prufrock and abel

meeting the long-lost dawn at babel

our hair grown long

in the years cascaded on

by.

alights there, a lie

we fall comforted,

under sycamores

to softly die

~~~

“I’m left to right”

I’m left to write

pleasant as dead zoiza grass and plastic carnation bundles

sour as juniper and blades of onion-grass

that got caught up under our fingernails…

monsters in bookshelves

in the leather-boud sea-coves, doves are

rising

could not you ever breathe but only of your teeth?

the very thought

very sickens me.

I’ll throw away you

each Christmas.

Lion’s dens can be cozy, arbitrary lives can thread up along the paltry sky

weave nothings end to end

until there’s something like a satin-corduroy-silk-hemp-rayon

~~~

lace-iced

~~~

collecting daggers

but I’ll tie a letter

to every single one,

a scribbled reminder

that days aren’t to be numbered, that “anything’s better than blood.”

I should have not kissed the trees; and now may be

I wouldn’t crave you so

if you are alive today, then I am proud of you. ♥

"You saw my pain, washed out in the rain.

Broken glass; saw the blood run from my veins.

But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart.

And you knelt beside my hope, torn apart."

I cleaned the glass. I cared

that much, just enough

to wipe clean the sharp clarity

before painting in vivid scarlet with its tip on bare sinner’s skin.

And I wonder often why I did, when so few months later I became so set on throwing it all away.

That clean crystalline shard was a promise; who for,

what to? I’m sure I’ll never know. Lots of things

were taken out of my hands in those days {and I mean that in every single way}.

I fed on every raindroppromise like I was starved for earthly light. That day,

sweltering southern July

on a hill, on a mountain

by the house that smelled of figs

its stairways lined with dolls with glassy, soft eyes that I counted {68 total}

136 eyes

For my 200 or so scars, just those 3 months.

There’ll never be enough hearts, of dolls or otherwise to save

to heal every last one, and that’s only me.

Promise me we’ll be alright?

Title by: Me.

Silly poetry.

Dr. Peter Geisel's Journal.

November 7th 1856

I spotted a Common African Dragon while I was in the Southern part of that country. It was very wary of me, and I’m pretty sure that it didn’t like me watching it. I observed the specimen for six days before it went back into a more natural way of life. It must not have been aware of my presence after that time because it led me straight to it’s nest. I only had a few moments to inspect the eggs that I found there because the mother was very protective of them and didn’t leave them unwatched for more than twenty minutes at a time.

November 14th 1856

I have been able to inspect that dragons for seven more days and have found out many interesting facts. I was present at the hatching and I believe that it will give me deep insight into the lives and workings of dragons. I’m headed back to my home in England to look over my notes and rest a while. I have a feeling that the father dragon spotted me lingering around the nesting area the other day and I do not believe that it is safe for me to stay any longer.

Title and Description by: Me.

---

Although you might not know it, I hand lettered the note (not shown in this photo), and the labels on th little jars. It was really fun and I absolutely loved the results (I saved the labels, even though I don't know what I'll do with labels for Dragon Poison and such, haha).

The whole shoot took me about two hours (lettering and mixing included).

Title by: Me.

--

Haven't been able to upload for a while. We were having major computer problems over here for a while. So major that we had to get a new computer (thank goodness the problem didn't result in losing anything off the hardrive though). So it was taking a long time for us to set up the new computer and get everything running smoothly (which we still haven't quite achieved) but hopefully all will be well sooner rather than later.

Dr. Peter Geisel.

Specialist in Dragons.

Died September 4th 1856.

Found at 6:37 AM washed up on the shores of Southern Africa near the Cape. It is suspected that there was some violence done to him before he was thrown overboard. Although it looks as though he had been attacked by some kind of large animal we believe that it was done by one of the crew. A police inspection is currently in progress. The Crew of "The Curly Winder" claim that there was a dragon on board, and that it was the beast and not them that had killed the Doctor. They also claim that they held no malice against the Doctor, but that the Dragon seemed bent on revenge. We are not inclined to believe in superstitious sailors stories so the search for more evidence will continue.

Title and Description by: Me.

a loving literotica

Title by: Me.

