Worm and Zee Writing

A blog by TheGardenSystem312 and Urlocalwormtoday for posting our poetry and other writing.

[wormandzeewriting]

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This blog is ran by @urlocalwormtoday and @thegardensystem312, and it’s for our poetry

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And please read our blurbs here

Thank you for showing interest in our work, hopefully we see you around!

– Zee

[wormandzeewriting]

Empty O' Wisp

A blank and empty page

swims and sweals and wisps away.

The edges recoil from the blaze,

but seen doesn't mean saved.

A blackend, ruined paper

fights and bites and burns.

The flame is all yours,

the ashes remember.

A black hole opens in the booklet,

all-consuming, and wholly swallows it.

It claws, thrashes, goes out in a fit,

drowns in embers until the pain quits.

by @thegardensystem312

[wormandzeewriting]

It.

Snap. Snap. Snapping.

Snarl. Snarl. Snarling.

Bare its bare, broken teeth—

bite, bleed, but barely skin deep.

With light footsteps,

in light foxtrot,

it fights, roots set,

in fury of rot.

Growling, hissing,

gone, long missing,

a murmur, muffled,

murdered, it mumbles.

Hardly heard, hardly here.

Its heart hums—who hears?

How high it must hiss, hurt,

to be buried in bloodied dirt.

Love like a listless soul

stuck on river Styx, lulled

by lonely, lost screams

of sinners in daydreams.

by @thegardensystem312

[wormandzeewriting]

carpe diem per tempus fugit .

bury me in the garden ,

carpe diem , for i die .

thus always to tyrants ,

but let me surrender this fight .

i want to yield , i want to sway .

i want to feel , my own way .

danse macabre over graves ,

stomping on the hearts of knaves ,

whilst the queen sits on her throne —

a cracked-to-bits gravestone .

i want to deal , i want to play .

i want to feel , my own way .

i know time is fleeting , fickle .

the sands slip past my fingertips

in a slow , swift , steady trickle .

enjoying fun realises tempus fugit .

i want to heal , i want to fray .

i want to feel , my own way .

memento mori , i hear her whispers ;

lady death , you cannot miss her .

as eternal deep calleth unto deep .

my eternal deep is a sea of sleep .

i want to reel , i want to lay .

i want to feel , my own way .

by @thegardensystem312

[wormandzeewriting]

Envy

Not often do I think;

"It should have been me."

I quite like to pride myself

on the appreciation of others.

I like to think, think, think,

"They have worked

long and hard

and deserve all that they get."

I quite like to be

kind.

Or, as kind as I can be.

And I like to help, where I can.

I would not consider myself envious—

and it is because of this, that I would say

that not often do I think;

"It should have been me."

But tonight, I admit,

that I dream a horrible dream.

I dream of Her fingers in my hair,

and Her laugh in my ear.

Touch dancing on skin, a want

so visceral

that I've begun to peel away

where I dream Her hands lay.

I dream of Her,

and She is the sun,

and a ring in my eyes She makes

because I will never look at anything

the same way.

Not often do I think;

"It should have been me."

But, goodness, sometimes—

Sometimes I dream an envious dream,

and sometimes I wish I were someone else.

That way, I'd get the pleasure

of meeting Her

all over again.

[wormandzeewriting]

One way trip.

(This poem contains spoilers for the Iron Lung film)

A one way trip.

Go to a blood moon,

To a place brand new,

And float around

In space,

In sea,

In sanguine pleas.

A one way trip.

First dive, first flight.

Consumed by fright.

Start to overheat.

In space,

In sea,

In sanguine pleas.

A one way trip.

Lose your mind,

Lose your life,

You were never meant to survive,

It was a one way trip.

It was a one way trip.

But you will be missed.

by @thegardensystem312

[wormandzeewriting]

A Sorrow of Ambrose and Nectar.

Golden honey fit for a god, a queen, a jester.

Amber pain cries from my soul like rain on soil.

I bleed gold, do you call me wealthy or lesser?

I bleed honey, do you call me lovely or leave me to rot?

Buzzing fills my head, a hive of bees

Busy distracting me from my thoughts.

I am at a loss.

Let me try, let me thrive,

Let me feast among beast and men,

Let me be, let me cry, let me die.

Dine fine on my flesh, I am your ambrose.

Fine wine at my best, I am your nectar.

