The space between Dreams and Reality

An exploration of the language I didn’t know I spoke.

[muddyswirls]

[catchymemes]

[hummingbee-lievable]

Hello fellow writer nerds!

My page consists pretty much entirely of poetry, but this is important:

I got scammed. And I want to prevent the same thing from happening to you.

This artist, @canvasalchemy, reached out and asked me to write a poem to accompany a sketch he was doing for a commission. I did, and he told me I would receive 30% of the fee.

I was emailed an e-check for $500 from Sarah Allison Hughes at [email protected]. He told me his deposit balance was met, and asked if the whole fee could just be sent to me.

I thought I was so careful. I made sure the check cleared and deposited before sending his portion through Zelle.

I was not careful enough. They altered the check after I sent the money. This is a phishing scam. I've reported the artist, but there's nothing more I can do except let you all know.

Be careful, please. It's so easy to think "I'd never get caught by something like this" until it happens.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for sharing your art, too.

[hypnopompicreverie]

They were going by canvasalchemy, now @/velvetgild (which I saw just before blocking them)- The @ they included will still go to the correct blog, however. Thanks to this person, I managed to not get caught, but they’re still up to this same stunt. My artist friend thought it looked real enough upon initial inspection, but I was still feeling unsettled and so searched up their handle at the time and I’m so glad I did. I know I said it once already, but thank you again hummingbee-lievable!

To everyone else- Be warned.

[vexheart]

[hypnopompicreverie]

There is a cavern

It hides behind bars of bone

And walls carved from flesh.

Deep in its hearth

It aches with a cold hunger

And gorges upon the spark of a friendly passerby.

Yet the smiling traveler is released-

It cannot stand to trap them

And simply watches as they go.

Perhaps they will return-

It dare not hope

And yawns wider in longing.

There is a cavern

It yearn to become a home

And welcome resident rather than wanderer.

[paper-wounds]

my horoscope for today. “let yourself be a mess”

[thoughtkick]

“Who the hell said you no longer had it in you?”

— Charles Bukowski

[hypnopompicreverie]

Hibernation

Dormancy and conservation

Preservation

Do I dare wake?

Winter has long since ended

(Has it?)

Who awaits when I open my eyes?

Does the river remember my face?

(Do I?)

Who awaits when I open my mouth?

Do the birds remember my voice?

(Do I?)

Wakefulness

Inevitable change and transformation

Evolution?

Do I dare wake?

Winter has long since ended

(It has)

Will there be someone new standing there?

Or will I recognize the reflection?

(I want to)

Will there be a new voice in the choir?

Or will I recognize the song?

(I want to)

Spring is here

And I am late

But do I remain?

(I must)

[mawofthemagnetar]

Cold take but all languages are beautiful actually. Every single one. Every single human language on earth is a collection of stories interwoven into the very fabric of the words that are spoken.

“Oh but this language sounds scary-“ have you heard a child speak it while pointing at a butterfly?

“Oh but this language sounds silly-“ have you heard someone’s grandma recite a recipe with such practiced ease it comes off as poetry?

“Oh but this language is really weird-“ and yours isn’t? Everyone’s language is weird, dumbass, it came free with your fucking humanity.

Every tongue that is spoken is a work of art. Every language a unique window into the world.

Isn’t it wonderful?

[hypnopompicreverie]

It growls from the depth of my stomach,

But it is not hunger.

It claws at the confines of my skull,

But it has not the limbs.

It roars for an escape,

But it has not the voice.

It stalks the room,

But it has not the form.

I do not want to let it out,

But it demands freedom.

I know not what it wants,

But I have asked it-

It only snarls in return.

Perhaps we are both afraid

Of it-

Of me.

Perhaps we need not be.

[hypnopompicreverie]

It starts with a whisper

With a bud just breaking the earth

With the dawning of the sun

And the marching of time

Just a possibility of something great

Of something dangerous

Of something exciting

Of something new

Of something routine

Of fluidity and passion

Of monotony and rigidty.

Hope and luck are for the romantics

But possibility?

Possibility is endless and boundless

Possibility calculates

Possibility allows control over fate

Possibility is will and paths abound

Possibility questions and builds and binds

It is not hope that held me through the night

It is not luck that led me through the night

But possibility and those branching walkways

Infinite and aplenty and all mine to choose

All I have to do is walk

[hypnopompicreverie]

Out of my mind

Out of my body

A forgeign voice

Doubtful eyes looking

But not truly seeing

Dreaming?

A distortion and disconnection

Incoherence and doubt

All rolled into one

Give me back my eyes

Give me back my voice

Give me back my body

And give me back my mind

Clear the fog

Awaken from the dream

They were never yours to begin with.

[hypnopompicreverie]

There is a question that waits in the shadows

It carries hidden blades in its sleeves

And sharp knives in its boots

Waiting for the time to spring out

And cut across muscle and sinew

To bleed the softly beating heart

To scar delicate flesh.

It is a ravenous rouge that lays entrapped

Behind the eyes of its gentle host

How it hungers to gouge out the eyes of that fragile, pathetic thing

Not to blind the creature, no

But to force it to witness the truth which it already knows

And yet cowers from, fearing the pain.

It knows too well the answer

Knows that the answer is a different kind of beast

It is charm and smiles and false hope

It is capable only of deceit and lies

It is not a beast seeking truth

But a beast of gluttony and pleasure

And it does not even know that that is what it is.

The question knows well the answer

The question does not wish harm upon its host

It only wishes to help the creature unblind itself

And kill the false hope

It cares not for the scars left behind.

The creature knows this, too

And yet still it begs it’s ravenous rogue for just a day more

It is not the first time.

So the question lays in wait

Not pacing along it’s cage

But patient, as a good rogue ought to be

Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

[a-mind-in-ruins]

Not one scar on my heart came from an enemy.

They all came from people who claimed to love me the most.

[yourforgottenmemory]

“I’m still rebuilding the parts of me you promised were safe with you.”

[isaipoet]

a listener need a listener too—

[hypnopompicreverie]

There are millipedes and centipedes

Insect and arachnids

Entire flocks and colonies

Quartets, trios, and couples

But what of the singular creatures?

Do they stand alone?

Solitary through circumstances of birth?

Do they wish for the quiet?

Or are they lonely?

Does a cavern yawn wide in their chest,

Aching for a traveler to wander in,

Light a fire and stay a while?

Does an ache press in on their hollow bones,

Hungry for a soft touch,

Yearning for something to fill the void?

Or do they not notice?

But what of the pack bonded creatures?

Is the nest suffocating,

Too much heat and too little space,

Desperate for just a bit of room?

Are their marrowed bones too heavy to hold,

Muscles tense to supress the itching need

To retreat from the slightest touch?

Or do they not notice?

And what of the odd shaped creature?

Neither pack bonded or singular,

But lonely all the same,

But crowded all the same?

Where does it belong?

The pack knows it is different,

But promises burial so long as it changes;

The creature shudders at the thought.

The solitude is easy,

But the nights are long and cold;

The creature aches for sun in the night.

The creature finds community in the wildflowers,

But they cannot hold it back.

So what is a creature to do,

When it cannot change,

And yet its palms ache for a hand to hold?

When it cannot stand the warmth,

Yet is subject to the cold?

Is it too itself for the world?

Or must the search continue?

It dreams of solitude in tandem,

A beautiful melody,

A chill autumn day with a shining sun,

Just enough, but not too much.

Is it too much?

The creature grows weary

And it wonders,

Can I truly belong?