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9.2k · Oct 2015
plastic antiques
touka Oct 2015
cemeteries worn
delicately fall on chests

like grandmother's old necklaces

and inscriptions from headstones
draped in cold bronze

bought and sold, their epitaphs

like grandmother's old word

her lovely verbs

swathed in gold,

and ever were costly rhinestones weaved in

until every meaning to her lovely words were lost.
1.9k · Jan 2018
maladaptation
touka Jan 2018
cold,

I will my eyes to focus
reprimand my dark surroundings
and the many failing lights that sit
just a few yards away
blurry, blue dots
that jut out from the soil
of my neighbors yard
some decoration, I suppose

wet,

I hear the past, present and future collide with a crash
with a few strong voices
who bargain for nothing more than an insight
into each others inevitability

cold,

light flickers back on behind me
and I could kiss it hello
potent and poignant,
I'm so glad you are breathing
maybe that's a little forward, but it's more than power
I still struggle to focus my sight
maybe my ears, however
quiet still could not fall if it had untied shoes

wet, and so cold it's become dull

the ground is malleable, mud and muck sloshing around my pathway
my feet toss the puddles of winter water up and around my ankles
it soaks into my socks
sends a chill that stalks the length of my spine

wet and cold

I meander through the murk, biding it away
I jump onto the sleek black surface, staving off the frigid pains
and lay my head down to hide from sight

my vision is full of black holes

it's lovely, the rain
but not when its best accompaniment is the long silhouette of the house you'd escaped
who would I tell
a few foggy figures latch onto my regard

cells collapse in on their own

my face grows warm and I feel my features contort
a sad scowl appropriate for the situation at hand
tears roar past the dam I'd crafted
but it was dark, no one would see
I was hiding under nightfall
which might sound cool if I didn't mean I was laying on top of an old car crying at 5 in the morning

reborn starving and unconsoled

I still hear a few voices, then a few footsteps that quicken
a pace, a parse, a prying for more
and then a collective quiet
I stiffen, stifle my woes

the bite and the cry as it corrodes the hull

numb creeps in around my skin
especially my feet, the extent of the cold finally settling in
but I wasn't ready

the bigger the bang, the brighter the star

I have a conversation with myself in my head
and not to come off loony
but there are a few things that shouldn't have been said by either parties involved
if you catch my drift

theory tugs at the strings in my heart

a soft gust of January wind strokes the bare skin of my legs
I wonder
I wonder if I could stop if I were to start
and so I wonder and wonder
but it seems the answer isn't quite so mysterious

paradigms practice their weight in the void

I bet an imaginary amount of some imaginary currency
to myself, of course
that if I wasn't able to before, I definitely won't be able to sleep now

the dance of matter and its taunting toy

I hear my name called, footsteps shuffling, offering their warn
a somewhat concerned voice from beyond the beyond
the front door, I mean
out of sight, I freeze, my mouth stuffed full of cotton
half hoping they'll forget I exist for a few
so I can try to compose myself

with the space around it as it threatens tall

however well I could compose myself at this point, anyway
I know I'll be found
I don't want to speak, I'm not sure if I could
when these things happened, my mouth tended to malfunction as much as my spine
so I'd bite my tongue and stand shrinking
my muscles curling into a shaken stir

saturn sleeps, its uninhabitable crawl

a warm blanket, I don't remember the color
I'm brought inside and laid down
and I avoid the hot remnants of some loud, leering summer
the air is thick with it

its air stings my skin, and I hear a song
  ‍    ‍
so this is the weirdest, longest and most intimate poem I've ever done. It also kind of deviates from my usual style
(the italics are a bit glitched out BC of hellopoetry so sorry for that)
1.8k · Nov 2021
Vulcan
touka Nov 2021
a lone something in the sky
flies near, just by mischance
dazed by the smog,
bowing
and diving
downward
into the parting, cracking,
quaking
bellowing of tar
from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps
eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps
of the earth diverging and converging
into the debt of always running clean,
running me
always downward,
as in the deep
deep
tessellations of rock
I become.

too still for my own good,
I guess –
another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of
breath to fill the mosaic
of sinewy
stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone
plating into the deep,
deep,
deeper caverns of the unseen sea
slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention,
as an echo caving downward into  

nothing,

nothing,

more

nothing

polluting the depths from the palisades,
scripture rupturing lowshore into
surrounding tissues like
igneous stone
dreams of clinks ringing,
of noise
a voice
on the ash-flow tuffs
in the always running-clean water
the purity of which I intercept,
the clear-ness of it;
a sinners window.

through what's left,
I see the clam
another mouth for and of the sea
unseen,
the pearl
as unsoiled as ever
1.5k · Jun 2018
interim
touka Jun 2018
the wind is drunk on its liquor

a subtle slurring

lilies stir on the lilt of its voice

as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite

as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat

mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes

I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold

where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos

I am withering
but the wind blows on

whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms

I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder

a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again
it seems so easy for trouble to find me
1.4k · Dec 2017
december 4th:
touka Dec 2017
a mother cooing in tune with her son
elbows rested on the finished mahogany of his crib
as the fever broke through his onesie
like my night sweats
1.4k · Oct 2018
quantum entanglement
touka Oct 2018
tonight,
my shadow settles
in a different corner of the world

and his obscures me
content to hang on my frame
shielding any light from my eyes

faith's grievance -
the gravest sin I'd commit
salt to skin

faith's only albatross -
the bits of faith I'd toss
like Ms. Greenwood's dress
into the darkest parts of New York

like I think of my name
winking into the fixed abyss
indifferent to its prior disguise
when it does not leave the lungs enough

and on the height of my fuss,
inspiration flees
like a sour gust through the city at night
- a hint of death
a tinge of it on my hands

the void I fault for its expanse
promises to snarl his shadow from my shoulder
invites me into its limbo
desperately whines my title

it calls with little confidence,
but I linger to step in
flecks of gray interrupting the black
wafting,
purposeless black

will I?
will I live, wander the world's breadth
with the impetus of two dead legs

or will I become a cry of breath?

I flirt with two dooms,
swinging like a two-phase-moon;
stay, go, stay, go
weighing the whimper of my soul
against brain's drive to die alone
hope - he bends like a lion
like one does to drink
looks into the mirror of my face
he urges; he is thirsty
does so silently
well, I am the stream

who else will drink of me?

as if I am as still and quiet as some water
and I cannot beg access to his lips
for I've none of my own to part
1.3k · Jun 2018
epimetheus
touka Jun 2018
she says I'm too young,
but sadness manifests the same
so I place my broken jaw
back into its broken place

a modern epimetheus
dragging my prudence by the reins
confronted with the trouble that'd been steeping
for years on the fire

and like the ferris wheel that spun every summer
that I lost interest in
as I sloughed more and more of my childhood skin

I look off into the fog, salt and sand
'n the moon perched so highly,
a king in the sky
sending off its armed stars to cut through the night

****** from this nonage fantasy
by the bitter taste of tobacco in my mouth

maybe I can't love anyone

not yet
1.2k · Jun 2018
maravillosa
touka Jun 2018
weak-kneed,
heavy-eyed,
stumbling

I push through the thicket
to the patch of land
where the air is thick
with burnt pine and turmeric
to where the moon sets
spry on the water

I take my legs
and offer them to the strait
my plunge
into the euripus

what use are they
if not to walk
to the nape of hope's neck?

well, then
it is this
I am whelmed
carried off by the cold swell
of adam's ale

then, somewhere
along the river
and its rushing stupor

I hear singing
a voice that rings like clinkstone
and the ecclesiast begins to pull me
a quiet accompaniment
careful quiet, in the night –
such is thievery

subtle, without much grief
take me

for whatever gold I am
whatever glimmer that I could give
burnished of whatever sin
1.2k · Sep 2016
matinée
touka Sep 2016
bed sheets in disarray
in the shadow of the morning bustle
in the rust of the cog
and the rustle, the shaking
the movement of the machine
body rising
blood warm with theine
1.1k · Nov 2021
חמימות
touka Nov 2021
I step outside

just in time, Father

for the leaf to fall from the tree

and the air is much too nipping, and biting,
and apple-pie
for me to hide from it

please, tell me a story,
all about it
about how the world ends and Your foot goes a

