. God, that rhythm in your wrist could be a song, could be the wind in someone’s wings. You are so alive it’s contagious, infectious, delicious. Taste that on the tip of your tongue. Freeze it on a metal pole just to know what letting go feels like.Feel that. Put your palm to your chest, put your fingers between mine, put your hands in your breath- can you feel it? We are infinite. We are beautiful. We are so breathtakingly, death defiantly- alive.
(There are a shitload of crackers in the background, but I really felt like doing this)
Perfect, as usual.
You embody my poetic ideal, my dear.
I love your voice and everything you have to say.
To Float To See