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pablo de pastors

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“Attending” (1973) by Hreinn Fridfinnsson ◇ Mirror in hand reverses above and below

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huge shout out to this little kid for writing my favorite poem

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I got denied for disability after waiting 2 ½ years for a response and the wording in the letter pissed me off. So I wrote a poem about it.

Image id in alt text

Poem transcript under the cut

You are not disabled under our rules.

Your body may be in constant pain. 

Your back may bend in all the wrong ways and your muscles may feel like sunburned taffy in a press. 

You may be too dizzy to stand or sit for more than a few minutes at a time. 

You may have chronic migraines and chronic fatigue and a chronic sadness from a childhood lacking love. 

You may have a dysfunctional thyroid and dysautonomia. 

You may have to sleep more than you are awake and you may have to use a wheelchair or cane any time you are able to leave the house. 

But aren’t you aware the medications you take to make your pain more bearable can also make you sleepier? 

Aren’t you aware that everyone wants an excuse to not do the dishes and your extreme back pain is laughable? 

Aren’t you aware that your life is expendable? 

Aren’t you aware that we don’t care about you at all? 

You are able to work some; you are able to work more. 

Just adapt. 

Just push yourself more. 

Just break your body more.

Just be a good little number on a screen and stop screaming as we churn you through the system and beat you to a pulp. 

This is because you are not disabled under our rule.

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on being yourself

@ brainsoupp_ on twitter// @stmichaelthearchangel// @ cybermrcury on twitter// @throughmy-eyez // @ shellerina on twitter// @caesarsaladinn// @ nelsoncj4 on twitter // @ heimberg_a on twitter// make your own kind of music by cass elliot// @ soledadfrancis on twitter// ? // @ sourcenectar on twitter// @superorganism

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we are animals

you bite and you lick the wound clean

you kiss it better and i breathe in your scent

you chase me through the house and boop me

and then you purr and i rub against you

we are animals

i bite and i lick and i listen

and we give each other bandages

we are animals we lick each other’s wounds i could tell it’s you by your smell alone we are animals we bite, choke, cry we are animals i bleed and you bleed and you don’t give me bandages

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— 6:59 AM by Shane Koyczan

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Comic about my weird old dog

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Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet

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also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.

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embarrassment has good bones

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the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself

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painting this on the ceiling above my bed so it's the first thing i see upon waking in the morning and the last thing i see before falling asleep at night

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solargraphs 010425

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Would you still love me if I was a worm?

I don't think you could recognize me at all

if I came to you (so pink and small)

It's a change too profound.

I would not blame you for this—

even if you fell for my mind

(rather than a body)

the resemblance anyone would miss

You probably Wait for me to return home

instead of checking for worms at your door.

But if I showed up

still in shock after what happened

so small and new born;

if I said, “Hello. I didn't know

where else to go,”

stranger that I've become

in this new tiny shape...

“Nobody recognises me

and I can't go home;”

I guess what I'm asking is,

if I said, “Help me, please,”

Would you pick me up gently

and place me to the grass and dirt

where I can thrive

or feed me to the nearest bird?

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