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me, experiencing ecstatic joy in a library:

a poem by Emily Dickinson

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“The rain is full of ghosts tonight.”

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Dear Boatkeeper,

Dear boatkeeper the things you must see

The stories the ocean tells you, do you believe?

In between that Greek god’s wrath

And the warm flowing waters of the Roman bath.

Do you see day break the cage of night,

The sun’s rays against the stars is a hopeless fight?

Are the secrets rolled up in that old glass bottle,

The same lyrics preached in the wind’s gospel?

Dear boatkeeper are you but a confine?

This ocean no more mine than yours?

Do you sit there alone at the will of the water,

Thinking of warmth and home and your dear daughter?

Is it true that you lifted the anchors and untied the knots

To banish yourself solitary with your guilty thoughts?

Are stranded or did you choose to be

Lost and exiled in this prison sea?

Dear boatkeeper I hope one day you grant yourself forgiveness

And should god be absent take me as your witness:

That no sin repented merits a life lost to guilt

As any cherished relationship is worth being rebuilt.

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Fall is upon us

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Have yourself a merry little Christmas

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I know I already posted about Margaret Atwood’s Power Politics, but I thought I should share this specific piece. It is the definition of art. She crafts such a unique story with her words that one would think unrealatable, when really art is about how you feel and whether or not people agree with it is part of what makes it so special. The precision she has and ability to create pictures in the readers mind is a talent I can only envy. With every piece I write I hope to keep in mind that I write for myself and maybe somewhere out there a person can find solace and comfort like I have in this.

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Painting of Our Love

You call the blood-red scratches I leave on your back an abstract work of art.

I say the lilac bruises you place on my neck are a painting of our love.

You colour my warm cheeks like that of a rose.

I kiss your lips until they stain cherry-red.

And you watch me with the amber fire of desire burning in your eyes.

The tips of my fingers turn frost bitten blue from the chills you give to me.

I pull my hands through your sunshine golden hair.

You trace the outline of my porcelain pale skin.

As I shut my eyes I see in all colour, as you paint our love all over me.

It’s stitched into your words. It’s followed by your touch. It floats on your breath. It flares in your eyes.

Painted with our hands, lips and tongues;

This is what it looks like, the painting of our love.

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Annotating one of the classics// Power Politics by the amazing Margaret Atwood

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write to tell yourself the story

edit to tell others the story

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I say, leave me alone, this is my winter, I will stay here if I choose

Margaret Atwood (via liquidlightandrunningtrees)

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And you wonder if I’ll still like you, without the alcohol in my veins. That a sort of veil will be lifted and I’ll see all your stains. But the truth is I don’t like the confidence high, I want you to see my shaky hands and my curious eyes. Because isn’t that true love; touched with a bit of fear, that your own racing heart and shaky hands can cure. And as easily as the alcohol can take me out of my head, with you, you join me in my mind and dissipate the dread of listing off the possibilities of what could go awry. Because isn’t that true love, where we just can’t hide the lies. And every word you’ve said to me; every smile, glance and touch, won’t need the help of alcohol if the thought of you while sober makes my hands shake this much.

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Until all my sons come home:

Until all my sons come home the birds will not know how to sing.

the sky will be grey and the trees without leaves

hearts will weigh us down like the anchor of a boat,

but only until all my sons come home.

We have not seen light since the stars in the sky the night they left.

Only known the promise of their return.

We wait in the dark, unable to say a word

until all my sons come home.

The door unlocked and the table set,

they will surly be here soon.

For I have waited a thousand days of darkness,

just for one day of light to illuminate their path back to me.

We live in stillness

until all my sons come home.

Like a mirage of water on a hot dry day,

I see a speck of light glint in the distance.

So I run, into the light

So bright but I do not shy away,

I look around to see my world in colour,

golden beams of sun branch out to greet me.

I call out for the ones that were taken from me

they welcome me in their arms, I close my eyes

as my sons have finally come home and all is as it once had been.

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Fools and Freaks

Painted faces of perfect shining smiles,

venetian masks of skin.

They say the ones who believe in love aren’t afraid to sin.

That they don’t fear falling but nor do they heed the warnings,

and blindly walk into lion dens to never awaken in the mornings.

Eyes clouded with the haze of dreams

a mirage so great it can make the wicked gleam.

For I speak of the fools who lead with their hearts,

only to be called a joker.

To a king or queen, how little they mean

waging lives like a game of poker.

Those painted faces mock the rest,

who prefer to stay away.

They say the ones who hide from the sun are slaves to the day.

That they don’t fear being alone but nor do they want to be alike

Outcast from the court, they plan to strike.

Minds strayed from the path, they don’t fit in,

so lost in their heads, who will win?

For I speak of the freaks who define strength as difference,

only to be called scum

To the kings and queens, they are sores when seen,

treated like a sliver in their thumb.

But Fools and Freaks in a world of rigid royalty unrests their painted faces,

beneath the cracks it can be seen, their humanity in its final traces.

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Southern Comfort

can’t tell a lie

might be easier if I could

makes people uncomfortable

to hear brutal truths

when a fib goes down smooth

like a shot of southern comfort

I’m an unwelcome mirror

somewhat of a terror…

when I hold up words

to the mouth that uttered them

smiles grow crooked

eyes open at least a mile wide

guess I should just have lied

easier to swallow

easier to hide

when it comes to hearing the truth

people prefer the highest proof

suppose for most

it just goes down easier that way

another shot… why not…

if they can’t stand the truth

why can’t I…

simply lie

FollowCB | July 9, 2018

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art by joe webb

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(arts are not mine, if its yours, or if you know them, tell me and i put the credits :))

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kinda fucked up that you need 47 lizards to teleport full communism directly into my beautiful house