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Live up there. They dwell down here with you and me, they stumble around as part of the collectively tired we. While most hurry on past the hunched figure on the ground, eyes fixed to phones screens swiping up and down, they look the man directly in his eyes when he asks for change, they empty their pockets and give all that remains. They go home to tinned tomatoe soup and stale reduced bread, but just before they indulge, they carry their loved ones off to bed. Angels aren't paradimes of holiness far removed from your lifes, they're people here and now still choosing to be kind.

Angels don’t

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Alternating between feeling stomach twisted cringe wanting to delete everything I've ever posted and mildly pleased at my creative effort despite extreme executive dysfunction.

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A family sits down for dinner. In their shiny dining room, the table filled with plates of freshly bought caught food. Each member in comfortable seats, brown and blue eyes glance over the assortment of meats.

Lamb.

Cow.

Pig.

Human.

It's quite the feast.

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Silence is so violent, it's crowded your life,

The pictures on Instagram are the sharpest of lies.

Shiny smiley people speaking identical lines

Smiling at a screen pretending everythings fine.

Would you prefere a shock straight to the brain

or have apathy choke you out til nothing remained.

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Quilt covering

From head to toe

The Light Can not penetrate

Not through thick cotton

Or my avoidance

My fear of tomorrow means I deny the day

Wasting waiting missing

Turning my very face away

Clinging to each night with a screen blocking the early sunrays

I can't pull the sun below the horizon

Or push the worries aside

So instead I turn from side to side

Hiding under quilted stomach clenching lies

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Before you know it you'll be dead in the ground or sprinkled in the sea.

You'll be a memory, then just a name lost to history.

Perhaps you'll come up in a family tree assignment.

The great great great so and so branched high from the ground.

Your picture and captured youth no where to be found.

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A Reminder to take care of yourself, drink some water, get some sleep and do something that makes you happy.

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I’ve decided that my 20s are actually age 25 - 35

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I've always been afraid I'll die before. Before what? Just before anything meaningful happens.

I was 13 or so and It was way before sunrise. I was awake sobbing to whatever gods existed to let me live. My mother would be awake in a few hours, and that would mean cereal and tea. But I couldn't sleep, I just cried until the pain stuttered my breathing and tears swelled the delicate skin around my eyes. Maybe they heard me when I begged for life, maybe that's why I'm still here. I always seem to be terrified of dying but at the same time I won't step out my front door to live.

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The progress of a solar eclipse. This Changing World. 1933. Internet Archive

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It's already June. Halfway through the year, sixth month and the sixth full moon.

The Celts called it the dyan moon; the midpoint. When balance and the slow decline towards autumn began, they also called it the mead moon; referencing the mowing of meads and meadow. I hope the next six months pass slow or at least slower than the last, I hope that I'm sustained through to autumn and winter, I hope I've mowed enough meadows, collected enough warm days and hopeful rays. I've slept through most of spring and now summer rings, I feel the itch to wake up.

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An old man is wandering down the sweets isle

Looking for something

Something he's lost

or forgotten

It's hard to know the difference

Can he find it in a bag of boiled sweets

His hunched figure, grey and pale is the image of "Don't forget me"

No one wants to be forgotten

If all he has is what hes lost

How much do you have

The old man has found a bag of boiled sweets

They taste like childhood

They smell like home

His children never answer the phone

He eats the whole bag alone.

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🌻 a sunflower for everyone who is not feeling well today

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Saintblood

There's a heartbeat in my walls

It flutters fast

like a jackrabbit on the run

Pulsing against the brick and plaster

The thought makes mine beat so much faster

There's lungs under my floorboards

They splinter the wood

They turn the carpet into a breathing mountain

Topped with an old white rug

You won't find bones anywhere

Only the faint feeling of eyes following you here and there

You'll smell copper and iron

And if you strip through layers of paper and paint

You'll see the browning red of a self renowned saint

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I know I don't say it enough and we joke about depression and how loneliness is eating up our lives, but it will be okay. I promise you it will.

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Medea and Jason - Contrapuntal poem

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The beekeepers grief