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You ever just write whatever comes to mind and are just perplexed by what's been written?supermario
What I wrote:
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Tell me of the fairy golds,
the blue snowflakes and ribbon-rose,
tell me of film records and flicker songs,
of dark days spent in shiverthorn.
I want to hear it all,
to soak it in like honeycomb,
I want to feel the summer breeze,
to feel the flowers of spring.
I want to be alive
in ways I've never before
to see the mountains glazed,
to see the rivers rumble.
I want to be it all
the tornadoes that fling
and the storms that sing––
I want to scream it all out.</div>
Sometimes, we sit in our yard, and we stop.
We take a moment to listen.
We take a moment of our vast time and we use it to see.
We look up and see a bird in a tree.
A squirrel buries a nut before running away from me.
The clouds roll by.
The sky feels a little less high.
And we stand up and begin again.
Wander where they dare not tread
Far outside of culture’s rule
No care have you for others dread
Their expectations far too cruel
Abandon here the precut mould
Explore beyond the mortal ken
Secrets shared, whispers old
Power beyond might of men
Weapons naught, against the form
Of stolen armour, built from pain
No wish have you to just conform
Instead exist as normal’s bane
In the void, a strange embrace
No rules, no law, be truly you
Where the strange is commonplace
And true life starts anew
What We Inherit: and what we find on mountainsemlyn-scribbles
Ceris was born to blood.
Blood followed her, and she fascinated
in its scarletry, its metal tang.
Her mother oozed it from her lips and
Dirt masked her body.
She smothered herself in imitation,
Her mother, after all, could
grow crops on her skin.
Sometimes rains stormed from her and
her mother would answer with thunder.
So Ceris rained in secret.
The soil was heavy on her:
clodded clay in clumsy arrangement,
a fen where nothing could grow.
Sometimes she would lift her head
from the roots and their bustling
and scrape herself to the tip of a mountain.
From here she could see the fields below,
the landscape laid out -
so small, and wasn't that comforting?
And here she could pick
at her clay coating.
He could wear the sky instead,
billowing out from his shoulders.
Haloed by the moon,
the were-man can become.
He gives his blood to the earth
and returns his name to the rocks.
He takes new names -
from the trees, the mountains,
the screaming sun.
They invented lunacy to spurn the moon.
And if sometimes the sun's children
cry his blood-written name
he simply looks.
And does not swallow their blood.
And does not swallow.
When I was young, I picked flowersfrom the side of the road: daisies,queen anne's lace, daffodils(though everyone told methey were weeds).
Their stems a sappy mess, I didn'tmind, didn't pause to wonderif the earth died a little every time I plucked one, every time I placed it in a vase.
*Years. Subtle at first, sneaking inat birthday parties, anniversaries,dated forms at some doctor's office.I am the future, they whispered,don't be afraid,*I was always here.
I'll stumble at some crack in thesidewalk, find my footing (mostof the time), but some of the timeI'll trip, scratch my knees, like arecord pausing and
see, growing in the fissurewild, untamed bursts of yellow,pushing the city apart, slowly,and I wonder if I'll ever beas beautiful as the weeds.
Hey, Does Recovery Even Have an End Point?emlyn-scribbles
Weed (n.) - any plant which is deemed undesirable, unsatisfactory, unwanted, unloved, and is difficult to remove or kill despite efforts made.
Dandelion boy is growing through the cracks. Hemmed in by concrete and stepped on stepped on stepped on. Spend all your time in recovery, when can you grow? Just a weed straggling.
Dandy, dandy, dandelion. He’s got yellowing teeth and a pasted-on mane. But he’s bright ! So bright, here in the sunshine. When the clouds fissure.
There’s such little room for roots so he takes up the space he’s got and he’s stepped on stepped on stepped on.
Bees buzz. He laughs at their tickling dances. His friends in the grass are laughing at the dirt, while he pretends he’s not covered in it.
He wishes he could be blown away on the wind. He wishes he could land far from here on a vast expanse of grass and start life anew. He wishes he could put down roots, the deepest roots, and grow higher than the clouds. He sways as he sees his head haloed with the stars’ glow. Even dandelion boys dream, you know. Even while being stepped on stepped on stepped on.