Salma @slowedversion - Tumblr Blog

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'City of Cards'. Piero Fornasetti. 1950.

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The anatomy of a daydream

For I am the tree, shedding my leaves free,

for I am anchored, a leave departs once every rupture.

Seasons confuse my branches, I thought my branches would know,

the betrayal of clouds and snow.

Seeing a snowman I can form, but my roots anchored for the storm,

for I am a being of heaven and mold, with a sharp tooth to grip a pen in bold.

I craft my snowman with invisible ink, to my surprise it won't blink.

Why won't my snowman blink?

The rainy clouds won't show him to me, the snowman isn't guilty,

Unlike my deceitful ink;

My roots absorbing the ink in stream. The rest trapped in a day dream.

Absorbing dust and ink and de-ath and snow, where did my snowman go?

I dropped an apple or two "these are for you."

Sneaky wind offers its storm, dissolving spirit into elements of norm.

The transient nature of existence, dancing with hopeful persistence,

wrenched at the core, the roots are scattered,

is a storm coming or has none of it mattered?

#poetry #neurodiversity

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Beautiful Accidents

She tripped over nothing like the air had it out for her like gravity leaned in a little closer when she walked by

Coffee cups slipped from her hands like they were trying to escape her warmth keys scattered like startled birds and door frames she knew them all by heart every edge, every bruise

She laughed it off with that crooked, apologetic smile like the world was a joke she wasn't quite in on but loved anyway

And I swear every stumble felt like music a soft percussion of almosts and oops a rhythm only she could make beautiful

Because it wasn't the falling that stayed with me it was the way she'd look up hair in her face, cheeks flushed grinning like she'd just discovered another reason to be alive

Clumsy, sure but in a world that moves too clean, too sharp she was a beautiful mess of edges and accidents and I loved her most in the moments she couldn't quite hold together

thirdity

“I have never felt any antagonism for or anxiety over the anarchy represented by the prevailing forms of art; on the contrary, I have always welcomed the dissolving influences. In an age marked by dissolution, liquidation seems to me a virtue, nay a moral imperative. Not only have I never felt the least desire to conserve, bolster up or buttress anything, but I might say that I have always looked upon decay as being just as wonderful and rich an expression of life as growth.”

— Henry Miller, Henry Miller on Writing