"stomp!"

over on the olive mount

and no more doors ever close like
sesame
sesame
sesame
ses—

I go along with things
just as if they are meant to be

and when autumn's chill catches
I hope to have You sewn onto my sleeve

not that I'd ask You to shrink for me
though I know that You would dare to do so,
and have
and prob'ly will again

and I can walk the earth like You
with intention in my feet and it will be so

meant
to
be

when the sun is just an augur
I hope to be sewn onto Your sleeve

and I can drop and fall like an autumn leaf,
and spring up again in the next wind You breathe

You bend down to hear
a calm in the torrential,
praying me a good prayer
unproved to me yet, but I know it

it's inclemence and drafty doors
and hot cinnamon in apple-pie
1.1k · Feb 2019
penrose
touka Feb 2019
a stones throw from freedom

so, I toss
aimless

wear down the wick,
burn into the small hours

til' the sun basks

suppose I dream in absolutes

from the ceiling, a billion petals;
rose consorting with the floor

come to smother me

the sweet balm,
that last-ditch adamance
the last scent on my breath

do I wake in a sweat
with reason to?

waking being my first misstep
walking penrose stairs

I feel it

suppose I pose more premonition
knowing what I might

a hairs breadth

so
aimless

I dream that I touch it
1.1k · Sep 2015
mobile window
touka Sep 2015
atrophy,
sweet heart

tissue, waste and eat

illness;

the taste

call out, body

screaming;

long for precipice

and echo into abyss

cling to low lands

keep still,
sweet heart

sweet beat
and flooring speak
run, lover
888 · Jul 2018
coffeepot
touka Jul 2018
red wine beads at my brow
I wait to wince

poppies dance out in the yard
in the little warmth from seasons since

her feet trail away
the broken magnum at mine

head, heat, blaring haze
scythes at the atlas of my spine

scorn and disgrace
raw and insipid

the sun turns its face
lends whatever light to the wicked

she said she'd put the fear of god in me
but god is not what I fear

not what oppresses my feet
nor the ache of my best years

he does not hang from her tongue
like the prize of her spiced ***

any vestige of will; any spirit, any trace
for any iota of refrain

quashed, quelled
concealed and contained

another fickle whine
another fleeting wish

any mistake I've made is mine
and hers are carried on the wind

she speaks like the end;
the war, and then what's won

no more sour a tend
than to the wounds of what's been done

the world armed to defend;
her foes a heavy sword against a throng so young

infantile infantry
ripened from infancy

what a weapon are my sons

what a kindness she's coughed up
you never are who you think you are for very long –
at least, in my experience.
×
a bus ticket and a brain
844 · Dec 2016
go to bed
touka Dec 2016
lungs lined with poetry

and my mouth

with the ****** sting

and my heart on the upswing

tachycardia's zing
huh
825 · Sep 2015
jilted
touka Sep 2015
his stomach swelled, while his breath sped
from his mouth, sounds like city transport
freight train lungs
and mirror's weight,
and worth in love
body, decrepit
his eyes dilated under pale hospital light
his lungs, burning
lay stale and frigid; a hospital bed's height.
"we began wanting to be embraced
became unable to walk alone"
808 · Mar 2021
fragment
touka Mar 2021
a turn of phrase

I wait and wait
and wait and wait

"an apology you have to request is..."

he doesn't finish his sentence

I wait and wait
and wait and wait
its a lovely quiet
when he decides it is time for it
then he speaks with my mothers tongue
the blood is fresh, the wounds are young
again
760 · Sep 2018
pneuma
touka Sep 2018
that
which is breathed,
and blown

well
do not exhale me a soul

exile me
to the cold

impinging
sinking, stinging
pity

no

be brief;
be terse

without a kindness to me

cast me off;
trade the scald
for the scoff

no mercy

leave

go, love
go and love
at the cost of me
destined, empty
linger, singing
like the limping thrush
caught under the cat tongue
of nicotine
numbing
throbbing
thrashing in the blood
740 · Aug 2016
corundum
touka Aug 2016
steep
soil
landslide
foot slips
and shrieks
fade into quiet
you wake on your side
lungs lined with dirt
on a pile of hyacinths
with no wind to move them
the air, stagnant
no wind to while
the dust of you away
the dust of them away
steep
soil
landslide
into where
your comrades lay
733 · Jul 2018
preta
touka Jul 2018
younger than me
sweeter than I could ever be

what is more lonesome
than the youth
that drags its own wings through the dirt?
what else would I have done?

I've watched hope spring
time and time again
cling its moist roots
to arid land

somehow

as infertile a wild;
some auspice offered
to skin softer than mine

what I'd lost
before they'd begun to gain
bucks buried in the halogen
of the world ahead

and what small sorrow it crows for yet
like a father's shaking hands
before I knew what trembling was

or what such a shaken man begets

or life along the highway line
another cry carried on the air
threatened like road-wandering swine
a frightened feral

what is more uncaring
than childhood fancy –
what is more forgetful of me?

how abrupt has it been
and then to end in collision
flame spiraling, firing off its hot spittle –
the youngest of the few

never quite young enough
"my children left on a cold night
my husband said it's how things go
like rabbits blinded by the light
kids want a better place to grow"
698 · Aug 2014
this means somethin'
touka Aug 2014
A faith to laws;
victim to burdens
and heavy with flaws,
yet sails seas in sleep,
breathing untouched miles,
A life from mans keep
with plentiful isles.
Under in dream, away from toil.
Relief is her coastlines and seagulls,
ebonies and greens,
pastels and neons,

pure to the seam

and whole.
684 · Dec 2015
lacuna
touka Dec 2015
winter;
wrapped in its solstice, and fallen leaves

sleep

arctic;
melting into trees
feral beast amongst forest

its last ears to somber reprise,
and eyes to the death in the land.
nothing can come back.
652 · Jul 2019
pareidolia
touka Jul 2019
here and there

