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prettylittledrafts

I’ll Be Dreaming

If you can’t sleep,

reach out to me.

Tell me nothing turned out the way you wanted.

Tell me it’s not so complicated,

you just need me in your life.

I’ll be dreaming,

your face two inches from mine, our noses brushing,

our laughter opening the sky like birds startled from the trees.

Your hands will surround me,

dawn climbing the branches.

The stars will loosen from the heavens and nest in the leaves.

The moon will forget it’s meant to keep its distance.

There, nothing pulls away.

Please,

tell me I won’t have to keep

falling asleep to find you.

noorshirazie

“And so she wrote and wrote, until the splitting headache became unbearable and her eyelids grew as heavy as her thoughts; all because writing was the only cure to a pain far more amplified than anything physical.”

— Noor Shirazie

shamanfox

The body is a costume.

Not a deception,

but a sacred garment woven from stardust,

water,

memory,

and time.

It is the mask through which the Infinite laughs,

the instrument through which silence becomes birdsong,

the temporary shape the formless borrows

to feel rain,

to cradle a child,

to write a poem,

to gaze at the evening sky and wonder.

When the costume says,

“I am only this,”

forgetting begins.

When the costume becomes transparent,

the Actor shines through.

The role continues.

The lines are spoken.

The tears are real.

The laughter is real.

Yet beneath every expression,

there remains only the One

wearing countless faces,

changing costumes without ever changing Itself.

What miracle,

that the Boundless should slip into skin,

look into a mirror,

and for one timeless instant,

recognize the One looking back.

whimsicalleylinepresence

what is love?

you’ve taught me

it’s holding on

to scalding-hot metal

i have so much to give

my emotions, a part of me

i’ve accepted, on this

journey

but you..

insist

anchoring me

to the edge of that cliff

and as i stare down at the abyss

the darkness feels

familiar

how can i love you?

what are you asking of me?

frozen on that ledge

forevermore?

was it all a farce?

if only i could turn back time

i’d never allow

my sweet, naïve little self

to be fooled by the warmth

of the hand that led me here

fortheartsofnone

I don’t want to talk

everyone is talking

I just want to sit in silence

can I just read against you

and can we please just not talk

wordrummager

exotic riffs on a quiet Thursday the song has been there for days a wailing sort of thing of course in a minor chord because that’s how this summer goes I belted it out in my basement work space this morning also kicking as high as I could why not give something my all holding back 90% of the time is exhausting (but I just have to) so when I let go it’s bittersweet hopeful and I’m so full, just for a moment

lauradiannewrites

Untitled Poem for a Friend #2

You walk through the woods like you’re walking through time

Was the path already there when you started or were you the one to cut it?

Did the trees leave the trail in anticipation of you?

Maybe they gently leaned apart to give you

a space, a sanctuary, a home

You retread old ground and go back to

Your beginning, the start of it all

Before the expectations

Before even mankind

There was room for you amongst the trees

doebrain

A strange thing happened: I survived. Unfortunately survival kept happening. Morning after morning, the way mould keeps finding bread. I would like to report bravery but the archive refuses cooperation. Instead there is this dull mineral persistence, this sedimentary continuation. Everything gleams and cuts. Everything. A child points at a fountain and I feel an entire civilisation ending inside my sternum. Ridiculous, yes. Yet history itself is ridiculous, emperors felled by fevers, kingdoms undone by damp weather, entire philosophies constructed around avoiding the obvious fact that most people spend their lives begging the universe for receipts. Mine never arrived. I invested heavily in becoming lovable and received a receipt printer full of blank paper. The stars above the carpark seem deeply uninterested in arbitration. I admire that. To witness catastrophe and remain decorative. To witness catastrophe and glitter. I stand beneath them feeling scraped clean of every redeeming fiction, every small certificate of significance, until even despair feels extravagant.

What remains is simpler: a pair of hands. A pulse. An astonishing quantity of air entering and exiting a creature no longer convinced it deserves either.

luminote

I break everything apart only to watch you bleed through all that's mine.

noorshirazie

WHO WILL REMAIN IN YOUR FINAL HOUR?

Instead of becoming a victim of pain, you weaponize it. Now everywhere you look is a burial ground filled with collateral damage.

You don't have a shot at being loved when you're too busy alienating yourself, let alone loving others. When fury becomes a poison, it seeps into every connection, squashing the faintest possibility of softness.

Others warmly open their door to you. The only response you know is to thrust an eviction notice into their blindsided hands.

paper-wounds

maxxie-or-smth

goddddd and i just UGH but also UGHHHHH and aughhhh.... oughhhhhhhhh...... ACK !!! and.... aghhhhhhhh. ughhhhh ! UGH !!!!! and i can't even because AGHHHHHHH. UGHHH