#the feedback project

[garimaobrah]

Soul makes

Far away in the dearth of sea,

There flew a fantasy. 

Someday in the circle of chance,

Destinies will be enhanced. 

Parts of a soul, just born apart, 

Different worlds, but pieces of the same heart. 

They meet, and they meet again, 

The only belief that shall remain. 

Each time, the same lie to believe,

This one will be the last to leave.

But how many lasts make the last?

Life’s biggest sarcast.

After the dew on the leaf is gone,

It looks fresher than ever before. 

Like a vulnerable tiny newborn, 

But inside, a crestfallen forlorn.

Fresh starts are easier to make, 

Truth today, will tomorrow be fake. 

Whenever you wonder what to do,

Stand through and continue.

To hope, to feel, to love, to pretend,

Till everyone leaves in the end.

[shessomeonesomewhere]

Abstract

Strange is the season of happiness.

It comes as you do.

A song, a laugh, a picture

All remind me of you.

"Beautiful" you say.

Your hand glides across my cheek.

I am no longer scared.

I am warm.

Effervescent admiring.

"Beautiful, is what you are."

But beautiful is not perfect.

Beautiful is crooked in just the right way.

Beautiful is just a slight leaning to one side

Beautiful is the sadness behind the strength.

Beautiful is tripping.

Beautiful is babbling

Beautiful is comfort.

Beautiful is abstract.

Beautiful is trying.

Beautiful is falling.

Here's to Falling.

[izabellaxox]

Girls Kiss Girls

Touch me with such lips- let our lips align. I beg to feel the warmth of such lips against mine.

The soft petals on your face are jigsawed into place by a sculptor that could only be transcendent. As I trace the petals with my thumb, static makes my nerves go numb. Such lips, which move so independent.

So,

Touch me with such lips- let our lips align. I beg to feel the warmth of such lips against mine.

[thenatureofdaylight]

'Due Tramonti' in the Rain

Timberland shelves of forestry hide the horizon. All the times I’ve lingered this way, a sheet of skin beholding highways. Are we not one in the same?

When I was younger, I missed my family’s footsteps in the morning, sunken in the air, my legs dragged to the room across a hallway, ever-slowing before a long pharmaceutical bed where they kept, merely sleeping beyond waking time, winding limbs like twined root. And I, a television croaks, and I.

Consider this: my hands receiving the sky for a little less than twenty years, their due colors mapped in palm lines and housed under cuticles. Do I come to learn love? I was only a teenager. Love was the mightiest growl in the pitch of C, a sound somebody told me I’d make not with my mouth but with my shape, and yet, shouting anyway, I retched like a phantom floating from my back porch, on and away, orbiting a rind of smoke till become dust. My favorite riddle returned me to my own heart unfolding, shy but unkempt, insides wrinkled to a varicose sky-like blue.

Now two warped memories speak back. My father cries at the kitchen table after our Grandma Molly passed. The shaking would not stay in his throat. It was not yet his time to turn to tumbleweed.

My mother might have kissed his hands.

Alone, but with myself beside her, she drives nightward propelled into harsh rain, and it’s vast, a bestial drumming born without sense of time or sleep, a lost threnody from one million years ago. The pelt of fallen sky is a shelter of its own, a place I feel safe enough to show her a song. And it doesn’t take more than a moment, as she holds the shaking in her throat. She cries, warmth clutched close to her chest.

They never hurt me with their hurt, only lent it to me. Know there’s beauty in the tension that hangs between two rooms, between rustling woodland and a hidden sun’s sleeping chorus. I know they love me, know they needed their rest too. I came across my mother and father holding hands in the sun the other day. I don’t want to know the words they were saying.

Sometimes it feels like I found love floating like a dust mote on a sunbeam. I was walking somewhere and stopped in my tracks to look up. There, adjusting to my eyes, tiny cities frail enough to ascend on the tails of my breath’s dimmest hum. And there love was. And there it was.

[thelovelyepiphanot]

And I do not know if you are love. Time has not told me yet. But you almost perfectly fit into the hollow of my heart. And those little nooks and crannies that were left empty have been filled with the tears we cried, the dry remnants of the rose petals you gave me under the moon as it shone at us. You have made my heart whole.

-the lovely epiphanot

[hijinky]

Paper Crane

Sometimes I think of you, and the way you looked in the early morning. The sunrise streams into your eyes, still blurred with sleep and dreams.

All is soft,

and warm,

and quiet.

And sometimes i think of the way you would touch my face. So gently, as though I were a paper crane and you weren’t sure if i might tear or fly away.

And I think of “I love you”s that are muffled in kisses on my flesh, the scars of the words are still carved there. Your name is signed under them. God, you weren’t the first. But part of me hoped you would be the last.

I wonder why we are not together now.

Then i remember.

I watched as our bright, clear sunrises turned to stormy sea clouds. Summer warmth vanished and your contempt battered me like a freak hail. I have never felt so helpless;

Standing there,

hands open and begging,

only to receive blow after blow.

I felt your feelings dissipating and i could only watch.

When we looked at one another, our gazes became that of two opponents, sizing each other up before a battle. Every time you spoke, i geared for war.

Oh, i was so tired.

Everyday i would rip open my chest and pull out everything of value, just to keep you.

I became so

empty.empty.empty.

Your tongue became acidic.

Your speech was littered with hidden insults. Insults but not quite. Uninsults.

“You could look better”

“You’re such a mess.”

“I’ll help you get your life together.”

“You can never do better than me.”

But they were jokes right? I’m too sensitive, right?

How does sweetness die? Buried under miles of bitterness and envy and hurt. Was it because i ran out of things to give? Am i really not good enough?

Will you ever tell me?

Our death was a slow one, a creeping cancer. Before i knew it was there, it was too late. It had taken over, it was filling our throat and choking us so that we couldn't breathe. Soon we were drowning in the toxicity. And the only way to save ourselves was to tear the rends that held us together.

I can still see the scratches in my skin where your fingers worked desperately at the binds that made us once. Sometimes i run my fingers over the gash where your body and soul was torn from mine, and i pray it fades.

Along with your face, along with all our memories.

I touch the scar gently, like it’s a paper crane, and I’m afraid it may tear or fly away. I don’t know which I’d prefer.

[thenatureofdaylight]

To Spill

Trouble slinking into the doorway again. Just wanted to see your face still there. I’m a faucet begun to spill, a lighter, a tape recorder with your name written on the front and back.

It’s a Sunday, somehow morning, baby-blue falling outside my window, and you’re walking across the street.

I feel better when you’re here. I hear them building everyday next door. You touch a glass of cold water to the bridge of your nose and you say, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

[shessomeonesomewhere]

...

I've done all I can. No more can I do. Now, so it seems, Is left up to you.