a crackle from the fire

an interruption in July's air

a forcible boom

where I wince until it lessens


but I smile, teeth persimmon orange

like those smoldering flecks of wildflower

that then fail their color, dwindle to the dirt


I picture my ivories falling out of my mouth in the same way

grey and withered


I rise, combust and fall

with these wild roman candles


like cassiopeia


I gaze in her general direction


dragged into the night by the hem of her peplum


I don't care to make out her shape

nor the throne she's tied to

by rope or by chain


her parable pressed into the scaffolding of the sky


a warning; an imposition
like sky-lit lithium
and its retinal imprint


I smile, teeth persimmon orange

turn my face

perception fails in such ways;
in these bold, bright, burning crossettes




I see figures






an arm extends
I̵̧̧̢̡̢̧̢̢̨̡̡̧̛͕̘̪̗̳͍͍̼̝̩̖̠̗̹̭͖̘̘̖̪̱̩̬̺̖̹͎͕̖͍̬̼̜͍̝͚̝̺̙̤̬̪̭̹̙͍͇͍̜͎͎̦͈̪̯̪̱̩̤̦͖̻̞̻̺͖̪͕̠̟̰͈̥̦̪͙͕̖͉͕̖̣̬̬͓̪̜̝͕͇̩̻̝̯̖̳̠͕͕̜̦͉͔̲̯̹͍̙̭̮̟̱̲͚͚̠̹͕̙͔̮͔̞͛͊̅̅̆̍̓̋͗͌̃͒̒͌͊̀̓̽̈́̒̇̋̉̓̕͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ ̷̨̧̡̧̢̢̨̧̡̢̡̨̨̨̡̨̢̧̨̡̡̛̛̛͎̬̻̮̤͇͙͔̤̜͚̞̞̫̠̠̗̭̱͔̜̘͎͔͍͍͈̤̳̠͎̞̘͕̳̭̹̼̬̬̗̖͎͉̠̙̘̦̜̻̣̭͇̙̱͇͇̣̲̹͕̜͔͍͔̪̜̭͖̗̩̺͚̝̗̼̭̫͈̦̜̝̖̲̲̲̝͚̯͖̝̲͇̣͎͇̜̗̩̠͚̰̳̣̗̙̺̺̗̹̠̙̘̘̭̗͖̺̙͎̭̺̣̞͉̤̠̻̲̳̖͇̪̯͚͍̥̘͖̲̼̳͖͇̻̬̬͖̩̭̣̯͎͓̤͎̞͚̱̯͉͇͖̠̣͓̲͍͉́͒̓͗̈́͐̾͗̇̽̀̎̃̓̈́̊̈̆̓͊́͗͐̋͛̿͒̾̑̌̽͂̔͂̄͗̂͐̿̂͆́̍̊̔̎̈́̊̔̀̈̇̇̈̃̐͛̄̽̈̎̊͗̈́͒̅̈́͋͐̑͊̿͐̅̓̀̀͆̇̇͂͌̓͐͌͌͐͌͂͌̀͆̅̌͑͊͗́̀͘̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅf̸̢̢̧̡̢̧̢̨̡̨̧̧̡̧̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̬͚̥̯͎̘̹̫̥̹̥̟͇̘̱͇̱͙̩̰͉͔͖͕͉͓̣̲̲͙͉̯͕̦̤͖̮̼͖̺̮͎̞͈͈̗̦͕̪̮̮̦͕̦̜̭͚͎̙͓͉̗̤̱̼͇̯̩̼̫͓̠̝̱̳̗͈̫̲͉͎̩̟̼͓̘̳̼̭͙̣͔̹͇̰̤͙̻͈̖̙͕̯̠̪̲͔̹̩̬̻̖̬͕̗͉̯͙͔͍̪̳̥͇͖̗̙͖͉̰͇̻̝͙̱̱̯̀̆̈́͋̎͂̂̆̒̽̑̆͂̊̒͌̔͒̈́͑̓̇̆̈́̎̇̐͆̀͂̌̉͒́̄́͋́͊̔͊̉̈́́͌̄̋̿̔̀͒́̈̒͑̾͂͑̋̈́̀̈͂̄̑̑͂̿̀̎̑̂̓̏̎̒̇̑̍͑̄̾͂̿̍̉̇͗̊͐̌̏̆̌̊̾̂͋̌́͋̇̉̂̑͊̓̓̇́̊̒͌̑̈́̈́̍̈́̿̅̐͆̆̎̂̉̉́̎̎̈̾̿̉̅͐͛̀̎̏͌̈́̏͑̔͗̋̀̑̾̾́̃͗̐̀̑̊̏͌̈́̄̕̚͘̕͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅi̷̢̡̨̢̧̛̱̘̬̝̬̺̱̯͎̮̘͇̹̜̱̗̱͇̞͓̝̘̻̥̟̭͓̼͉̳̭̪̩̓̉͋͛̌͛̾͆̽͌̓̈̒͒̓̏̃̍̔̌̆̄́̿̅͂́́̓̏̅͗̾̎̾̄̑̈́̾͂̆̆̀̒̍͆̽̃͂́̈́̍̈́̇̓͋̕͜͠͝ͅn̷̡̢̡̧̛̖̥̲͈̤͉̙̣̮͉̪̤̬̺͍̘̟̹͍̤̮͎̮̯̭̙͉̘̗̯̳̩̠̫̥͔͉̠̠̣͕̦̤͎̹̳̗̺̲̥̝̻͈̗̟̰̟̗͙̱̼̹̬̫̠͚̯͔̞̞̤̹̼̮͕̠̻̙̅̂̏̓̈̍̓̿̈̾͗̈̊̿́̈́̌͑͋̄̀̓̒͛̌͌͐̽͛̽̀̿͛̉̒̏͌̽̄̑͊̃͌̀̈́̿͆̆̓̆̈̓̓͐̀͂̈́́̃̈́̿̂͌̆̊́̈́̾̒̾̈́̊͒͊̉́̊̅̃̽͑̂̀͑̃̎̊̈͆̅͗̇̾̏͊̏̑͛̄̓̈͗̑͌̍̆̈́̉̈̔͑̿̈̑̐͑͗͂͒̾͌̓̉̎̈́̃̑͆̆͊̉́̐̿̑͘̕̕̕̕̕͘̚̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝ͅd̶̨̨̨̢̢̨̨̧̛̛̛̛̛̞̼̩͈̻̖̦̯̠͔̺͙͚̜̠̟̰̱̜̻̝̻͈͙͓̤̞͓͎̳̻͚̣̜̲̱̹̫̄͑̆͆͋͊̓̄̉̇̃̎̏̆̊̃̇̀̇̄͊͒̍͗͗̅̿̋̍̈́́͐̐̀̇̄̆̒̾̒͗̿̈́̎̓͋̐͂̈́̈́̈́̄͐͐̀̄̀̍̆̑̿̎̐͆͂̉̓̂̃́̉̉̍͗̐̇̐͆̒͒̇̽̄̒̐͊̾̎̅̈́̍̾̄̾͑̅̓̀̌̎̍̈́̓͗͆̀̆̒̈́̇̌̀̽́̾̐͌̑̉́̾̄̌͘͘̕͘̕̚͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ ̴̡̢̢̧̨̧̧̨̢̡̢̢̧̡̛̛̣͖̤͓̫̝͖͇͇͓̜̗̟͖͕̹̘͚̗̥̩͙̤̰̠̤̝̰̹̭̗̹͔͍̖̭͔̖̬̥̼̫̯̯̞̠̮̫̮̣͍͕̤͇̜̥̗̗̲̯̫̱͚͙̟̗̹̙̻̘̹̭̮̟̝̲͉̙͔̰͚̠͕̫̭͙̺̘̮͉̮͙̪͍̳͍͕̮̲̮͕̣̩̺̬̜̩̼̫̤̥͙̜͇͚̭̼̗̳̦̘͇̹̟͇̬͔̞̱̺̣̤͚̜̹̼̠̩̫̟̪̲̟̭̫͓̭̗̱̲̻̖̪̻͎̘̟̞̣̬̗̔̽̅͋̉̈́̈́̈̓̓̆̅͊͒̉̇͊͌̉͂̑̏̂̂͋̉͊̽͑͂͗̇̂́͋̎̉̈̅̊̀͑̈́̑̀͐̉̓̆̿̅̅̌̉̏̋̍̓̀͛̅̎̄̓̀̇̀̿̎̏̓͆̂̐͊͆̑͐͑̍̈̈́̒̌̀̀̕͘̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅa̵̧̨̧̛̛̞̘̼̗͎̱̪̯̺̳̰̝̤̼͕͎͎̻̭͔̜̮̫̜̞̭̤̖͔̰̝̳̼̪̭̘̠͉̮͇̹͔̻͈̺̹̠̰̭̳̻͈̭̱̺̣̤̘̥̘̦͈̤̫̘̺̟̮̬̼̫̯͍̞͛͂́́͒͋͊̃͆̈́̔̀̑̆́͒̒̐̉̿͋́̂̓͂̐̆̈́̈́̃̀̒̆͂͒̿̿̋́̽̍̓̑̿̈́͒̽̀̽̇̾̇̽̃̇͑̋́̈̋̇̉̽͋̐͛̿̄̈́̽̈̋͆̓̈́̏̓͛̂̉͐̾̃͑̆̄̽̏̑̂́̐͑̒͊̀̈́̾̐̉̊̀̔̍̎̀͆̃͂͑̏̓̓͆̏̇͑͆̋͛͆̀̌̇̐̓͐̎͗̌̊̔̏̒͗̂̓̀̂͘̕̕̕̚̕͘̚͘̕͘̚̕͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͠ͅ ̸̢̡̢̧̧̧̧̨̨͙̰̙̙̪̗̻͎͇̱̱̩̩̜̞̣̩̠̪̝͖͓̥̠̭̪̖͙̱̘̞̦̟͚̤̝̖͖̺̜̥͚̲̤̫̖͖͚̤̻̳̭͔̗̩̟̬̲͚͔̦̘̪̩͓͖̠͍̩͖̜͈͇͓͉̲̟̮̝̭͍̼̩̙̘̗̩̙̠̞̗̻̲̬̹̯̩̲̹̘̩͉̗̲̰̦̼̙͓̭̘̼̺͈̤̝̃̽̈̑́̈́̆́̀̇̃̒͊̋͌̑͛̊͒̔̉͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠ẃ̶̨̧̨̨̧̢̛̘̮̣̪̥̤̪͓̙̼̹̝͙̣̞̙͖͖̳͚̦̘͚̟͙͚̙̜͍͇̦̘̬̭̩̼̯̲̙̜̰̦͍͕̱̜̖̬͙̰̜̦̗͙̫͖̣͙͔̘̞̝͓͎̞͉̭͍̮̫̜̻͙̱̟̝̞͙͈͔͓͓̬̻̓̀̔̒̃̇̄̏̂̃̒̐̀̈́̽̅̾̈́̾̽͆̔́̉̓̋̈̇̾͊̐̊̑͗̾̌͛͊̎̓̎͋͌́̓͛̂̐̇͋̂͌̿́́̊̈́̌̔̐͊̏̽̈́̆̓̓̏́̃̏̾̇̅̈́͌̂̆̒͒̈́̇̆̍̒̔̊͐̓̒́̔̏͑͒̈͂́̈́̊̆̊̉͆͊̌̅͌̂̃͗͊̈́̓̈̀̔̍͌̍̈͒̔̍̽͐͛͒̈́͛̋͗̔͑̐̎͑̏͌̕͘̚̕̚͘̚̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅa̷̢͕̰͖̖̩̺̫̭̣̹̩̤͆̀̒̃̂̑̈́̃̄͘̚͝͝ͅr̶̢̧̡̢̡̡̛̛̘͕͖̯̫͎͙̯̻̜̙̫̲̙̙̣̳̱̮̬͈͓̮̳͕͖̭̙̟̫͓̝͚̫̥͕̩̤̤̬̝̱͈͙̱̻̲̤̗̺͕̼͍̟̠͚̖̦̝̠̼̗͉̹̪̺̹̬̗̗̩̲̥̥̤̞̪̹̳̥͙̩̖̹͖͇̮̝̞̮̤̳̰͓̻͓̻̳͔͖̖͍̻̤͇͕͇̅̿̏̓̽̂́̀̀̊̓͑̅̽́̿͂̒̆̇̄̈̽̀͆͗͋̔̽̇̈́̾̽̈́̿͂͑̔̓͑͆͌̾́̿͐̂̋̑̇̌͌̒̍̈̾̒̂̃͐̃̿̏̀̍̌͐͑͑̅͛́̅͊̔̾̏̈́͆̎̃̀̑́͐̉̀̾͂̏̈́̈́̏̔̔̓̓͆͘̚͘̕͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅm̵̡̛̼̫̖͍͓̱̬̰̣̺͔̠̣̤̱̞̲̌͂̆͊̃̀̏̊́̍͂͗̆̎̀̿̓̋́̃̌̐̆̑̈́̇̃̋̊̐̈́̊̔̊̈́̀̀͑͗̍͑̐̓͗̔̊̾̒̏͛̿͗́͛̄̎̅̐͛́̎̂̔̽̂̎́̐͐̾̓̏́̉̽̈̄͐̋̈́͗̿̎̉̽͑̌̓̈̒̑̿̅̓̓̎́̒̄͌̒̌̃͒̾̀̒̽̋̄̽̔͒͑̒̍̌͆͒͑͐̍̆̈́͑͗̃̔̐̊͑͆̀̀͂̆̃͌̿̐̉̀̾̃͆̓̈́͊͗̀͛̈̀̾̐̈̊͗̌̈́̎͌̀̚͘̚̚̚̚̚̕̕̕̕̚͘͜͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅ ̷̡̛̛̼̲̺̭͖̹̭̗͔̼̼̺̠̱̳̗͚͉͌̿͐̓̃̄̾̌͌̑̎͊̈̂̋̒̀̽͌͛̔́͐̀̐̃͛̾̈́͛̔̋̀̈́͒͆̎͌̌̂̔̄̈̈́͆̎͗͌̏̋̀̂͒̉͊̐̄̽̈́̏̆̆̐̄́̄͒̒̍̂̆͑͛̎̒́̐̿̋̍̅͂̓̅̀̿͋̃̉͊̿̚͘͘̕̕̕̕̚͘͘͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅş̴̢̛̛̛̛̛̞̱̗̳̭̯̬̻̟̬̻̰̙̮̬͇͚̬͙͍̦̟̮̺̹̤̬͔͕͎̦̥̝͉̳̅̎̒̉̅̋̓͑̂̉̅̋̔̑̔͗̿͗̎̈́̅̉͑̿̏̈́̌̐̍̆̀̄̈́̒̽͊́̋͑͒͌̀͗͒̊͐̒̐́́̄̐́͂́́̀̆͋̈́̄̓̒̌͊̀̊̿̌̌̓̀̐̀̈́͗̅̆̊̅͆̊̒̈́̉̀̃̿̓͌̃́̊͊͌̇̄̊̀̏̾̆̔͛͗̽̃͐̀͐̀̈́̅́̐̄̌̈́́̏̃͒̀̔̿̈̓̋́̉̾̊̿̎͒̀̌̈̇̿̋͂́́͒̓̊̓̌͛̆̏͌̄̓̿͑̃̉́͂͂̏̆̅̇́͑̓̉̚̚̚̚͘͘̚̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅp̸̧̢̧̧̧̨̧̧̧̡̡̧̡̧̢̨̡̛̛̛̛̫͓̟͙̯͔̣̘̯̯̮̯̜̼̝̙̪̮̤̙̙̫͇̟͈̙͉̪͚̖̰̞̜̟̥͓̻͉̱̼̺̖̱̝͚̼̬̥͉̮̱̟͎̼̠̮͎͙̹̙͔͇̝̲͕̥̫̙͙̩͉̫̫̺̤͖̞͙͉̫͉̰̫͔͖̳̠̙̻͈̟̰͉̪͎̤̭̲͓̲̲̥͓̣̲̞̭͉͓̠̼̰͈̤̙͖̣̳͔̦͓̯͉͇̱͉͚̹͚̥̰̪̘̈́̄̈͂̓͋͌̌̑̔̊̾̈́̃̍͌̌̆̊̀̽́̒͛̇̀̋̀̑̀̂͆͋͐͛̈́͛̈̾͊͛̔̃̽̑͛́̇̎̇̀̔̎́̿͑̉̾̋͗͗̊͆̆̈́̋͑̑̾̎̈́͒̏̍͆̉̆̉̀͆̉̄̏͑̈́̽̋͌͛͑͑̆̿̇̈́̌̈́̿̍̾̉͊͛̄̈̈́̇̽̇̄͊͆͆͗̌̒̾̈̂͊͑̀̌̓̚̕͘͘̕͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅǫ̴̧̨̛̛̛̫͔̠̺̯̥͈͎͈̞̙͎͓͎̠̺̻̻̣͈͖̲̲̱̞̬̜̲̯͎̖͈͖̗̲̖̯̩̟̯̠͔̪̒͂͌́̀̾̌͑̒̃͂̔̓̆͗̔̎̀̔́͊̿͒͆̀͛͋͒͑͛͌̑̂̉̑̉͊̎̓́͋̾̋̆̈́̓̀͒́̊͂̈́͐̈́̆