Li @fureverisalongtime - Tumblr Blog

Intro

Hi im Li, I'm 18 from NYC.

I'm a writer and want fellow writing buddies!

I write poetry and short stories (mostly because I can't finish a book).

I'm an ENFP, pisces sun, scorpio moon, and libra rising

#creative writing #lana del rey #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writblr #mitski #poetry #Spotify

#petit prince #the little prince

m4rig01d

l’avenue de neuilly on a winter day

there is a type of alone, quite different from the others.

i don’t know if you’ve felt it,

my friend, i pray you’ve not.

there is a type of cold that penetrates beneath

what you’d previously thought possible, and

then, somehow, deeper still.

there is an ache so innately human it’s become like flesh to me,

meat from my throat stuck between my molars.

and as for relief? what is relief but a lie?

and what is youth but useless comfort—the facade of being far from death.

the sun sets before i’ve risen from my twin bed, my mattressed coffin,

and i ask the snow if it knows where i could find some peace.

perhaps the weather’s been getting to me.

Dead Hare The hare was young when she did it, she lived in a tiny tree, the one in the woods next to Hatsburg. This was in 1988. She was pregnant and she’d been off to find food. It took two weeks for someone to notice the stench. Her body was so stiff and when he discovered it, he gagged. It was unsightly but unsurprising. He knew the hare would do this- a helpless hare, not saddening at all.

The moving of the hare is what proved to be difficult. The man was a farmer, used to the muddy, dirty, and grimey. The sun was an unforgiving orange, raging flames of yellow cascading over the sky. He had to scrape her off the road. Slick sweat dripped from his forehead. He used a fly swatter to disconnect the dirt road from her flattened red stained fur. She didn’t even look like a hare anymore. Just a squashed baby’s blanket of fur. Bones exposed, she’d been there for so long and nobody thought to move the poor hare to the side of the road- no. She just kept getting run over and over and over again. The farmer was surprised her bones hadn’t turned into a finely grated white dust by now. And for some reason, he felt disgusted. Last night's jerky pieces and beer swirled back up his esophagus, he attempted to cover the spill with his hands but instead they spurted out through his nose. Forcing him into a coughing fit for the next ten minutes as the hare lay flat staring. Red fur and angry sky all of the sudden moving too quickly around him. His nose rendered him a mouth breather. And he tried to catch his breath but all he could see was the Hare. Circles and circles upon the poor farmer with the fly swatter. Soon he lay flattened as well, paralyzed by the red. It was night when he was run over. This was in 1988. Helpless farmer, not saddening at all.