I see a white light. It appears in my dreams.

When I lay down to sleep. It flashes and beams.

I don’t see darkness. When I drift off to sleep.

I only see white light. Where shadows should creep.

Here it surrounds me. Intense not deceiving.

Alive but not breathing. Now I’m believing.

I rest where it shines. And I bask in its light.

With dark I’ll not bother. No terror tonight.

--

Title and Description by: Me.

--

Doesn't exactly fit the picture. But it was the white light in the shot that inspired it.

Title by: Me.

I love that Pirate book. It is so awesome, and useful!

Little known fact: We own a lot of swords. (one is featured in this photo, although it's kinda hard to see)

I love Asian art.

Another interesting fact: I took the trouble to write out some Asian letters and such (age them too) and yet... they don't even show up in the picture *sigh* oh well. ;D

Well my feet had wandered, and my heart was restless.

The sky pulled me one way, to where I could not guess.

The sea pulled another, nowhere could I settle.

I kept ever onward, for I was tough mettle.

Through the years I had roamed, no place to call my home.

I feared fate had me mark’d, I was destined to roam.

Until I came here, up in the mountains.

My soul for once was still, and I’ll not roam ag’in.

I've wrapped myself up,

sustaining the heat, the passion

It's all held within.

I cannot give it to you,

it's as if it is stolen from me

without warning

I cannot help or control the process

Who will take it from me, who i will give myself to

Who will make me smile the way i need to

It sneaks up on me

It never seems to work out

the way I want it to

I'm someone else's leftovers

I sit there on your mind,

but your effort is only to push me further away

toward the back of your mind

You want me to collect the dust

of your other thoughts

I am susceptible

You have the power to harm me,

but that's a step in the right direction

I am finally feeling again,

even if I'm bound to get hurt

It's worth it.

View On Black

Texture

I have felt the summer and I have felt the cold.

I have spent my youth and now my body’s old.

My life is all but over, vanished like a breath.

But with my Lord’s mercy I do not fear death.

--

Title and Description by: Me.

“you hold your truth so purely”

but it’s not enough

not ever no never enough, softly gently far too tough

like when we ran as fast as thoughts do

across the gravel road, skipping

between the speeding cars

before we knew why.

And when I’m in the hallways, now in these days

it’s like that metaphor, that jar they filled up with the marbles(we said “full”)

then the coffee beans(we said

“full”)

then the sand(we

said “full”)

then the sour fermented old apple juice(till “full” was “true”);

halls are the jar, I am the lithe water

or sometimes the slipping grain of sand

and the larger-than-life marbles and the dark, pungent dimpled coffee beans

trudge and toss on the linoleum floor sea

as I slide by, behind

unseen

I know nothing. I just needed to say it.

just needed to scrape it, salient

off of my chest

let me say it.

Title by: Me.

I'm not sure about this shot. Sometimes I like it, sometimes, not so much. I really love the colors, even though it's a bit random... for some reason I think it's got charm. Who knows...

Sometimes

it makes me want to cry;

they’ll never knowwhat I mean.

what I feel.

and all because

I’m one of the frail scared ones

I’m damned brave

but that’s only in writing

Sometimes.

I want to be the one

they walk up to

and give a gentle hug.

did you know, ever

why I began some days

such a fearfultrue clearblue feather?

no, nor do I

but I know with everything

I’ve learned more here than I can do or sing or say

I want to be in the arms I adore.

but I can’t. it’s toolate. oh darling,

oh lilac-bound bluebird;

it’s just too late.

stagelights make crystaltears glint and

gleam

like smiles I knew so well. he can look up at me,

look up beaming

at my pale face on the stage

but still see just water dripping

he’ll never know how much these very moments stay with me.

he says “you make me stay here.” but I say

“you make me stay anywhere.”

just think on it.

feel it in your bones.just

live the piece.

I’ll hear his voice everywhere.

I’ll hold his half-smile in shaking hands at every ending.

He says “you can’t ever know how much you mean to me.”

I say

“but no, you don’t understand

you make me glimmer,

you make me

stay; you make me

stand...”

along our insides, down our throats

seeps milky each word you tell me.

what if we

could sail these winters

on our souls?

if you could see my eyes,

and read them right,

and learn and know their nevernight

but we’re just stuck still stony clinging

to all our shallow words. we don’t know

that speaking with the hearte means so much more.

I am strangled

by my own shadow.

you cannot know just how this aches.

