The captain held the wheel against the sea
His sails were gashed, but maintained their integrity

And so the vessel found its weary peace
in swaying waves where the birds feel less wind than breeze

The splintered wood would hold its bobbing form
until the husk could be retooled in the home port

And though the repairs will handle new storms,
battle scars of yesterday shall remain stalwart

Lest the ocean deep claim one more casket
of sailor’s lives, goals, and dreams before the maggots

My body is not your battleground.
It is not your right to play with.
It is not your home to invite others
or yourself without good intent.
Nor is it a message that you pass around.
like a bottle in the sea.
My body is my sacred place
Warm.
My body is my home.
My body plants.
My body nourishes.
My body creates.


Sara I. Raad

Show me the indigo blue fade the sky gives you as it says
Goodbye,
And the teal-colored gems
That glow like jewels without glitter,
As if they knew they needed no glamour
To make that inner light beautiful.
Show me that you understand me when I say
That I think the sky is such a fair thing,
Just trying to make the sun and moon get along.
It saves the stars for the moon so it wasn't too dark
And it saves the life for the sun so it won't get too lonely.
But of course the sun always bids farewell by invading the moon's space,
What, with all it's bright, beautiful colors.
They'll fight every dawn just because the sun is so clingy.
The poor moon...
(I think she likes her anyway)

Who will sit on the iron throne?
Will anyone outlive the doom to come?
For the winter forewarned,
Has reached our shores.
The threat scantly believed,
Is here to wipe out all that breathes.

The Night King is coming.
A dragon of ice in tow.  
To conquer Westeros,
And all that lay claim to the throne.

The wall will fall.
Innumerable lives will be lost.
Who will endure, to rule it all?
Only the Three-Eyed Raven knows. . .

The birthplace of weapons.
The backbone of wars.
No sound but the throes of steel.
In fires that burn, unending.

Shaped by the beating of the blacksmith.
Each stroke, manifesting his will.
To forge the weapon of prophecy;
The sword to lead us to victory.
Bathed in the blood of its enemies.

You wish for me to put in words
What I have to say
Like the answers that I've given
On their own
Could never relay
They come and go
Touch on fate
Dissipate and replicate
The disingenuous nature
That you frequently necessitate

Extend your olive branch
Then act like you feed me
When the branches are famished
Needy, condescending and deceiving Conceiving that I'm the villain
When I don't respond to how you react
Like you could perpetuate in me
The supposition for your tact

The fact that you lack any original clarity
Is the reason I'd never reach to you
Like I was Seraphim
The simple reason
That I'm writing all of this
Is simply just to prove to you
That I don't have to convince
I don't have to persist
Rehash, then reminisce
Like treading through faded memories with you
Will satiate my daily fix

I resist
Because I know exactly where I'm headed And you insist because that truth
Is what keeps us separate

Every second
You playcate on a pretense
When your intentions are crystal clear
And I can't provide that service
Or serve that purpose
While I'm standing here

To be perfectly honest
I never promised you anything
All I did was sigh and reply
To how your heart would so readily sing
Then you project your insecurities
Directly to my face
As if I was the one who gave them rise
Within the first place

Protecting your manipulations
While contemplating your motives
Are exactly the reasons we're done
Before we even started
I'm sick of being a punching bag
For someone acting devoted

And now it's been denoted
I've written you off, this story is done
This time you're in the subject line
Because you are truly NOT the one

My mind is constantly fighting
To convince me
That I do not like writing as much as I thought I did
I still write because it's what I have been doing for some time now
Even if it doesn't make sense to me now or ever
I still do it
Because I lack purpose
And I don't know what makes me happy
So I write fighting my mind
constantly giving up and then resorting
To pen down what I don't feel in a moment
People tell me that I can write
And then I tell them it makes me happy
But the truth is it makes me less miserable sometimes
A feeling of puking out my acidic thoughts on the table
That are underlined with fear of these people
I try not to care about my mind or the overactive people in it
And I blot words like I have a lot of time and money...
Someday, I'll stop because words come to those who seek it not survive on it.