Shine fine, douse my heart, I am your ambrose.

Fine line, cross my stars, I am your nectar.

by @thegardensystem312

[wormandzeewriting]

A Sonnet of Ambrose and Nectar.

Golden honey fit for a god, queen, or jester.

Amber running like tears cutting down rosy cheeks.

Divine feasts are surplused with a glowing nectar.

You not need lie through bleary eyes and salty streaks.

I dreamt a dream where I’d seen a world inside-out.

You stood there, I was scared, my thoughts were a pyre.

The clouds lay heavy with many droplets of doubt.

Smoke rose around me, grey surmounting up higher.

A courtesy of Dionysus—we sing skolia and serve wine

At this symposium. Like a ghost, you linger longer in the hall

Until it’s long past dusk. The cheer leaves my ears ringing after we dine

And drink and dance our worries away. Echoes now ring off the wall.

Now in the night we near eachother, alone for this while.

And for a brief heartbeat, I see you genuinely smile.

by @thegardensystem312

[wormandzeewriting]

The World is Mine.

　I am stalking through spring fields, snow fading and sun flaming, when a shadow overhead looms. My initial thought is relief; finally, refuge from the heat. The second is hesitation; halting and, to the a-hovering thing, heeling my head back to heed it.

　The revenant veers, reels back, and the soft sun sees down on my eyes once more. Then it bears its teeth, rings of ivy weaved among weeping rust. No slight fragment of fear sings in my soul at the sight. The breeze brushes against my bruised skin gently, so gently, and I face the foreboding figure with a friendly smile—a defence valiant against its snarling thorns. And yet it bites, metal against monster in a murderous moment; it snaps a soaring jet with its jaws, engine sputtering with bramble juttering through wings man-made.

　With a hidden caution in the crested shadows it casts, the creature lowers its form, looming still as it leans to let the jet onto the soft field in front of me. Blood and scraps of metal and machinery and fuel and whatever else to see from such a sight sprawls at my feet. The world is mine. The thing—thorns, fangs, and all—bows to me, and I sense its fear in the air mixed with the foul smells of the mangled metal fowl. The world is mine. I decline.

　This thing, so tall, thinks I am the threat. This thing, with bared teeth and barbed thorns in a wreath, thinks it must submit to me. This thing that seized a jet by the throat from the sky thinks the world is mine. I pity it. I deny it. I am a mere fraction of its height. The world is mine, it fears. I decline.

　Backwards I step, a droplet in an infinite waltz of life, and the revenant rears its head and rams its antlers of rowan and willow and twisted wood into the remains of the plane, insisting that the world is mine. I still decline.

　Then the creature, distraught by the thought that I disapprove of its present, takes the plane with its paws and bats it off over mountain and forest and sea, past the horizon, off the end of the planet. Tremendous, the echo carries across the world from end to end, and as chaos rings and people scream, I still stand there in the spring-green field. The world is mine, it whispers as the whole world roars. I decline, as the world seems to be yours.

by @honeyzee312

[wormandzeewriting]

Vivencia

Poetic words dance, still.

Pages rustle, then spill.

A pen to paper it meets,

and from ink, the poem bleeds—

a weary wish of shallows deep.

Empty rooms blushed by dust,

dirt, dead buds, smell of rust.

And roses lie in the streets.

To be admired, not seen.

Pulp on pavement, they cannot weep.

A pot in the window.

Dreams on wire wound low.

Kept safe and sound by the sheets,

you imagine life is threading beads.

Flowers shower you in your sleep.

…

Petals of white beauty.

Pure and divine Calla lilies.

They call my name with a burning fervour,

and lure me even closer, ever further.

Stars in blue constellations;

clustered blossoms are Chatham’s giants.

They beg, “forget me not”, they beg in tears,

they beg and beg, and beg yet to deafened ears.

Blood on thorns, loss and love.

Vines entwined, arched above.

Rosy cheeks and church bells sing.

Union to ruin, a broken ring.

…

A present from all not,

sits on the shelf to rot.

Life gifts you foxgloves, a freit,

hydrangeas, and morning glories.

But all you see are red fires you keep.

Shade of trees give for all

love of mother floral.

The sun blazes down in warbling heat.

Leaves fall in yellows, browns, and greens.

The willow will always wilt and weep.

Koi; stand tall, wise, and great.