̆͂̈̎͋̍͌̆̉̆̎͋̋̋̓̎̌̆̇̋̕͘̕̕͜͝͠͝͝͝t̶̨̡̡̡̨̢̧̡̢̢̨̛̛̛̛̗̣̘͉͇̠̲̳̺̹̩̱̺̫͉̫̱̣̻̹̻̼͔̜̼̟̖̟̠͍̲͉͎͚͚͇̮̰̱͚͇͓̞̻̭̱͖̫͕͚̱͕͎̰̫̼̣͕͔̩̙̰̻̙̲͙̠͖͈̲̜̞̫̮̙̤̫̱͇̬̞̩̼͇͉͉͎͔̙̪̩̫̞̬̪̱̠̯̩̮̗͎̬͉̺̰̯̣̯͚̗͕̐̆̀̋̇̀̆̅̋̅͌̈͐̀͂́̇̒͆̏́̑̂̉͐̎́̾́̓͋̑̑̆͐͐̽̾̄̆̓̿̊̒̉̌̔̓̂͆̓̈́̔͆͗̏́̊͛̒̍̄̀̃̎̅̋͂̍̀̉͒̀̾̈́͐̾͆̑̎̈̎̾̄͗̃̅͋͌͂̌͊͛̉͐͆̀̇̉̉̽̅̏̏̔̀̋̔̐̉͑̂̀̂͑̈́́͛̓͐͋̐̿̽̇̌͂̒̐͆̂̽͊̽̎͑͆̈́̽͌̎͗̇̓͆̔̋͗̓̅̀̏́̌̀̔͗̿̀̓́̑̍̈́̒̃̋͑̎̀̎̊̓̾̕̚̚̕͘̕̚̕̚̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅ ̷̧̡̨̢̧̛̛̹̜̼̪͎͇͕̖͉̪̺̩̠̠̼̫͚͎̳͓̟͈̙̳͖̼̟̰͚̰̬͇̮̹͑̈́͗̓͛̊̓̽̐͊̄͐̔̉̀̓͋͛͋́͊̒͊́̽̌̅̈̉̽̏͒̄̑́̒̔̅́̓͌̌͋̀̽͆̓͂̋͒͒̇̒̽̊̈́̓̓̓̑̋̄̔̌͛̾̀̎͑̓̿̃̾͆̀̎̔̊̆͑͂̔͌̌́̓͂̊̐̓̃͆̋̏̃̆̈́͂͛͐̀͆̂́̋̔̉̐̈̐͐͂̈́̈͗̽͆͐̿͗̎͛̈́̎̽̋̅͘͘̕̕̕͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅį̶̧̧̢̢̡̨̨̢̢̡̧̨̛̝̣͈͓̮͍͍̦̲͇̯͚̞̤͓̜̲̱̯̙̞̰̺̳̠̲̭̙̗̩͔͈̠̖͙̱̙̙͖̻̗̳̳̜̙͍̯̩̥̼͕͇͉̣̩̦̩͍̪̤̜̩̩̠̲̤͇͉͔̜̮̜͍͕͔͙͔͓̣̬͉̻̠͙̤͍̖̤̲̫̗̲͙̆̋͐̊̈́̋̾̂͆̾̈́̐̀͑͌̊̍̀͋̿͆̇̆̓͗͂̇͛̽̉̊̃̂͋͑̐̆͛͆̓̈́́̋̂̀͆̂̋̿̈̂̎̀̒̈́̾̇̓̊̑̂̿͌̾̎̇͗̎̆͂͗̃̓͆̊̀̂͗̽͐̏͂͋̔̈̏͑̄̆̉̿̊͛̋́̏́͊̃̐̑͌̍̋͊̍͂̈́̔́̉̆͗͒̈͛̓̅͌̊͑̽̿̊̆̆̅̊́͋̾̌͒̔̔́͐̾͒̆͐̎̎̈́͐̈́̔̿̕͘̚̕͘̚̚̕̚̚̕̕͘͘͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅn̵̨̢̨̧̡̢̛̦̥͙̰̲̬͓̥͓͙͓͕͉̫͍̖̹̗̠͈̙̱̳͉̰̲̹̘͙͕̣̮̣͓̰̘̫̝͇̤͚͎͕͉̫͔͇̹̫͙̜̰̮̗̙̺͇̪̲̬̺̪̦̤͈̪̞̙̬̮̝̭̠̹̳̟̯̣̠̻̹̫̳̺͇̱̲̠̳̰̳͊̓͐͌̓̈̾̽̍̅͗͐̋̌͊̒̓͗̂̎̊̓͛́̓̈͑̂̾̈́̋̑̓͒́̚͘͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̡̡̨̧̛͈̱͓͇̳̱̘̥͕͈̘͓͇͈͔̭̱̝̪̱̬͈̼̰̗͚̯̫̘̘̫͙͎̮͕̩̯̩̟̭̟̮̯̭̜͈̳̯̝͚̫̫̮̯̠͈̣͇̗̰̩̘̩͙̺̜͕̖̼̺̥͍͎̬̳̝̥̼͙͉̎́́͐̎̑͐̍̇̄́̑͛͂͂̈̎̌͆̋̒̈́̇͋̃̌̊́̅̇̅͋̃̊̒̐̒͒̌̽̈́͌̈́̐̓̍͊̐͛̌̈́̀́̔̈́̾̿̀̓̊̉̽̏̈́͘̕̕͘͘͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅţ̶̨̧̡̡̡̡̢̧̢̥͈̼͎͕̞͎̞͖̘͓͎̠̣͍̟̝̠͈̥̰̗͍͚͇̭̦̭̞̯̜̳̼̖͚̦̩̜̠͍̳͙̳͈͖͖͇̞̳̰̦̣̺̺͔̖̠͓͙̩͚̟̠̗̟̬̙̺̲͎͚̮͕̜̤̥̫͙̣͔͇̣͙̪͈͚͔̥̮̗͕͖͙̝͙͎̱̙̣̆̌́̃̾̈́̈̊̓͗̍̽̉̃̿̾̊͊͒́̉̈̔̐̀̋̅̾́̑̍̾̑̄͋̑̈́͋̅̀̒͂͗̄̆̒̈́͑̐̅̒̐͆̀̉̓̄̈̔̐̂̑̂̃̆̑̾̌̆̈́̈́̆̎̿́̈͆͌̆̍͐̑̈́͒̇̈́͒̓̒̑̿̅̈́̓̐̓̎̄̒̀͆͂͌̆͐̉̋͋̎̄̈́̂͒̀̑͌̅̈́̽͒̊̋̌̈́̇̽̉͊̓̽͘̚͘̕͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͠͠ͅḩ̶̢̢̧̨̡̢̧̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̱̪͓͙̤͓͉͎̠͇͙̱̣̝͙̳̫̖͕̜̯̝̖͔̼͔̘͈̗̘͎̗͇̳̮̲̹͎̗͇͍͎̮̣̣͍̱̰͖̱͙̞̻͖̭̥̙͕̬͎̮̼̗̣̠͉̱͔̟̠͉͕͔̬̮͕̝̦̘̤̩͔̱̲̫̹̯̘͈̥̳͉̼͉̖͓̳̱̬̗͚̦͖̞̦̘͓̗̫̲̫͉̹͎̳̫͉̙̥̰̰͔͕͎̙͉̙̦̖̊̀̂̾̆̃́͊̐͆͊͆͋̈́̌͒͂̒̈́̈́͑͂̓̀͒̎̅̒̊̅̉̽̈́́̐̅̒̓͆̌́̇̃̉̀̏̐̓̊͂͒́̈́́͛͛̍͌̆̂̀̃̒̌̒̐͌̄̄̀̾̒̍̌̋̑̀̈́̌̓̽̌̾̏̑̊̀̽̍̔̿̏͋͛̈́̋͛̂͒̈̏͐̿́͐̍̍̄̓̆͋̐̔̇̈̓̊͆͐̎̌͊̋̆̒̾̉̕̕̕͘̕̕͘͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅe̵̛̛̛̛̤̒́̋̽̂̊̽̃͆̉̀̇̂͂͑͊̈̀́͐͋̉̽͆͋͐̌̂͛͑̈́̑̒̔̈́̈́̆̇͆͆̓̈́̆̆̒̎͗̈́̓̈̔̋̅̀̌̄̓̎̈́̎̈̒̄͛̋̑̽̍̽̈́̋̄͌͐̎͌́̃͑̿̾͒̃̒͊̓̑̔̑̀̐̀̏̈̏̅̄͐̀̓̓̂̓̆͑̃̏͛̇̔̀̊̃͐͂́̀̕͘̚̕͘̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝ ̶̧̧̢̛̛̥̠̳̫̝̳̭̞̟͎̯̥̠̹͕͕͇̮̻͓̙̻̼̤̙̳̤̩͑͌̿̂̉̑̋̎̎͑̓́͂̏̀̾̊̊͌̔̂́́̏̋̆͋̄̊̀̒̏̄̉̈́͑̄̃́̌̊̌͆̉͑̊́̐̑̃͋̈́̊͆͂̇̓̋͂͋͂͘͘͘̕͝͠͝͠͠ͅś̷̨̡̢̡̧̨̛̛̛̛͍̺̲̖̮̗͕͕̫̻͎̩͖͖̣͔̪͕̘̮͚͕͈͓̩̝̦̩̱̗̭͇͎͇̻̗̙̳͖͚͈̯̮̱͙̺̮͍͎̹̙̼̠̞̞̦͛͑͐͂̀̓̀̒͑̅́̔́̍̾̀́̓̽̃̌͊̽̋̔͂̋́̿́͑̀́̍̍̔͆̌̅̇̇̀̊́͆̿̽̉̇̌̂̑̀̉͊̅̋̃̽̌͗͐̆͒̀̈́̊̾̀̐̍̈̓͐̾͊͌̐͘̕͘̕͘̚̕̕͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