going outside nowadays is just a game of who can hold their breath the longest and of looking for reasons to pass the time in your own backyard but the gardens i see are only for the literary muses haunting writers into submission and for digging up holes with plastic shovels and for wishing that i could pick up the daisies and place them in your hair
i was in the middle of drawing a circle when my arm quivered and now the line shoots way past the paper and it's currently undulating over my desk and zooming past a caterpillar that's contemplating whether the process of becoming beautiful would actually make him beautiful when he already knows that he is beautiful
i hope the god i pray to forgives me for making all the lines i write be about you
this poem makes me picture a certain someone title inspired by a certain somewhere
A thinly veiled disguise Is really what you want on their mind So they never see the wall you hide behind The ones put up in your mind. A heart like an open book riddled with redactions Your actions an abstraction Longing to forget the obstructions you encounter and create.
torn free from the ground of pregnant ideas and withered internal dialogues.
aloof in the face of destiny, crying for refuge among the disowned, the dismembered, the disinterested. i alone exist in the maelstrom of abstraction crafted painstakingly through my ages and seasons.
a mind as sharp as mine to raise me without feathers and place me among the mulch.
i blanket my canvas with woes and worries alike, neglecting the foul-mouthed begotten son arranged among the pillars left standing.
crooked trees and iced stone to vibrate through these ears of clay.
i miss the days of youthful ignorance and exuberant hope shot at my future like a cannon of pride and confidence.
today the final summer flowers exhale notes of sweet becoming, ever mingling with the hum of nature's eternal embrace. the bodies celestial in ambiguity spin and swirl in irrevocable sincerity. from rise to fall, through night and naught, the world recurs again to weave itself anew.
What leaves won’t leave you What’s rooted holds you What flies sees you exposed What lies stays a child What dries up won’t remain dry What’s come to pass shall roll again Old songs don’t go when new ones play Things drip and flood, dance out their pace A snaking river knows its way No tongue to speak or eyes to see This realm spins to realign So every sunbeam finds its tree
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Което те напуска, няма да те пусне Което корени е пуснало, държи те Което лети, те вижда открит Което лъже, дете си остава Което пресъхва, няма сухо да остане Което е минало, пак ще се търколи Не изчезват старите песни пред новите Неща капят, заливат, танцуват си темпото Лъкатушеща река пътя си знае Без език да говори и очи да види Тази шир се върти до подреждане За да може всеки лъч да намери дървото си
Translated my own poem from Bulgarian, my native language...
It’s obvious why we tend to become stuck on the details And I mean “when” It’s no surprise it’s through the surface That we explain what can’t be seen Yet can be eyed by heightened senses The softest to know, the hardest to describe It’s not a place, that knowledge, but “a” time
You pushed. You pushed me too far. Too far I fell. I fell down the hill. The hill you built, And then I stop. I stop rolling and I stop crying. It's dark.
But I am safe here, Comfortable in the ditch, Comfortable in the rut That you placed me in. One big eye watching me. One force keeping me From the unknown. One push and I roll down. I roll down into dark oblivion And absolute uncertainty. But one push and you’re Gone.
I literally wrote this an hour ago. I based it on Georgia O'Keeffe's painting "Black Abstraction." I went to an exhibit at the Ashmolean Museum earlier and was given the prompt and wrote the poem based on her painting.