Love the life left of late.

Whites and golds, a gasp that fleets.

Carpe diem, the day you seize.

Overhead, droplets shimmer, take a leap.

by @honeyzee312

[wormandzeewriting]

The Terme of this Stanza

I run my hands along the walls of this room.

Stanza means room in Italian.

Every step taken I count;

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…"

There is no light, no sight. It's pitch dark.

"Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six." I meet an end.

This room is large isn't it? Fifty-six paces.

Though, there are flaws to my imagination.

I did not put one foot after the other with no gaps.

So I suppose I must do it all again.

Why am I counting how large the room is?

I should be looking for an exit. Except it's barren.

There are no windows. There are no doors.

There is no light switch. No texture on the walls, even.

'Word' in French is 'terme'.

Terme also means 'end'.

Terme also means 'boundary'.

Terme also means 'duration'.

I have found the terme of this stanza.

The borders of this room I'm stuck in.

by @honeyzee312

[wormandzeewriting]

One must imagine, wonder, does Sisyphus tire?

Does he ever sleep at night?

Or does he just keep rolling that boulder higher,

failing every time yet continuing to try reaching Hade’s sky,

nevermind that it holds no light?

And even yet, it’s not near high enough—it’s never near high enough—to reach any end, to escape Tartarus, to escape punishment!

So all the while, his labours meet palms roughened and time worthless and a whole world palled to this slope; his home, the soil he plods along up and down forevermore.

One must imagine, wonder, is Sisyphus content?

Does he find a purpose in this punishment?

Or does he curse his own hubris under his breath?

Does he wish the gods would look away and let him rest?

What happens if Sisyphus falters?

Does the boulder roll down, regress?

Does he risk his own blood shed?

One must imagine, one must wonder,

what goes through his mind?

It is only speculation, you can only theorise.

Is Sisyphus afraid of death and blight?

Or is he used to it? Numbed to it?

Turning a blind eye? Or waiting for even more to die?

One must imagine, wonder, does Sisyphus cry?

Or has he accepted his fate and ignored his hurt pride?

by @honeyzee312

[wormandzeewriting]

Dear 2010's;

love is a quiet shake

in the mornings when my mind won't wake

in the autumn with sparkling eyes

when you joke and jeer and laugh til you cry

love is a newborn thrill

with a watergun, holding it still

while the summer wraps you up in a hug

and you watch tens of crawling, tiny ladybugs

love is all you can't see

in your parents as they make ends meet

in the buzzing of a cicada swarm

wring your mind as I play the wrong chords

love is always how I start my day

as your voice cuts lines into melting clay

and no one can hear you but me

and no one can see what I see

love is what keeps me awake at night

as I wonder if I'm doing it right

love circles my neck like a noose

and it teaches me how to love you

love wraps my bones up in glass

and we both know that the feelings will pass

caused by love and the evil it brings

caused by hate and the whimsy it sings

love is everything that I can see

in the days where I cannot be me

as my lungs feel like they'll soon collapse

as my knees ache from pacing laps

love is the one who stares back at you

in the mirror when you swear it's not true

love is the quietest, warmest, gentlest touch

that you want, though you know it's not much

and love is the softest kind

of hate when it's pushed to the side

so when we're both done and riddled through

you'll look in your reflection and see that I'm you

[wormandzeewriting]

Dear 2010's;

love is a quiet shake

in the mornings when my mind won't wake

in the autumn with sparkling eyes

when you joke and jeer and laugh til you cry

love is a newborn thrill

with a watergun, holding it still

while the summer wraps you up in a hug

and you watch tens of crawling, tiny ladybugs

love is all you can't see

in your parents as they make ends meet

in the buzzing of a cicada swarm

wring your mind as I play the wrong chords

love is always how I start my day

as your voice cuts lines into melting clay

and no one can hear you but me

and no one can see what I see

love is what keeps me awake at night

as I wonder if I'm doing it right

love circles my neck like a noose

and it teaches me how to love you

love wraps my bones up in glass

and we both know that the feelings will pass

caused by love and the evil it brings

caused by hate and the whimsy it sings

love is everything that I can see

in the days where I cannot be me

as my lungs feel like they'll soon collapse

as my knees ache from pacing laps

love is the one who stares back at you

in the mirror when you swear it's not true

love is the quietest, warmest, gentlest touch

that you want, though you know it's not much

and love is the softest kind

of hate when it's pushed to the side

so when we're both done and riddled through

you'll look in your reflection and see that I'm you

[wormandzeewriting]

Planetarium

Last night, my mind wandered far into outer space—

I dreamt of stars and comets and nebulae,

then awoke to find a quasar in my ribcage

where my heart had once burnt bright like a solar plage.