͠ư̶̡̢̧̢̧̢̨̧̨̡̢̢̢̧̡̢̢̡̢̛̛̻̞̝̬͙͚̟̤͇̗̰̤͕͔̹̩̯̞͙̰͚̹̯̠̪̺̖̟̹͓̘̞̣͖͇̮̘̱̳̹̗̮̗͇̼̪̖͉̱̙̺͕̟̥̮̟̳͖̫̯̟͙̟̮͉̲̳̹̖̲͉̙̼̤͍͖͙͉̼͉̟̰̖̩̺̼̱͔͔̼̯͉̩̝̳̦͔̰̹̖̝̫̠̲̹̥͖̰̦͔̤̦̪̠̱̖̲͍̞̲͎̠̣͔͙̘̰͈̣̼͉̻͓̼̪̲̜͉͂̒̓̓̓̃͒͊̎̈́̅̂̽́̈́͂͋̂̐͂̀͐̓̀͊́̄̓̇̾̆͌̀̐͆̈́̏̀̓̓̎͛̿́͌͌̔͘͘͜͜ͅͅn̷̡̧̛̛̮̮̯̯̤͕͎̯̳͔̟̗͎̪̦̟̩̫̫͔̺̠͓̱̣̹̮̔͑̈̏̈́͋͛̍͗̈́͑͗͆̆͐͛̑̆̓̃̆͊̔̍̃̽̀̅̆̈́̀̉̍̅́̈́̈́̓̈́̈̌́̓͗̍̐́͆̑̑̉͐̆̈̍̅̐͋̈͘̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠
̵̢̢̨̨̧̢̧̨̡̨̧̨̡̡̡̢̢̧̢̡̛̛͙̙͔̬̘̳̜͔̻̮̪̣͓͙̗̦̙̠̮͇͕̖̫̗͔͇̬̪̹̩̪̖̘̘̣̺̼͙̩̤͇̳̲̖̯̩̻͎̭̭̰̪͍̺̳͖̫̫̥̼͓̲̘͕̺̳̩̠̬̥̲̫̘̟̗͙̱̟̤̘̦̹̦͎̞̭͕̥̮̤͇͖͙̬̻̞͚͔͙̘̳̺̭͕̳̗̮̩̫̰̻̭̱͓̤̪̭̺̲̠̦͎̣̬̗̲̹͓̭͕́͑͒͂̽̌̀́̏̂̌͊̈́̀́̋̈́͌̅̆̏̌̀̅͗͊̓̋̌̐̊͊̈́͋̌̐͒̿͐̃̍͌͒̅̿̑̾͛͐̐̀̈́́̽̈́̆̂͌̽̉̈̀̆͆͐͂̑͆̾̅́͂̆̓̈̏̊̒̓̎͑́̀̽̆̽̎͆̒̃̈́̆̄̈́̊̀̓̎͐̆̔̈̓̊̂̓̍̑͒̐̐̐̒͘̕̚̕̕̚̕̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠
̶̡̡̡̢̢̡̡̡̧̨̡̨̧̡̧̨̢̢̡̨̨̛̛̱̬͉̝̠͕̻͎̰͔͔͉̳̫̝̮̼̞̩͔̯̱̩̥͙͎̱͎̠̼͈̝͚̦̱̞͉̣͎͚̞̞̱̹̜̭̪̪̫̟̺̥̭̞̲̠̦͚̪̠̖͔̱̼͙̙̬̩̮͈̮̞̯̤̱̣͕̠͕̣̝͙̼̺̲̮̬̼̯̥̪͕̞̪̼̙̯͓̠͓̥̫̮̤͎̭̟̭̼̳̘͓̯̦͈̱͕͖̭̠͔͉̫̫̦̻͙̩̲̰̜͇͈̱̭̘̝͚̭̩̝̫̪̝̣͙͙͉͉̯̩̖͍̘͓̎̑̐̑̎̋͋̂̔̄̅́̊̏̈́͗̐͐͗̐͐̓̃̌̑́͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̵̧̡̧̧̨̢̡͈̻͈͙͔̭͎͇̥̱̪̭͖͇̦̣͔͖̘̼̭̙͓̭̫͚̩͔̰̘̭̫͓͍̼͈̬̦̗̺̤̜͔̹̤͓̘̹̥̩̦̦͇̻̩̿̍̈́̅͑̏͌̄͛͋̽͛͐̎̉͗͗̋̾͒̒͌͐̚͘͠͠͝͠t̶̨̨̢̧̩̦̰̖͇̞̲̫̺͔̝͉̜͇̼̲͎̪̫͕͙͙̺̫̼̥̠̦͙̦͍̣̖̤̰̞͔̣͎̫͖̥̎̈́́̌͛̀͗̈́͊͆̒̄̂͑͐̽͛̉͆̃̀̊̒́̈̈́̀͌̏̾̽̀͛͑̏̄͐̂̓̈́̓̽́̀͊͗̉̾̀͊̈́͂́̃̿̂͂̿̒̆̽͒͗̊̀̓͛͐̌̕͘̚̕̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝ͅ ̴̢̨̨̛̛̫͇̱͙͍͍͓͎͔̣̤̤̖̗͓̭͈̺̦̻̱̻̅͌͂͆̈̊̉̆̅́̿̃̒̂̈́̌̅̈́͛̍̒͑͆̉͗͂̋͂́̈́͆͌̿̿̓̊̈́̊̈̑̎͐̑̽͐̏̑̈́͆̋̇̓̄́̈̐́̀̎͌̋̐̅̃̄̎̇͂̑̓̍̄̚̕͘̚̕̚͝͝͠͝͠͝͝ͅș̶̢̡̨̻̹̱͈̮̬͉̣͕̼̤͓̺͎̒̆̑̎̈͛̇͒̎͛͊̏́̉͋̀̓̒̓̅͜͝e̵̢̨̡̧̡̢̧̡̡̨̧̡̝̰͓͖͚̮̱̬͈̟̻̭͎͚̜͈̣̫̤͙̣͓͍̩̼̻̭̖̜̺̭̱̺̮͈͓̬̺̰̺̳̞̪͍̠̘̺̞͓̙̖͉̩̫̗̮̘͙̱̺̥̞͖̖̟̱̯̳͎̮͍̩͎̭͇̰̪̺̤͍̭͔̬̻͚̹̪̟̺͓̱͙̹̫͖̙͙̙̰̺̠̪͍̬͈̖̻͎͙̤̻̳̻̱̥͈̤̩̮̞͎̲͖͈͕͙̥͔͖͈̖͖̦̪̼̟̙̻̻̫̙̝̬̯̻̭̘̜̻̤̭͔͍̗͈̝̜̻͈̻͖͙̗̣͉̣͖͖̖̬͈͓̖͚̣̬̓̓̐̀̑̍̉̒͋̓̓̅̆̈́͐́̈́̓͛̈́́̐́͂̑͗̒͌̄͆͋̀̀͛̐̌͗̓̐̐̿̍̈́̆͋͛̈͋͐͒̈́͒͑̅͊̂͋͌̂͑̇̈́̽̀̓̊́̓̂̕̕̚̚̚̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͠͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅţ̷͉̙̬͕̗͍̤̯͉̈́̊̍̏̒̅͂̔̆̿̎͆̎̇͋͘͘͠͠ś̸̡̧̧̛̛̛̙̜̺̜̣̪̜̬̲͇͉̪̰̘͍̖̣̩̤̯͇̜͙̳̲̳̯̬̫̹̝̫͇̙̟̙͈͕̣̱̯̮̲͈̹̩͔̲͕̫̤̦͙̮̺̗̠̜̦̭̺̩̭̲͉̜͙̙̬̭̦̬̥͔̗̩͕̟̩͊͌͑̄͐̔̈̂̑̇̑͋̓̀͌̾̔̀͑͆̄̍͊͑͐̒̽̒͋̀̉̽͊̉̆̾̊͋̾̈̒̏̀̎̌̒̆̄̔̇̂͒̿̏̈̎̃̅͆̍̃͂̊̎́̍̾̍̓̐͛̋̓̒̅̊̃͐͒̈́̇̅̈́̓̃̑̀͊̉̋̇̽̒́̓̆̀̔͐̕͘̚̕̕͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠
647 · Nov 2018
hexis
touka Nov 2018
I̫ ̰̻̥̯̰̖̰w̖̤̗̞a̮͚͚̜̹͓n̪͙ͅt̤̭ ̳͍̝͍̰m͓̠y̗ ̯̭̝͎̱̲d͎̼̙̺a̭͈ṳ̺g̦͕͙̠h̲̫̯̩̱t̗͉͚͚̲e̺͔̤̮r̪̲̟̱̭ ͔ba͎c̯k͉̗͖
̭̠̣͍
̜I̗̜ ̰̼̳̥̻̙̹w̳͕̞͚̭̠a̟̠͍̲̦̜̝n̯͖̹̙̦̝̝t͚̙̙ ̦͎͈h͈e̜͚r̯̰͇̦̝,̠̖̞
̪̖̼͈s̫̜he͖ ̣̹w̥a̘̱̯̯s̗ͅ ̤̯͇̖ṣ̩we̱̭̦̭̜̩ͅe̟̩̳͙̝ͅt̪ ̖͇̱̳̪a̲͕̝͈n̠̺̲̬ͅd͚͕̫̪̘̳͇
̞͎͓̣͚̝͚ ̮̜̖ ̩̦̹̞̫̼͈ ̻̠̮̠ ̜̠̼̹͍͍͕k̰͖i̜n͇d̖̦
̥̟̼͇̮ḁ͖̤͓͇͖ͅn̳͉̱̹͕̰̗d̪̻̮̰
͇̜͚̜̮͓̥ ̜͈̭̘͔ ̞n͉͙o͕͔̦͈t̙̯̻̭̱̝ ͖͓̙l̮̳̣͙̞̙i͉͖̱͍͚̥̠ke̖ ̗̩͎̤̪y͖͇̼̯ou̗̬
͖̙̱͓̯̰I̹̺̗̻̼̲̫ ͕͕w̰̳̥̜a͚̯n̩t ̩̺̥͖̤̘h͖͉͖e̖̳͈͙͕̬r̝͓͖ ͇̻̱̖̝b̩a͔̻͇ck̺