they’ll never and ever know me,

and I’ll always and forever know them.

it’s too late, lilacgirl, glassybluebird.

too late.

toolate.

let fall

your flowers, your teardrops,

your whisperhopes.

the stage is full, and bare

and waiting.

I dreamt of limp arms,

hundreds of them

hanging over the side of a bridge.

Every time a ship sailed underneath

the fingernails from hundreds of dead bodies

scraped the wood of the top deck

slowing it down ever so slightly

as if they had something to say.

Thousands of fingers pointing downward

counting thousands of ripples in the river.

The riverbed holding old fishing hooks,

ink from old letters that were never read,

the blank paper that no longer holds meaning

Screws, rotting wood, anchors holding nothing in place

a lens from a pair of old glasses belonging to an old pair of eyes that no longer see

pieces of life jackets that failed to save lives

broken tea cups where fish now lay their eggs

wedding rings and broken promises

bones from fingers pointing the blame at everyone but themselves

of watches full of water and stopped time

And the hands of the dead bodies will forever point downward

Like the hands of the broken watches

This empty pit in my stomach

Causes me to bite my lip

Ignore the pain

Loneliness leaves its trail within

My hand outstretched,

My arms are not long enough

You are hundreds of miles away

I am feeling much like a stone

Storing my feelings away in the back of my mind

The dusty boxes left unorganized

I am an infinite amount of miles away from where I want to be

Where that is, I don't even know

Unmeasurable is the distance between my soul and its happiness

What do I believe?

What if I never know?

I do believe I love you.

I think I love everyone.

You, to me, are infinitely special.

View On Black

Well I sought you out, to the ends of the earth,

But still I could not find you.

Though I sought footprints, all signs of you were dearth,

You were gone out of the blue.

So I stood quite still, like a little lost child,

Hoping maybe you’d find me.

But you were still gone, somewhere out in the wild,

And I’m still lost and lonely.

--

Title and Description by: Me.

maybe it’s true, to say

“we all live lost”

but you {like so many many} can’t know

what it is to live in fear;

I can’t open doors, did you know?

I have to standsteady, standsteady, breatheandbeready

before ever I can bring myself to knock, to turn the handle

When I am walking, I am not walking

I am thinking

how am I walking? how must

this look and this and this

and is my skirt falling just so

and the makeup all intact

and are they thinking of what they think I might be thinking of?

I know{as do the cringing tracing trees}I’ve said it before

but I’m no raven

and so here goes

there is terror enough

in taking a breath

and some bluebirds carry their things and their wings

differently than others.

how am I to know? and do we dare

peck sad-faced at a pear?

…terrifying!…

comes the cry, the call

from aloft

but when this old colonial home fills brim to brim with ringing

and “oh dear, my darling dear my dearest darling” I love you!

{and there, that’s why

whenever we speak, I’ve pre-planned my words on ripped looseleaf}

“oh don’t be silly little love, it’s just me!”

oh don’t pity me, great love of loves; but there is no “just” anything

—and I learned that wandering happily lonely beside the handball wall

3rd grade and there were chimes, and there I was

and so I spun songs—

“…ah! my sincerest,” I said.

“I do these days make so many references I rarely recall what I’m remembering to reference…!” …or didn’t I at all?

and did you ever know{no, and still you don’t

to raise a hand, to say a phrase, to answer a question

feels like driving blind down the highway…? no}

no and again no,

I whispered

I whispered

My Writing Tumblr

Check it out.

Feedback would be nice.

A curtain of green has crossed the earth.

The gentle touch of spring's rebirth.

The shadows deepen as dullness fades.

Our eyes in rapturous color wades.

The sky above is a mantle of blue.

As ship like clouds go fro and to.

The sun now shines with golden rays.

That killed the dark of winter days.

--

Title and Description by: Me.

{my original poetic interpretation of the Bible verse}

55 word story: “Centurions” {based on the novel "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez}

When Jose Arcadio and Ursula found{ed} Macondo, the houses were white.

When the 17 crossed, streets overflowed with begonias, oregano, rose bushes.

When Colonel came home, Melquiades’ room was filled with dust and longing.

When lovers whispered in the dark, time slowed down.

When Aureliano II learned the secret to life, it was too late.

I only had a moment to say goodbye. What else could I say?

The words don’t come although I try. And I can’t make you stay.