Where did that warmth, that light, go?

When did that warmth, that light, go?

I do not know. I do not know.

I want to take you to the planetarium

and point out all the constellations they got wrong

with those little dots we see in their dome,

meant to mimic the galaxy we made our own.

But you know the night sky like the back of your hand,

and I only learnt enough from you in order to understand

your joy, your spark, the blood of your heart, the respite

you find in it which I could never match try as I might.

Where did my joy, my fun, go?

When did my joy, my fun, go?

I do not know. I do not know.

So instead of killing my pride to be by your side,

I will think of you by making my own fake sky

in my room where you will never see, on my roof

via galaxy ceiling stickers that fall all as proof

that I still love you as you loved me those nights

we’d lay by each other beneath the moonlight.

Where did my dear, my love, go?

When did my dear, my love, go?

I do not know. I do not know.

by @honeyzee312

[wormandzeewriting]

Safe Spaces.

I have two safe spaces here where I live.

Neither feel fully safe. Their love is more

Conditional.

Glow-in-the-dark stars mark these two safe spaces

I have

A small amount over my head, on the wall behind my bed.

The glow of these stars are sad and stark;

It turns out that glow-in-the-dark stars can’t glow right

When the dark lasts day-and-night.

It turns out that glow-in-the-dark stars can’t glow right

When they cannot wallow in some light.

It’s my reality, but it makes a good metaphor;

This space is the safest one of the two here where I live.

This space is where I sleep, back to drowning in the abyss.

The darkness is never-ending there above my bed.

The stars don’t glow there—they are dim, dull, dead.

I have two safe spaces here where I live.

Neither are fully mine. Their reign is more

Dismissible.

Glow-in-the-dark stars mark these two safe spaces

I have

A galaxy on the ceiling of the bathroom—

The place where I

So frequently linger—

That’s lacking of the feeling of the comfort,

The peace, which I

So ceaselessly long for.

These stars glow to a degree, but you must crane

Your neck to see them. When I look up at the pretend

Ceiling constellations, I don’t get the innocent

Child-like consolation I am supposed to attain.

The only thing it instills in me is anxiety

As I bare my throat and risk imaginary

Strangulation at the make-believe

Claws of the fake, illusive beast.

The glow-in-the-dark stars on my bathroom ceiling

Are disappointing, not comforting.

They aren’t bright enough, barely emitting any light.

They aren’t secure enough, several have already fallen.

They aren’t what I expected. What I wanted.

It’s my suffering, but it makes a good metaphor;

This space is the brighter one of the two here where I live.

This space is feeling less safe with each shadowed spirit.

The tiles are broken, the wallpaper peels, it’s falling apart.

The comfort I used to feel in here is growing scarce.

I have two safe spaces here where I live.

Neither are truly safe. Their rank is more

Comparative.

Glow-in-the-dark stars mark these two safe spaces

I have. And there is nowhere safer

To go in this place. The darkness is infinite

Where I sleep and dream. The solace diminishes

Slowly where light does reach. I am not ready to

Build a new safe space with mortar and

Broken bones and comfort. I was not ready to

Share my current space with the weighted

Ghost of everything negative in my mind.

I am not ready. I was not ready.

by @honeyzee312

[wormandzeewriting]

Imagining. (What A World That Never Was.)

a hole is to dig

as a partner is to love

as a half is to a whole

as the winter is to snow

as the trees are to bare

a glorious harvest full

as the fruits are to rot

as the sniffle, as snot

runs from your nose

as the good you are not

a hole is to dig

as the hands are to cradle

as the past is to mold

as the soup is to ladle

as the breath is to warm

the face of another

as the lips are to kiss

as the flowers, as mist

blanket the garden

as a lover is to miss

a hole is to dig

as the path is to stray

as the weeds are to return

as the dog is to stay

as the words are to say

as the world is to turn

and stop for none at all

as the time is to run

as the future is the past

repeating in complicity

as the present is meant to pass.