I'll send a missive
a parcel, haplessly packaged
by these bumbling, cloddy digits

fill it with frailties
objet d'art of mine
my careful reminiscence

de anima
I will slice
like slivers of gold

pour in my intellect
places, names, things, phrases
I was sure I would forget

I'll synopsize my soul

throw it in a box,
carted off and off

until I'm set on the doorstep
an ogle and a gaze-in
at my what and whatnot

no return address
641 · Sep 2014
winter cold, you're here.
touka Sep 2014
Breathe it out;
a sigh tossed through a wind
struggling and bending;
rustling fruitless treetops,
and turning dead leaves with roars.

A collision of warmth against cold.
640 · Aug 2014
cravens writing
touka Aug 2014
oleander pale
in love with the scarlet
ardent against the gale

empty walls
chipping their paint
arms of war
had settled stains

tinderbox broken
for a half-assed light
baneful prayers
and their volume's height

artlessly, the breathings
of a craven deep in night.
panic attacks,
and whatever else my fingers dreamed up.
606 · Oct 2019
archipelago
touka Oct 2019
when you are waiting
as passive as the glass you drink from
calcined, corralled
into your adequate shape

stand,
skin of your temples limned
by fluorescent,
until your legs ache
and while you are waiting
biding your time until they lift their heads

every disparate form you've taken

sends off their own light
a wild sunbeam toward each coast
broad, bolder-*****
your spine the rock entrenched here, there, wherever

those loafers become one with the floor
melt into it, you
the offshoot of spit
from a rallying cry;
the last good drop of Pentecost
pooling into the terrazzo
591 · Oct 2018
facultative love
touka Oct 2018
"it's between the world, or me."

I drop the gun at my feet,
drop to my knees

and the sun swallows the earth up.
575 · Oct 2017
cloudburst
touka Oct 2017
and without much provocation
the cloud burst overhead, lent so weary to its own weight
the small boy froze, gripping the handle of someone else's umbrella so tightly that his knuckles turned white, quietly trying to assure himself that he could survive
until the rain would calm to a gentler drizzle
though, that was not the case as soon as imagined, as the heavy pour droned on amaranthine, despite best hopes and wishes, and the soft, shaken murmurs of a song pleading it to retire for... some indefinite amount of time
so he settled under a nearby storefront, sitting damp and cold,
biting his fingernails and tensing as he waited for the sobering flashes, the booming clacks of spring thunder that were sure to round the horizon as the storm made its way, and...
crash! bam!
he quickly lowered his head, recoiling and pulling his knees to his chest.
he supposed this was it, this was how he would die.
crash! bam!
he let out a low sob
and in a single moment, quite like the faint visions of life played out tauntingly in front of eyes in the moments just before death,
he recalled kicking his brother and making him cry
he recalled taking the juice box and not saying "thank you"
and he recalled affirming to his mom, after her rigid instruction, that, yes, he would be back before it would start to rain.
who used to be afraid of thunderstorms
575 · Mar 2019
spinn‍ing plates ‍
touka Mar 2019
‍  
thoughts pour
spill from their borders
swarm their predestined portion

"and I make them wait."

memory crawls my throat
makes itself known on my tongue
climbs into the labyrinth of my ears
bursts through the drum

and it is gone
   ‍      ‍  
 ‍
I am not a child

all the cars slow
to a rolling stop

where I lay,
fine-combing the dirt with my lashes

I've done it again

erected the edifice of my life
on the air from her lips

and when her gusts are wild,
I wish I was never born

but I am not a child

wheels appulse on the tar
inches from my tender head

I don't want to go home

I don't
575 · Jun 2016
désespéré
touka Jun 2016
he took a draw of his cigarette,
he breathed it in
some pure catharsis
the smoke pulled,
he coughed
some cheap tobacco
he was as stale as the cigarettes he choked down
he reeks. of some corner. some alleyway. some one-night stand. some one-night stand IN an alleyway. you can't pinpoint the smells exactly, or how they correlate to one another, but you know you could smell his desperation over the smoke even if he blew it into your face.
567 · Dec 2018
whitefly
touka Dec 2018
I keep seeing the snow
on its sideways swing
pelting, impervious, against the ground

to escape human conclusion,
conviction

without fail
it's all the same to me
I pluck the fourth leaf, before it can wither

to be a willing participant to love
I don't know

I watch it thicken from the window
a wayward swarm of whiteflies
that building, bloodless blanket outside
I don't know
it never sticks
stranded,
luckless
in the stomach of the solstice
likened to things
that have been likened to other things
557 · Aug 2015
Shangri-La
touka Aug 2015
I would write, speak and sing

all of dreams

and their hold,

and their shouts

in a quiet surrounding.

I would write, speak and sing

all of flowers;

anthurium, and its gentle flame.