My lips will never press your cheek I believe. And you may not know.

That I die slowly when you leave. With no life I can’t grow.

So I have no choice but to languish away. Hope is almost lost.

Within these pains I’ve come to stray. Through raging trials I’m tossed.

--

Title and Description by: Me.

tell me it’s wrong,

if you’d dare

to hate the one who found my seams, kissed them up and down

and then waited til we’d reached the paper town

to unsheathe a thousand seam rippers and tear me apart

along still-warming scars.

tell me it’s wrong,

if you think it is, and tell me

whatever you’d like

because I won’t hear a word.

I can’t make you love me. I can’t make me hate you. I can’t swirl words just right anymore since that night fell and slippery pearly tears followed.

they were shocked, so many were

when I said after so long that yes, I’d been scarring, I’d been practically starving for sun

I’d be cracking all along the lines inside; they never knew I’d been

but you, oh you

they all knew. you’re so pretty, so palely sweet

bright scarlet vermillion bloody cherry to the core, like

a secret fire.

I still smell you all over my worlds.

sometimes it makes me think I’m crazy.

sometimes it makes me think I miss you.

sometimes it makes me think of that night in question.

that first daffodilday under rounded ceilings, heels clicking and we all feeling oddly beautiful

strangers smiling and the air filling with song.

under the sunrise of his half-smile,

there was the tiny porcelain spring moment in which I realized I loved you.

how easily happiness begins, I thought, and even after so long spent adoring gorgeous wintry-veined despair.

how easily happiness ends, I think,

and even

after a thousand forevers. You always said

my name meant ‘forever,’

but just look

how long did that brilliant promise hold us up?

barely long enough

to say it’d been ¾ of a year.

I wasn’t pretending.

I don’t know if you were.

maybe you’re just a brilliant actress.

I never was very good at acting.

I’m only good at being real.

Reader, I married her

in dreams but not in truth; we planned it down to the bouquets, the stones

the schools and the names of the three little lost unborn girls.

I believed it, though. it’s only now, 11 months later that I find out

you did not.

Oh how the seasons pass. Let them pass, let them leave. I don’t know how to cry. But I know how to grieve.

And nothing will change you, ‘cause you do as you please. But I won’t shed a tear, though I’m sapped like the trees.

What makes you grow so cold? When you used to grown green. What sorrow has changed you? Into all that you’ve seen.

I won’t ask permission. To go when I’m leaving. For I know you’ll not miss me. I’ll cause you no grieving.

But I will feel sorrow. To leave you so lonesome. But here my soul’s decaying. And my time has now come.

--

Title and Descritpion by: Me.

I almost wish there were someone to write up a quiz for us,

to see who remembers most,

to see who could retell every night together, every color of every wall, every fleeting breath I breathed of you

and every flower smell that filled the room, and every

silly stupid fragile little thing you pressed into my hands

and every time I waited out in the cold for you to let me inside.

and all the car rides that ended in kisses.

all the little caverns in our world

that we created

just for us.

and every time you made a promise

you could never keep.

I almost wish someone would light a candle for us; well, for you really

like you died {because you did}

like you were mourned

{you were}

I wish they’d wear black, I wish when they see me they’d say

“I’m sorry

for your loss”

I wish they wouldn’t think me weak

if after three months I’m still sweeping the dusty tears of you from my feet

…I guess I wish I could remember you fondly

instead of the bubbling angerlove that wilts me from within every other morning and alternate afternoons and at the wispy tail ends of fridays.

I almost wish someone would ask me

how it was

would say “tell me everything,

every detail”

I wish they’d want to hear

how we said things, how we traded memories, how we broke down cavalcades and never once looked back

maybe they’d even want to hear about what happened when you started to

—to look back, I mean—

maybe they’d wonder if I could feel the difference between

holding your hand there in that domed old theater with too many stairs

holding your hand then in the middle of the nighttime and laughing at the dark

holding your hand when I thought I’d saved everything, but it turns out {inside out, really}

I’d not done anything

but ruin another beautiful song.

I know they won’t ask.

but I know too

that oh, I could tell them everything

if they asked.

could you say the same?

{…now darling, don’t lie…}

The Irish have their rolling hills, the English have their rain,

But me I love the highland skills, and rocky harsh terrain.

