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Heidi Franke Jun 2019
Believe what you know.
And may all
the better angels
follow you
        wherever you go
For all those who suffer from cerebral palsy
Derrek Estrella Feb 2019
I simply don't believe, and I will not obtain anything from nothingness!

Oh, don't be like the fools you decry with ardor!

I believe I am true to myself.

You lie with illusions, feast on your own brain.

Feeding my beliefs in admittedly macabre manners.

Have you lost your sextant, sailor? Where is the lighthouse of your mind? Who has locked your benevolent gate?
Derrek Estrella Nov 2018
The sky shifted out of excitement, malforming into the menacing child of blue and indigo. It inspired the apex of one’s thoughts, yet promised stoic impotence; a blasé response. Besides a burning Nissan, I was perplexed. Something taught me that I should be emoting, and the glove should be reading into my vortex of encumbrance. If no one acknowledges that I must be freed, shall I retain the visage of a captive? I am but a stifled, trembling man.
Derrek Estrella Oct 2018
Music gives my eyes a tunnel and my mind the universe. This much I know and recite in verse- or, prose, well. However I may carry my words, they will do all frequencies a severe injustice. That is why I feel no need to describe the ether and the fluids that compose a tune. They simply are, anyone can perceive and dissect for themselves. The words, they serve to underline the story that an ear might not obtain from music. I aim to achieve a functional, symbiotic, conversational existence with these two chaps. One day, it’ll be great fun and my mind will sideflip its merry way through scrolls of papyrus and the speeches of lutes. Until then, it’s apparent and essential, necessary, to be trudging my forlorn way through the badlands of my cranium. Who knows? I may occasionally find myself an ardent hoodoo to comport my thoughts on. I will live for that and die for tomorrow. By increments, of course. I must believe that we’re not all imbeciles, here.
Derrek Estrella Oct 2018
Page sticks to oneself; indentations upon indentations. Soon, it will all- or perhaps later?- it will all homogenize into a gestalt; a brain. Then, not long after that Exodus of the Neurons ™, the piece of wood will reanimate, shaking my hand and fishing for planets simultaneously, like any other sentient being that remains aware of the dome domain above us (or adjacent to?)
This is no performance, it is mere proof that my stimulant is optimal, that I breathe with vigour in my feet and weight in my fingers. It is a display of my gradual decay, foretelling the prognosis that I dare not utter: what can I do if I fall under Alzheimer’s heel? What then? Will I forget of the paragraph that I had just written beforehand? This pen, will it treat every word as a home to rest its riches in? This vagrant of a fool, he must remember his treads, the soles of the people that have led him to wherever he’s gone. What is the Joker without inspiration? What is a dancer without awareness? What is a figure without substance?
Tori Sep 2017
I long to fly

Into the sky

But broken wings

Disable me.

I long to play

But here I stay

Wheelchair bound

Still on the ground.

Look in my eyes,

These grey blue skies,

You’re soon to see

Past broken wings.

My body’s bound

But my soul roams round

The sky of my mind

Where you will find

Imagination abounds

My soul roams round

No chains for me

For here I’m free.

So, though I’m o'erlooked

And my wings are all crook’d,

There’s more to me,

I’ve  a soul with wings
This is dedicated to my little sister who has cerebral palsy.
eleanor prince Aug 2017
pool swirling deep
surface still

glimpsed from afar
caution warned
but you came

aeons spoke true
our hands shook
you held on

time stood still
even breath

seconds stretched

stunned we stood
uncaring for talk

others filled space
with putty chatter
while we stayed locked

silent cerebral synergy
magnetic dance

all thought
numbed in
mindless joy
chance meeting with someone memorable
Snotty VX Feb 2017
His face drained with charcoal honey and his bones withered to dust and ash.
Flowing into the lightless black pit of her ruptured lungs
The last of her filling up with swamp water, the angry bees humming in her head.
They've come to tow the bodies,
Toss skipping stones into the emptiness beneath them.
They pulled their hoods off. The raging sand storms greeted their faces as the cloth fell behind their greasy hairs.
They waited.
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