a poet's garden.

[nixscriptum]

less of a poem, more of a reminder. ( ఌ )

[av0id-reality]

[tenth-sentence]

The advance of medicine has given us a dangerous population growth; the advance of technology has given us a growing pollution danger; a group of ivory-tower, head-in-the-clouds physicists have given us the nuclear bomb; and so on and so on and so on.

"The Stars in their Courses" - Isaac Asimov

[achlyx]

"The most difficult moments of your life will be the catalysts of your becoming. The challenges will grow you into someone you never imagined you could be... You will be grateful things didn't turn out the way you wanted. You will be grateful for what you struggle with once you get to the other side."

[nocturnalanguage]

ii. final summer rites.

autumn couldn’t have came any sooner.

a sweltering heat that slips between the verdant protection of rooted gods. it is icarus himself in the flesh.

or, maybe, not in the flesh at all — no bodily evidence but an ichorous hue. is that why they’ve named the golden cascade as ichor? for a mortal just as golden in wings splayed so powerfully, beating to the sounds of heavenly drums?

i wonder if we’ll get that too.

our toes curled in a pool of tranquility, far warmer than we’d like — blue was always meant to be cool. and yet, perhaps, it’s the shy nudges of skin to sky, small smiles creeping up our faces with a slight pull to the bottom lip — we’ve swallowed the sun whole and in our bodies, we are bright.

the winds whisper of us in the last days of summer, carrying out a witness to repeated history. i see the feathers of icarus’s wings in the rooted gods, hanging by a thread with a poor attempt to mimic what it means to be human. burn leaves kissed by the sun rays — you weren’t meant to fall, sweet boy.

c’mon, darling, hold tight and we’ll keep each other warm. we are the suns, falling is not an option for us.

[paradoxarchive]

i yearn to be greater than i believe myself able to become

sylvia plath | soapstore | chuck palahniuk | danielpup | fyodor dostoyevsky | asofterworld | geloy concepcion | david bowie | jonathan safran foer | soapstore

[nocturnalanguage]

sometimes i see the faces of the people i knew in the people i know, and i have to remind myself that colors may mix but they are never the same. no painting is exact with a beauty that fades.

[thoughtkick]

“Maybe you’ve met the right person, but you’re just not ready to fall in love.”

— Unknown

[nocturnalanguage]

there is a certain joy in being with him, neither butterflies nor rollercoasters. a spring born out of the soil of my heart blood, where flowers bloom and sing, cheeks rosy from smiling and a love i do not know the name of.

[nocturnalanguage]

i was born with a woman’s rage to the world and a man’s indifferent cruelty.

[nocturnalanguage]

There is a vacancy in my mind that is typically left alone unless dusted at the reminder of what first left it vacant. In such a case that I am reminded, the shelves clean itself in dire fervor as anger, exhaustion, and sorrow fill by row. However, how could I tell a mother this? When she forsakes me as spoiled, and perhaps I am (it hurts so much to admit yet is another added in the pile of insecurities that burden my child shoulders), I cannot admit that it is a relapse to which she thought was cured. That a single appointment of therapy would ought to fix me right up. That she herself seemingly has not research. Nevertheless, it is my fault. As is all things. For every time I open my mouth to explain, I can feel the tendrils enter and suffocate the words down in crumbled ash that tastes bitter of failure and fear for how could a mother understand when she herself never sought to?

[nocturnalanguage]

I want a home that is built of nothing but myself. No inkling of a mother or spouse, just alone in solitude. For I have grown to find solace in the warmth of my body, curled as a babe in hopes of substituting those who were not present. What I so required as a child is now nothing but a desire I abhor and refuse. And, it is in this house where a mother and her partner live, where a grandmother of creaking bones and a repressed soul reside, that I cannot be myself nor by. I have never felt lonelier than in the presence of others who love yet do not not try to understand me.

[crowcussion]

idk if any other csa/cocsa survivors have this, but like i don’t like the way my clothes touch me, and i don’t like how sometimes how i sit ends up with my foot on my crotch. is that just me?

(edited because i recently figured out about cocsa and that being what happened to me)

[rottingtrouble-child]

Btw you’re still valid if your trauma made you less independent rather than hyper independent

[trauma-fawn-deactivated20230627]

a piece i did for my book on my trauma

[doingfantastic]

It’s weird to miss who you were before the trauma when there was no you before the trauma.

[nocturnalanguage]

death is a fickle thing. but, i hope that before it greets me, i will have said my farewell through words written in poetry and embedded in the reader’s bones. for my stories shall be my burial to where i lay rest—finally, at home.