I would write, speak and sing

all of swords, and their unsheathing,

all of wounds, and how I'd heal.

everything.
"I hear your voice, the moon sang."
527 · Jan 2018
new ache
touka Jan 2018
sleep hangs in the air over my head

until it bolts and breaks the steep drop
from the window down to the city below

where light swarms around the sprawl
brilliant enough to cut through the thick cover of night that settles over it at this time

argus eyes Newark as it refuses rest
turns up its nose at the inclination
struggles under the spread and smother of last phase
pearls its flare as a periapt

and loudens its whirs and sighs
from public transit and its smoking tires
as halogen headlights bleed well through highway treelines

so I'll stave off another tryst with sleep
whatever romance tossed to Jersey's smog-laden wind
city slickers
511 · Oct 2014
Land unwound.
touka Oct 2014
Once vibrant were my blooms --
all reaching, and brushing ground, close to earth and unbound.
But now humbled; death and it's fallout, aching only for his sound.
505 · Sep 2014
earthly wear
touka Sep 2014
I am of man, yet still untold.
Hold tide together and race into sunset.
I am of man; atrophied, and unfold to meet daybreak air.
Set, I am hollow -- a stale, earthly wear.
I hate writers block.
Sounds a little cheesy.
500 · Sep 2015
i
touka Sep 2015
i
burn cold;

her vitriol, a swarm;

overwhelming, the sting

of such ice --

december plume,

risen from chasms

the air, choked with fire;

the stench

of cerulean flame

her piercing smatter; ******, igneous, the shrieks

and the ring of such sound

settled in her ears.
499 · Feb 2015
Untitled
touka Feb 2015
Frailer than last time, in sullen plight, and trembling cold;
goal waned an ailing crescent.
Childlike in premise, but seized in discord; a gracious whole.
haven't wrote in a while. short but hopefully sweet.
478 · Apr 2018
disomus
touka Apr 2018
a few words to
knock my mandible loose
I set it back into place;
she can be sure
my ears are ripe to listen

her nails grew
in her rearing days
clamantly
clawing
'til quiet is connate to me

condign, burke
a silent sting

spoil, spoil, spoil
spare the rod
save a disparate word
and you turn to strike the wind from me with it

snag my heart
on something keen
rip it from my filthy sleeve

cosset my mother when she cries
bleed my wounds to quell her whine
I could never spill enough
to sate that empty barathrum

just waits to lay me in her snare
lets the bile sleep on the tip of her tongue
best to burn the skin that's young

upheave and hurl my cares around
would I wait for your sorrow?
for your penitence?
I long for it
but it would be swallowed up before the moon could set.
grief creeps in on me
like the morning
477 · Jun 2015
recoil;
touka Jun 2015
my relapse
into blood clots
and old pastries

lifeline: strewn across floors cold

inspiration fleeting

little hiccups

in a long, lonely fight
eh.
472 · Nov 2015
mass
touka Nov 2015
light slides
fast travel
through vacant temples
the cracks and corners
and creases in halls
and the pastor's verses
to despondent ears
and crumbling walls
"all the rows in the Pastor's church, full of empty sighs and wine"
470 · Sep 2021
de vivre
touka Sep 2021
his thrill against the widow's cord;

snakes his fingers in the web

eight aching, crawling branches

where his hands have met her legs

six sick fingers on the mend

I let the wind come

and do nothing about it

I let the wind come,

and do nothing about it
465 · Oct 2015
paid programming
touka Oct 2015
"loose knitting"

intenerate her mind

her thinker, melted mush

burning, bright fluorescent

eyes dilated; rainbow surround

stinging like smoke

inhales like smoke

screen spitting fire; hurling towards her eyes

iris, rise like smoke
"just calm down and try not to think about it."
464 · May 2015
ischemic.
touka May 2015
subtle, shallow breath spread;
there, the cold and sombre fall, giving weary heart rest.

but how it did fester under his tongue; how his regret did cry in such a sepulchre throat.

but still, did the sea pull. still, did her lips part to make air, and let her body scream life.

still, did leaves grow, and still did they fall.

still, was there living, even in a woman's grief.
461 · Aug 2019
bower
touka Aug 2019
it was brief —

but as I walked, the path opened
like a mouth
as if smiling

and a bowerbird,
with its nested mess of sticks and feathers
and berries and bottle caps,

crouching under the teeth of the forest,
was waiting for me

and though I do like the dream of love,
I always wake
454 · Nov 2018
Algernon
touka Nov 2018
the first time I saw Algernon
I was sure, God existed,
but He'd looked away for a second too long
and Algernon was bred, born in that shadow
of the Lord's lashes

the first time I saw Algernon,
the world felt wider
and it all lead to his hands
every road outstretched to meet his feet

Algernon made my life feel precarious,
like it'd topple
delicate as a tightrope of cornsilk
and he tugged on it as so

the first time I saw Algernon,
his eyes bore into me
chipped away at me
like patient cleave to reluctant marble

if a feeling could be a man,
summarily, he was a wrenching kind of curiosity
just like when I'd have that dangerous appetite
to flip to the final page of the book I'd only just begun,
far too ahead of myself
just to see
pore over those unexpected words
though I knew it would only be trouble

the trouble with trouble
is that I am, in some sick way,
eager to see it

the trouble with Algernon was
he kept wise
and kept me none the wiser

he looked on me as a child would a bird with a broken wing
morbidly
I cannot help you, but for the sake
of my yet untainted conscience,
I will convince myself I can
and let you die somewhere I can see
like the final page

and the cats tongue I ended up on
the band around my finger
the bite that never lost its teeth

the first time I saw Algernon,
it was a repetition of motion
some calculated corrosion

like gnashing fang
and shadow
and outstretching road
and patient cleave

and he was much,
too much

like me
452 · Jun 2022
sinless
touka Jun 2022
but you lift your head every morning

there's the power

there's the meaning
Psalm 143:8
Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in You.
448 · Feb 2018
cerebrum
touka Feb 2018
I sip, poor
on my nepenthe
stroking skin
the glass holding poured antidote
I sip and swoon, devote
I'd swim in it
even as it takes its pities
never part with the piment
the earth stills
slows its cities
and I take a sip of him
the warmest regrets
gnaw at my regard
cathartic, quiet egress
my minds reach not so far
as to want for them again
I sip, so poor
on my nepenthe
drink 'til it pours cold
it offers up its pities
pardon any sentiment
of the sorrow it erodes
it offers up a numb
I can't deny consoles
448 · Aug 2019
chrism
touka Aug 2019
beg
beneath the shoulder blades

if this touch is nothing more than
lonely synapse
and dopamine

rushing to embrace kin

or run your hand through her hair
as if your fingertips are magnets,
and all her thoughts follow along

if such a small thing

in the midst of celestial bodies
each on their slow decline
interfering, colliding in shadow

would turn us all into a lie

it is a good one

and I will tell it
440 · Oct 2017
pangs
touka Oct 2017
as unlikely in love as

sand is not to toss under the wind

the southside is to sleep at night

stone is to soften against your head

as rain is to not be wet

but the stinging sensation
when you left
"the pain isn't real, just chemicals tellin' my brain how I ought to be"
438 · Sep 2018
wilmington
touka Sep 2018
wind soughs outside
slightly

I'm up late tonight

my sister careens
on the eastern coast
touches Topsail
with her lacy fingers

and I cross mine

wheels and wheels
like lockstep men
march inland
automobiles whine
like soon, treelines

I'm up so late

my best friend dreams
in the wayside,
somewhere west of me
after a long day
of convincing her boyfriend
to high-tail his *** out of Raleigh
Clayton, it is
he decided
her fret only calmed enough to sleep
by his promises of a high-rise property
and below 70 mile wind speeds

I can feel my eyelids tug

my brother's fingers thrum
on countertops
well-wishes in morse
as he says he'll stop thinking about it, now
no, wait... now

and my mother works to bend
each emerging frown

as my fingers drum up natural disaster nonsense
I watch, wait for the earth's recompense
as it surely blares through my old house's fence

rippling through the silhouette of the statue
my sister's soul had attached itself to

every crevice of county road
every man-hiked piedmont mile
interstices of feet and snow
the dirt that has seen every trial
to fail under inclement weather

they say it's overdue
that it's been a while
dazzling or desolate
×
be safe out there, please
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