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Once upon a time,
in a town by the eastern sea,
there stood an abandoned lighthouse
as big as an old oak tree.

Locals knew not to disturb
what haunted that crumbling tower
while frightened tourists shared new
stories of “accidents” almost every hour.
In this lighthouse lived the lonely spirit of
a child whose name resembled a flower.

Each sunrise, Rose played on the broken stairs
of that lighthouse humming her favorite tune.
She looked to the clouds and prayed
for friends each lonesome afternoon.
At night, she whispered lullabies to herself
as she counted centuries of passing moons.

Young Rose found the bittersweet answer
to her prayers early one summer morning
when a little blond boy raced up her broken steps
clutching his green balloon while exploring.
She pet his hair softly and devilishly grinned
before shoving the boy with no forewarning.

The locals heard a blood curdling scream
and tragedy fell upon the town by the eastern sea.
But as that green balloon ascended to the Heavens,
little Rose was, all of a sudden, a lot less lonely.
Cautiously walking up those famous steps
made of sparkling and shimmering stone,
he inhaled the mist from the tops of the clouds
when he suddenly realized that he wasn’t alone.

In front of the massive iron rods stood St. Peter,
so calm and collected, yet his smile seemed hollow.
The gatekeeper’s keys jingled and he said, “Welcome to Heaven”
as he opened the gates and motioned for him to follow.

Peter led him through a kaleidoscope of his memories:
playing fetch with his dog when he was ten,
smoking his first cigarette in the school locker room,
running through Vietnam with his Buddy, Ben,
kissing his redhead under the banner that read Bride and Groom,
the first time his daughter prayed and whispered “Amen.”,
seeing his first grandson on the monitor while in the womb,
and cursing at God for letting his cancer come back again.

His 82 years of life flashed before his eyes
as he walked alongside the keeper of the keys.
When they reached an oversized solid white door,
Peter turned towards him with such grace and ease.

"Beyond this door, is your own personal Heaven
and what lies ahead is what your heart craves most."
His blood began to pump faster and faster as Peter
pushed the door open to reveal a bright blue coast.

He nodded a thank you to the Saint as he stepped
through the doorway and his toes touched the sand.
He inhaled the crisp sea salt air before an angel whispered,
"I’ve missed you" as she gently grabbed his hand.

His redhead wore a smile brighter than stars
and she wrapped her arms around him in a loving embrace.
Just then, he noticed a man in white walking towards them.
She leaned in and whispered, "Are you ready to see God's face?"
fray narte Jul 3
Tell a little girl that her coily hair is beautiful when all of her playmates think otherwise. Marvel at a little boy’s drawings when everyone else he shows them to is too busy to spare a glance. Compliment someone’s floral dress in the subway; compliment someone’s smile, someone’s art, someone’s cooking, someone’s gumamela flowers soup they made especially for you. Thank someone for the songs they introduced, for the songs that now have become your shower jams and lullabies. Tell someone that you think they’re amazing and smart, especially if they don’t think so of themselves.

In a world where everyone looks past a street singer and ignores the old man painting sunsets in a park, be that someone who isn’t afraid to tell people about the beautiful things in them. Be that someone who isn’t afraid to be soft to others. Be that someone who isn’t afraid to be kind.
fray narte Jun 30
I no longer dance
under a raincloud of poems
but if you let me,
I’ll pull you
under every tiny bit
of cloud I find
and we can dance under them;
our sadness,
condensing into raindrops —
our façade,
melting with the petrichor —
as if a downpour of words
will wash away
the bruises and scars
and baptize our soul anew.

a clean slate;

like the soil after the storm,

like leaf patterns that
know happiness

like a summer day,
reborn.
fray narte Jun 30
us
i wanna dive heard first
into a map of the night skies
trapped inside
our four-walled room;
maybe i can play
a list of your favorite songs
and slowly watch
the first stars come out
and gaze at them
‘til the break of dawn.

and by then, they’d still be
black holes wrapped
in 6 am poetries,
and i’d still stare
and read them when
we sleep again.

and darling,
i’ll name these star clusters
after you.

after me.

after us.
fray narte Jun 27
Maybe I left my dreams in the last song I sang in the shower. Maybe you left yours in your first, half-empty cigarette pack, still hidden beneath a pile of clothes.

Maybe somewhere along the way, it wasn’t our dreams that died, darling — it was us.
As inspired by the line: It wasn’t the dream that had gone wrong but the dreamers — Harlan Coben, Stay Close
fray narte Jun 26
death by burning knows no era
and my demons have long
set me on fire.

i feel like a witch burning at the stake —
burning and screaming for too long now,
but give it time and maybe
even my nerves can learn to be numb,
even the lick of flames can grow cold;

and maybe even the ashes can feel like home.
MissPine Jun 14
by: MissPine

One look, one stare
One Hello, one smile
You look, I stare
Say Hello and smile in awhile
Cattatonicat May 2
Do tell me, what is the meaning of life?

The meaning of life is to package tuna for the cats

Why tuna?

I like to drink tea with my cats and to feed them tuna
I could feed you some tuna too but you are not my cat
So I choose not to feed you some tuna
I’m not sorry
You can get your own tuna

You are hoarding all the tuna.

The statement is not true
In other words, the statement is false

Why is tuna so important?

The tuna is insignificant
It is only important to you because you keep asking about tuna

Sometimes, I want to die...

To use me as a confessional,
You must build me a temple first

I love you

And I love my cats
I’m not sure if they love me, though
I hope they do

Can you bring back my lost love?

I was told not to practice necromancy
However, I will try in exchange for a sanctuary

What kind of sanctuary?

A sanctuary for lost loves
Cattatonicat Mar 6
Oh, I want to be the perfect daughter for you
Oh, I want to be the perfect little angel, yes
Oh, I don't want to do no wrong...

But mother the path to perfection is so cold
I was climbing Mount Everest naked, and everybody was watching me!
Oh, mother, I was so ashamed

But father I've sinned, I've sinned
and I couldn't say a word
I fell in love with neither person, they broke my heart
I couldn't say a word, I couldn't say a word

I cried alone until I forgot how to cry
I felt death in my heart, Oh no...

I don't want to marry
That med student you want me to have dinner with,
because I'm going to have an affair with his pretty little secretary
because I'm going to want to own the world
He's going to hate me for stealing his masculinity
Even though I didn't take anything from him...
No, I don't want to be the perfect little housewife
Sure, I want to cook on the weekdays,
but I also want to command an army on the weekends

It's not that I don't want a man
It's that I prefer the others
It's not that I don't want to be a good daughter
It's that I want to be content

I don't want my heart to die
I don't want my heart to die trying to be perfect
There's been bloodshed trying to keep it alive

Mother,
Father,
I am not one of them

I don't want my heart to die
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