A-Conscientious Conscience by Eeb

Ibrahem G. Wasti is a man. Man thinks, therefore he is. Is, the third person singular present of Be. To be, or not to be? Shakespeare. Deep. ;p Personal: eazybreazyeeb.tumblr.com

[aconscientiousconscience]

baby, what the hell is opine??- hannah

Hey babyy, you didn't have to br amonymous hehehBut opine mean to give an opinion 😄

[rosaesse]

“When we don’t know who to hate, we hate ourselves.”

[nemfrog]

The month in review. Some more notable images from the March archive.

[nemfrog]

Fig. 25. Artistic hand. How to know human nature. 1919.

[alisonmalee]

Skies and Hearts

[mydeprofundis-deactivated201602]

“Hope” is the thing with feathers — That perches in the soul — And sings the tune without the words — And never stops — at all — And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard — And sore must be the storm — That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm — I’ve heard it in the chillest land — And on the strangest Sea — Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb — of Me.

Emily Dickinson, Hope is the thing with feathers (via mydeprofundis)

[medicinemaskpoet-deactivated202]

Medicine and Therapy

Her music caresses my disco brain, soothing pains caused by a psycho mind. From the imaginatorium, I glance behind to avoid turning to a pillar of salt. Forgave. Stare ahead and bite my own hand. I saw an angel in the stairwell so I fainted to avoid derailing. As though studied, her waves massage this healing heart. Leaving intensive care for home care. Am I wrong to mend her broken wings? I want to mend the dragonfly’s wings. Be anxious not for what we eat tomorrow. From January to December to again. Two fears can embrace for an eternity. My heart is soft, true. Two souls will dance through the halls of this house not new but as yet unchristened true. Yet. Love leave temple stomper and onlookers for boring dull emerald forests far away. The bears will delight, owls will hoot while a part-time lumberjack gardens and keyboard earns. Side by side. Walk with me back to spring and rewrite our calendars with your music resonating and my words echoing in these halls, here, hear, here. Oh Lord. Summer is around the corner, 30th and 15. Just follow Orion to the last mountains before the great grey east sea. Live from mountain to shore. It’s yours. ~ Medicine Mask Poet, 2016

[aconscientiousconscience]

I Found Her

I Found Her, And I am dumbfounded. My smile is affected by the glow of Her Soul. She Found me, And she was blindsided. Her eyes are playing tricks on her, Or so I believe: How can she fall for a knight without a steed?  I was climbing up a ladder Out of an hopeless abyss When I fell again. But not into the same aperture, Instead a half-opened casement lighted from the other side. Only when I fell into its rapture did I realize the glow came from inside. The glow is mine. We found each other Because her story is similar. She was climbing down a ladder, slowly, But surely into glowing embers. Fire, but not those of desire, Of defeat. Of deceit.  She was done wasting energy. She wanted to desiccate herself of it once and for all. Hope was fleeting but not gone. Given Up, but not yet In, Still Calm despite the Wind. The Girl didn’t burn As she took the first step off the ladder. Her foot didn’t touch the ground - a light had pulled her back up. A rapture.

- Eeb

[writingsforwinter]

The Morning After I Killed Myself

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

[staff]

Bernie Sanders Is Leading the Democratic Primary Race . . . on Tumblr

The blogging site and social-media forum wants #Sanders4Prez.

Nice flag, Bern. 

[aconscientiousconscience]

The youth have spoken

[best-of-memes]

[aconscientiousconscience]

Oh Airplane

Oh Airplane: A Sonnet

Airplane, oh airplane how august thou fly, I know not how, I know not what, just why, Thy flight between two blues of sea and sky Is to some cause for alarm, but not I.

We’ve soared over rainbows, storms, droughts, and snow, Mountain highs, valley lows, the sayings go, Were it not for the prison of time, Oh How some whiles I’d wish to tread lands below. 

Someday, someday. But today I fly west, A bag full of dreams to placate regret, A wide smile to mask my frown, all in jest, Oh airplane fly me into the sunset…

            But much too soon you land. She still feels close             As the first goodbye, even across coasts.

- Eeb

[aconscientiousconscience]

Over You: 

Sums of people and Dozens of places later, The Heartache remains… 

 - Eeb

[aconscientiousconscience]

Power Outage

The birds chirp a dissonant song. A redolent mango tree sways, yet the air is still.

Must be the squirrel, black as the mud. A thud. A mango meets the ground.

I pick it up in scrutiny: not yet ripe, but my penchant for sourness betrays a grin.

Why am I outside? Because the fans have stopped within.

The power’s out.

Clocks’ve stopped ticking for the past hour. Maybe two. No, not three.

My work’s not done, but life is at a moment’s pause. The power’s out and That’s not my bidding.

Bad luck? No, A little bit of fate.

It’s the first feeling of freedom I’ve had in a while. Reminds me of a poem about the prison we call

Timekeeping.

‘It’s just past noon, ’ shines the sun. I pretend not to hear. Back to bed I go, I do not exist without time.

I fall on my back, mango in hand, onto a firm cloud.

Then a breeze hits my face, But not from the window.

The blades of the ceiling-fan are aspin again.

Time resumes its counting. The power’s back.

I pretend not to notice.

'You have no power anymore.’

- Eeb

[aconscientiousconscience]

Memory of a tulip.

Is Love not simple? No? No. I will forget naught.

Not because of fervent memory, because Love will live on after me.

Forever. Eternity,

Infinity.

- Eeb

[d3athdak1d]

[gifthescreen]