Dreamscape Navigator

Strange writing from a kid that knows nothing about writing.

[dreamscrape-navigator]

We, who will own nothing

Tyrant! Rised the tides And drain the shallow sea You! who burn the earth as wick Our florals on the wind of grief

Master! stole our cents On our work on your dollar Lord! who rules with fear and favour Hear the thunderous applause

We, who will own nothing Are the cheapest blood on earth We, who sing in water Will be acid through your teeth

[dreamscrape-navigator]

Pulse

i dreamt we were swimming in the lake behind my grandma’ house

you dove so deep, so suddenly and stay below so long.

as I wait the hours, watch the sun drown in the water, bleed up the sky

it is cold. I sit, draped in hair and ice trace the birthmark on my arm and pick at my moles

when you rise again, a new dawn, eclipse the light

in your arms a body, limp and grey, an empty wound where the heart should be and two weeping sockets in its face. “our love” you say, “our baby”

you leave the body in my arms. It is cold and clad only in injury. as you go, the creature wakes

it’s eyeless face looks into mine what will I feed it, where will it sleep? Great saviour; when you lift things from misery

make sure not to drop them halfway

[dreamscrape-navigator]

And the Birds are still Dragons

In the morning when you find me Slumbering beneath the bridge Do not lift your hands to shake me Do not call into the mist

Take my jacket and my shoes And keep my necklace if you must But leave the lock inside that locket Folded tightly in my fist

I'll be standing in the crowd Before the gates to further on Looking for the crown that matches, Calling out for some response

When the hostage held by air Atop the stasis of an arch; Heated breath of freezing lungs Preludes the bridge before a march

(And two children, hand in hand Stutter steps through unclaimed land)

Like thunder, like applause Like starlings from a tree Great wave on open shores No option but to breach

If they come in the morning You must sing at night Breathe fire as a warning And set the wine alight!

[dreamscrape-navigator]

嫦娥 🌒

Will the first woman walking the moon look around For the sister that floated there right off the ground?

Will she sift through the dust, will she turn every stone On her path to bring our mother's daughter back home?

[dreamscrape-navigator]

Soft Spoken

mother liked the common phrase "kids are better seen than heard" so when she dressed us every day she buttoned up our teeth:

no singing in the bath or running through the house; careful with the cutlery and don't disturb your father (if and when he's home)

we learnt to sharpen pencils and hunger without sound. don't make a fuss in public or raise your voice inside

quiet children are rewarded in the way an owl hunts. the hollow of your silences caught between two jaws

now i've left that quiet house the loudest voice is in my head. nothing but your own two hands can turn the music off

as product of my muted youth mother reared a quiet dog so well behaved am i you'll never hear me bite

So when the preacher asks of me to stand and say it louder please don't mind the body i'm just a bit soft spoken

[dreamscrape-navigator]

forgot i had these lying about from my religious trauma lol

[dreamscrape-navigator]

i am Master’s favorite dog.

i am not the fastest, the strongest, or the most graceful. But i am His most loyal.

When He shakes the cage, i do not jump, and when He frees the foxes, i do not run after.

i follow at heel, after His rifle. i lunge after His bullets. No lock does he trust more than my jaws around His prey.

i am Master’s favorite dog. That is why He takes me hunting.

(And when i’m old, He’ll take my leash and tie it to the old tree trunk. He will load His rifle one last time, and cover my pelt on the wax replica with smoke ash.)

[luna-azzurra]

When a Character Is Grieving Someone They Never Got to Say Goodbye To

✧ They talk about the person in past tense… then correct themselves. Then stop talking entirely.

✧ They touch things that belonged to the person like they’re fragile, sacred, about to disappear.

✧ They hoard the last voicemail, last message, last anything. Play it. Don’t play it. Just knowing it exists hurts enough.

✧ They leave something untouched, an empty seat, a half-packed bag, a coffee order that isn’t theirs.

✧ They get irrationally angry when someone else seems to be “moving on.” As if forgetting is betrayal.

✧ They don’t let themselves cry all at once. It comes in pieces. Like they’re afraid too much grief will drown them.

✧ They over-apologize. For being quiet. For being distant. For not being okay.

✧ They become hyper-aware of time, dates, anniversaries, time zones, the exact moment everything ended.

✧ They get superstitious. Ritualistic. As if doing things "right" might reverse something.

✧ They smile when they talk about the person. But it’s brittle. And it never quite touches their eyes.

[tenderwatches]

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

[stories-by-hails]

For anyone who needs this

[writing-prompt-s]

!!!!

[dreamscrape-navigator]

Freefall

you're pale as marble and just as warm. when you smirk it's pierced by one glittering dimple. looking at me with eyes like cathedral glass, leading into the rudderless dark.

i'll never escape you, won't recover if you go. my sides and hinges are long stiff with old blood. i keep catching my hands between the gears that put my heart in perpetual motion.

we've shared secrets on shared breath; confessions on a cloud that never rains. it won't cover the both of us, which is why you pushed me off, isn't it?

[beebfreeb]

Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.

[scribe-cas]

Reblog if you're okay with people coming into your DMs with the "you seem really odd and your blog intrigues me, do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters"

[kairisk]

Please reblog and spread as much as you can about Palestine, if you feel you can do nothing this isn’t true. Use your voice and the privilege you have comms and socials to call for ceasefire and the liberation of Palestine!

[dreamscrape-navigator]

breaking vow(el)s

you promised to --

-- teach me blackjack. i watched you play in the back of a moving car; on jostled laps and cards scrambled from two separate packs. the days pass away.

-- forever stay together. every weekend we shared a bag of jelly hearts. i held them beating in my mouth, between my secrets and my rotten teeth. it's the end of eternity.

-- write me songs. when will i hear back? my stickered pink guitar sits in your window, with five strings still missing. when, not if, you sing again, will i be immortalised in your lyrics?

-- not mourn me. from books you told me stories of war so holy that i go to bed hollowed of thought. none of the orphans that you spoke of found other orphans to lose.

-- run far away. but you're still here, umbrella full of clouds and growing numb underneath. the sun is dancing on the dust; why don't you hum a tune?

[dreamscrape-navigator]

meteorite

unsheath the knife from

between my ribs. apologise

like it’s a prayer. kiss

the ichor from my skin,

hunt absolution where it's extinct.

but you want to be

god's favourite again,

don't you? white-eyed wolf

licking at bite marks

on the hand that feeds

[dreamscrape-navigator]

River Red

i enjoy the visual texture of the sky

[dreamscrape-navigator]

untouchable(s)

You are no more holy than The dust on every hand That carved those jewels from the earth And lifted bread from land

You are no more mighty than A pebble by the sea With each sequential drop the stone Pays mass for memory

Goliath who walks the ground With eyes up high and tall The lamb you bleed so readily Waits eager for your fall

[dreamscrape-navigator]

butcherson

i was weaving a basket

on the step facing dusk

when i looked down and saw

my father's hands, creating

his don't look like this

anymore, withered in the ground

or in the ghosts long past

where they made their home

in the crowns of hair, in the clutch of a throat

as the painter of bruises, as the sculptor of fear

it's strange to see them

heal and comfort, give and

make