new poem about a very specific feeling it’s called someone will remember us (constructive criticism would be appreciated, i feel like it’s missing something but i can’t tell what)
Someone will remember us, I say
Even in another time
Words put down on a fragment of paper
Used to stop a jar of wine, residue of a full poem
Written by a woman who wrote also of her love for women
So overwhelming she could no longer weave
Someone will remember us
Two young men, soldiers, in love
Write letters to each other
“Wouldn't it be wonderful if all our letters could be published in the future in a more enlightened time.
Then all the world could see how in love we are.”
Someone will remember us
Hidden in a print room for decades, never returned to their subjects
Photographs of a wedding; windows covered, doors closed
Two men, their love, their friends, against the law and the whole wide world
With no memento of their special day
Someone will remember us
Artists in a New York recovering from war
Braving critics and bigotry together
Diving into creation and making codes only they understand
Their work is in a gallery together, years later, for all the world to see
Someone will remember us
Hundreds upon hundreds of photographs developed by sympathizers
Names and hearts carved into walls, into trees, into benches
Letters, diaries, telegrams, notes, paintings, art
Hundreds of lost names, thousands of stories
Someone will remember us
Millions of voices saying, screaming, whispering
Over the buzz of time, space, law, country
Remember us.
We were here. We were happy. We were loved.
Someone will remember us, I say
Even in another time
wrote a poem. !! trigger warning !!: police, broken bones, bullet wounds, scars, tear gas, cigarettes, panic attacks, self-harm, eating disorders, suicide, abuse implications, murder statistics, climate change, all mentioned in passing but not in detail
What do I know?
I know a lot of things.
I know the structure of an atom.
I know the structure of a cell.
I know how to avoid getting put in one if the cops get you.
I know my rights and I know how to apply them.
I know what to say and when to shut up.
I know how to stay out of trouble.
I know how to steal.
I know who and where to steal from.
I know who and where to give to, and how.
I know mathematics.
I know all of it up to year nine in the Australian school system.
I know addition and subtraction and multiplication and division.
I know algebra and the rules of fractional equations.
I know how to temporarily treat a bone fracture.
I know how to fix up a bullet wound while you’re waiting for the ambulance.
I know how to close wounds so they don’t scar.
I know how to do CPR.
I know how to wash tear gas from someone’s eyes.
I know how to sew.
I know which corner-store fabrics are best to protect from knives and shots and punches.
I know how they made coats in the French Revolution.
I know what brand of cigarettes was most popular in the First World War.
I know how Ancient Egyptian doctors treated headaches.
I know how to help someone through a panic attack.
I know how to comfort someone through grief.
I know how to handle someone who’s so, so angry they might just hurt someone.
I know how to handle someone who’s so, so angry they might just hurt themselves.
I know how to convince someone to eat, to sleep, to drink some water, when they won’t.
I know how to convince someone not to kill themselves.
I know French and English and Spanish.
I know how to read Shakespeare and I know how to analyze it.
I know how to use my words.
I know how to choose them, too.
I know how I can build sentences to get the effect that I need.
I know when to shut up.
I know how to tell people by their footsteps.
I know how to hide.
I know how to stop breathing, stop moving, stop being noticed.
I know how to act.
I know how to pretend.
I know how to lie.
I know that the first weather forecast was made on the 1st of August, 1861.
I know that I am four times more likely to be murdered than the average person and that my life expectancy is 30.
I know every single lyric to Hamilton.
I know that on May 12th, 1780, John Adams said "I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain."
I know that it’s been 242 years since then.
I know that we still study politics.
I know that diamonds are made of carbon.
I know that CO2 — carbon dioxide — is made up of one carbon atom and two oxygen atoms.
I know that there is so much of it in the air that if we don’t get rid of all of it in the next 28 years, we will kill the planet.
I know that I don’t want children.
I think a better question would be :
What don’t you know?
What would you like to?
I would like to know what it’s like to not be scared every minute of the day.
I would like to know what it’s like to look to the future and see more than blurry grey fog.
I would like to know what it’s like to be unaware, unaffected, unafraid, and happy.
I would like to know what people think of my poetry.
I would like to know how this all turns out.
I would like to know if I ever get a history degree.
I would like to know if my friends ever stop hurting themselves.
I would like to know if one day, this will all seem silly, because there is nothing to be afraid of anymore.
Hey I found this fic exchange that's for works not in English and I figured you might wanna sign up with your French AO3 or smth so you can finally post something there ^^
as an apology for my past few weeks months of absence, have this little snippet featuring my ocs
Owen stared in mildly annoyed wonder at the sight presenting itself to his eyes. Wilbur, standing at his door, wearing his usual white shirt and suspenders, blood around the cuffs and on his face. Disheveled, ruddy, and smiling that damned smile that Owen never could say no to. Heaving a sigh, he opened the door without a word. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt his heart leap when Wilbur’s knuckles brushed against his hand, leaving a faint trace of red. Steeling himself, he turned to face the other man, who had settled in to one of his dining room’s chairs and was fiddling with his red-stained fingers, the look on his face and the blood on his hands clear indicators that this wasn’t just a courtesy call. Damn him.
I am a million things;
I am whispers, and I am letters, and I am eccentric, I am rather a queer fellow, aren’t I? And I am a hat of someone else’s choosing and a pair of sensible, well-shined shoes, and I am green carnations and pansies and violets and grass, and I am coded languages named after the North Star, and I am constellations, and I am wild, and I am memory, and I am hiding, and I am subtext and undertones and euphemisms and implications, and I am the euphoria of finally being seen, and I am a freak, and I am an animal, and I am going to hell, and I am a sin, and I am pride, and I am bricks and riots, and I am chorus lines, and I am theatres and plays, and I am acting and I am pretending, and I am backstage, and I am backrooms, and I am closets, and I am kitchens, and I am family, and I am song, and I am a queen, and I am stardust, and I am a cannon, and I am… you know… and I am creation and I am destruction and I am smashing things apart, and I am beautiful, and I am pain, and I am buses, and I am a village, and I am ambiguity, and I am history, and I am living on after death,
And above all,
I am not alone.
Hey I’m really sorry for not updating lately we just moved and my word/google docs r both being really weird so until i can fix that i cant access my fics, once again sorry