--

Description by: Me.

--

This poem goes out to my brother Jeffrey, who loves everything Irish.

But me... I love the rocky mountains. ;D

It’s all burnt away, in ashes and in dust, in soot and in red rust.

The gold of the day, ended in fire and flame, and all was burnt away.

The cold’s here to stay, to freeze me and to bite, when all is turned to night.

The sparks went astray, and were lost in the frost, when all was burnt away.

--

I went on a very pleasant little photo outing with two of my brothers today. They kinda put me out of my box, I walked on paths that I've never walked before, and saw things I hadn't seen, which is always fun. Its good to have someone to pull you out of your comfort zone sometimes.

“It was almost four in the morning, and I exhaled with a laugh, cool air and words falling off my lips, “I will never love again” I vowed. I decided I was done with giving everything you had to one person who would rip it all to shreds. Sorta like you did. So I bought the black boots, and the mini skirt, and I wore the red lipstick and that lacy bra you never appreciated enough. And I took one shot, then I took another. And I kissed one boy, then I kissed another. But God, when his lips brushed against my shoulder and his hands moved up my hips, I suddenly didn’t know what to do. And when he asked me to go back to his place at two in the morning, I panicked. Because I wanted to do what you did to me. I wanted to break hearts and feel no pain. I wanted to know how it felt for a kiss to mean nothing. But in the heat of the moment I realized I didn’t want to break a hundred hearts or kiss a hundred boys. The only boy I wanted to kiss was still you. And the only heart that will be broken is still mine.” — why can’t I be heartless (via yourdestructivelove) #tumblr #textpost #vintage #love #imissyou #poetry #poem #f4f #followme #followforfollow #edit #iloveyou #boyfriendquotes #relationshipquotes #relationship #girlfriendquotes #lostlove #boyfriend #girlfriend #lovequotes #lifequotes #mywork #mywriting #writersofig #writersofinstagram #perfectsayings #sadquotepage #repost - someone.should.know

Make me a potion, love, one that takes away the pain.

And I’ll drink it down, love, if I don’t go insane.

Just make it with love, love, e’en if it’s only a grain.

I’m drowning in sorrow, love, that’s simple and plain.

So make me this potion, or I may go insane.

And I’ll drink it down, love, so it lessens the pain.

--

Title and Description by: Me.

So the spiders had taken up their abode in the forgotten trees and spun their silken traps unheeded. The birds were less often seen in those sullen places, for fear that they might be caught within the tangled branches of the trees or the clinging ropes of the ancient spiders.

Title and Description by: Me.

Title by: Me.

--

Hatcher Pass Alaska.

One of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. We went blueberry picking up there with our Grandparents who came up to visit us (all the way from Arizona, weather change, craziness). We were standing in a cloud, but, the blueberries were a lot bigger than we've ever seen them and we brought a whole ziplock bag of them back with us. So it was all with it. Besides... being in that weather is just really awesome (in my mind).

Title by: Me.

My latest project;Number 37.It knows you are coming...

Title by: Me.

The spring is late, but not too late for hope,

Though in this life in darkness we must grope,

A light may wait beyond the shallow now,

In futures springs laden with leafy bows.

--

Description by: Me.

You’re a tiny little heart, with a tiny little part, in a word that’s so much bigger than you.

You expand like a balloon, you are full but pretty soon, the world won’t look so great or even new.

You’re a tiny little heart, at a tiny little start, where everything still looks so fresh in bloom.

But if you’re a red balloon, you’ll be popping pretty soon, when your heart doesn’t have anymore room.

--

Title and Description by: Me.

slipping between grief and nightfall

a soft black and white

crying hours go on and on

but we can’t,

not under these same skies

not forever

you taught us to let go,

and yet and yet

we sang, we danced, we grinned and laughed.

you brought sweet tears to my eyes,

and still

I’ll never see you again.

It’s a funny life

it’s

a desperate life

a sad grey-blue life

but of course

a good life,

like you said.

Title by: Me.

This is not my usual bridge. This is the bridge that I always wanted to stop at, but we never did, until now (Same day I took pictures of the mountain and the river). My Dad was awesome enough to stop here and I know that when Spring rolls around again, my sister and I (and hopefully Molly ;D) are going to have to come here and take pictures. There's even a tunnel under the bridge that's in use... which is just too sweet!

No Group Invites Please.