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Literature Text
I notice with a hesitant touch that
the contours of his heart are
made of pollen and petals.
His words are folded inside.
A shudder of spring and antennae
I try to whisper hope into his leaves:
it will coax him from sleep.
Winter had swarmed him and all at once
the buzz in my heart ceased its
desire and became fixated
on the space between
being rooted and setting him free.
the contours of his heart are
made of pollen and petals.
His words are folded inside.
A shudder of spring and antennae
I try to whisper hope into his leaves:
it will coax him from sleep.
Winter had swarmed him and all at once
the buzz in my heart ceased its
desire and became fixated
on the space between
being rooted and setting him free.
Literature
They say the one who prays
They say the one who prays receives much more
than whom we pray for, shaping what we want
to what we get. We find a way to pour
the outcomes into candle molds we can't
have fashioned for ourselves. But then we light
the wax and sniff the scent and call us blessed
by blessings in disguise. For what is right
in contexts so complex we cannot test?
For those who say that praying contradicts
free will or undercuts the will to change
injustice, fine. You have no wax, no wicks,
no blessing and no curse, you are the sage.
I pray to sculpt the candle and the mold
and scent with pity earth and heaven's hold.
Literature
On the nature of the sky
1.
I touch the sky --
greasy fingerprints left on
rainbows and butterflies,
glimpses of the West
torn in pale clouds.
2.
I left my heart somewhere:
in the atmosphere
above heaven but below
the dead zone where float
spacemen and aliens.
3.
I often refer to myself as a
crow,
especially when I notice
dark wings unfolding
and a shadow spreading beneath me.
4.
I see devils drifting on downdrafts,
angels falling from flight,
and my rapture begins --
I rise up through flames until
the storms extinguish me.
5.
I live in a corner of
the astral dimension "Gravity,"
where everything falls and
kisses the earth, leaving my home
empty and dreamless.
Literature
love is coming home--
i don't write about God.
i don't write about God because it's writing about love, it's writing about faith, it's writing about trust and hope and belief and pain, the kind of gut-wrenching betrayal you feel when you've given up and you're waiting for someone to save you, only nobody ever does.
and who else are you going to blame?
it's easy to write about a God you don't believe in. it's easy to pour out all your hate and anger and hurt and deepest, darkest broken fears and fling them from your fingertips and scream, this is not God! it's easy to believe in nothing.
it's not easy to believe.
believing is opening yourself to the pain. it's
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For *somnomollior who is gosh darned lovely.
+ 
= 
She wanted a "short poem about bees and flowers" so I literally wrote this as if I was a bee. Is that weird? No. No it isn't.
You want to know how awful I am? Click here, look at the date. Realize my awfulness.
I support #dALinkSystem!
'Bee on flower' by ~wagoon
+ = She wanted a "short poem about bees and flowers" so I literally wrote this as if I was a bee. Is that weird? No. No it isn't.
You want to know how awful I am? Click here, look at the date. Realize my awfulness.
I support #dALinkSystem!
'Bee on flower' by ~wagoon
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Lovely!!