wretched soul

pretty in pink poetry “I surrender my desire to be healed. The blurriness of being alive.”

[neckkiss]

By Janik Geissler

[recked]

[neckkiss]

via weheartit

[earth-pix]

[enjoyablesquares]

[expressions-of-nature]

[wildsunshine]

[putrid-pink]

Straw house, straw dog - Richard Siken

[kindlles]

[omgrosecolouredglasses]

[vagabondprophet-deactivated2025]

Pluto

There are songs I sing along

A perfect recitation every time,

Yet can not recall the words

Disembodied from the harmony.

Places I have traveled

And upon arriving

Could not retrace the path

Having only paid attention

To the road but not the turns,

The concrete but not the way

It tugged and let me follow it home.

Memory weaves a crooked tale

And upon a crooked frame

It still dares to stand

And tell me who I am.

With gallery grace

And arena acoustics,

Gladiator gravitas

Let me make some things clear.

I tell warped stories so woeful

That listeners lips curl into a frown

And getting stuck that way

I create monuments to my own sorrow

Just to insure I’ll be remembered.

As any poet I spout forth

Enough hot air

To raise the balloon,

Even if it’s just to let it crash

When I’m lost for words.

For my diction though expansive

Can’t ever get the whole truth out,

Every new term I learn

Only dances around the crux of the matter.

With gallery grace

And arena acoustics,

Gladiator gravitas

Let me make some things unclear.

Where does my valour lie?

Which ditch do I need

To kick a spade at

To dig it up and dust it off?

Would it even be salvageable

And if it is, could I trust

That it was ever truly mine?

If it fits so foreign

And slopes off my shoulders

Far too broad

It can’t have been made for me.

What waterproofing can I spread

At all the seals

So I’m not undone at the

First sign of calamity.

Do the stars tire

Of holding up the night

With linked arms

And sagging spines,

In the same way I grow weary

Of holding my head up

Of putting one foot

In front of the other

When I’d rather put my back to the soil

And my toes to the sky?

Memory weaves a crooked tale

And upon a crooked frame

I also crooked refuse to play this game.

Not severing roots

But forgetting the dirt they grew in,

Never ignoring my own past

But stubborn as a mule

And steady as a tractor

I now set my own course.

With gallery grace

And arena acoustics,

Gladiator gravitas

Let me say just one more thing

I am the last of my kind

Like Pluto far off

Almost forgotten

But still reflecting light

I travel through the night

Revolving around the sun

Yearning for warmth,

Yet content because

For evermore I shall circle my master.

- Vagabond Prophet

[mariel-elisa]

[lounare]

[camasita]

Grandma

Grandma is so old and wise. She knows how to do everything. I can always count on her, sometimes she just forgets who I am. I guess you can’t have it all.

I go and read to her, but she can read.

I help her clean the house, she always thinks I’m doing it too harshly, she says, That it’s not fair to the house to be handled with such violence. She teaches me how to clean, gently, as if it were your lover you were cleaning.

She says theres beauty in everything.

She tells me stories off another time, and I fall asleep to her soothing words.

She knows how to do everything.

She shows me the roads and plants of the forest, she shows me the ones I can eat and the ones that are bad for me, she shows me how to heal and how to give, because too many people are takers and give nothing back.

She tells of the horrors of the forest and what lurks underneath the moss and in the caves, being bushes and in the trees, she shows me all of these.

She reads in languages I don’t yet understand. Her song is old and forgotten by many, she worships nature and it worships her.she tells me stories long forgotten, she shows me the traditions that they have taken away, she shows me how to have fun the old way. She tells me stories of the stars and the universe, she tells me of things I will never see of experiences, but she makes it sound so real.

She tends to herself and even though she is old and may have forgotten me, I know that something recognizes me when I stare into her caring eyes, somethings is inside of her, it is old and wise and loves me.

[bnmxfld]

“And so it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.”

— Sylvia Plath

[fakesurprise]

Your dreams contain  One constant - the boy Of eleven with a grin Larger than dreams He says he would be The only consonant  Even if your dream Was all vowels @adamantseal :)

[mega2wheellife]

for the touch of a hand

boarding a bus for four hours

then finding my way through back roads

asking uncertain strangers

if you lived just up ahead

tapping your door

just as the light faded to grey

waiting & hoping

I’d got the right place day

your mother coming to the door

asking forthright could she be of help?

knowing then in the instant

I’d been a fool for love again

setting back in the dark

feeling heat & shame in my face

down the same back roads

waiting for a bus to come

another four hours swaying in the night

back to the place I’d started from

& if nothing is ventured

nothing is gained

but as I adventured on that long journey

this fool knew nothing would ever

feel the same

again

neil benbow