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[keenmankawaii]

He’s so brave.

[keenmankawaii]

A Breakdown In Metaphor

I’ve been feeling dead lately. Sort of numb, and then this general sense of being is pierced by the occasional painful and sharp spike of self-hate and frustration, pushing up like a bone underneath the skin. It is like a rib trying to poke outside of my body and meet the light or darkness outside, watering the world red in the process with my unfathomable suffering and grief, drowning everything and everyone. It is rising, rising, rising and it appears like it will not stop, that it is going to cleave through and spill the waiting ocean within my veins. Then everything descends down again into the deep sedative of melancholy static that there was before, fitted with flitting murmurs of anxiety. The ribcage has exhaled, relaxing. The faint whispers of anxiety are always building up and dipping, until they are ready to emerge once again with the ribcage. The ribcage rises and falls and I’m not breathing…I’m screaming. It’s rarely breathing anymore, just screaming. I am baring teeth, closing my eyes and I think this will be the time. I will look down and see the egg white of my ribs naked and poking through my flesh, and rivers of red spilling down onto the floor making a tiny sea and drowning all the people who I had only spoken a handful of words to. Then it will drown even the people I’ve spoken longer, with and then my deepest friends, my loved ones until they are all drowning. And I am drowning too, floating on my back in a crimson sea that swallows me whole with every lick of its waves. I rarely scream like this, but when I do, the earth shakes.

[keenmankawaii]

The Great Composer

A pomegranate rests abandoned Day and dark untouched, unloved by human tooth and tongue , Until He comes to its aid That horseman, the Great Composer Who weaves a symphony with worms An ode to destruction Which in its final movement Hints at renewal As the pomegranate rots away And decays into the dirt The Great Composer waves off those minute musicians The grubs and the flies and the bacteria Until He is alone in some sort of darkness Alone Until there is a Green Spark And it begins again

[keenmankawaii]

The Dying Pagan’s Lament upon a Stone Staircase

O hark! The pagan bleeds upon the stone Surrounded by such pious wolves, alone Where his mangled gods weep for his red wounds, The severity of which surely consumes What taste for life he has mustered thus far In love, laughter, the comfort of a star in sky, is dimming, is bleeding, is scarred! Childlike wonder has been cruelly marred By the imagined sleight of crucifix, Clipp'd beauteous wings, God of cruel tricks. Discovered too late, gentle concern In the imagined butcher, too late learned Stranger as father, what an idea! The desire to bestow euphoria Unto this pagan, bleeding upon stone Surrounded by pious wolves, all alone His dying thoughts a true suit of armor As blade slides in flesh and lungs breathe no more

[keenmankawaii]

A Poem for Good Friday

This special Friday of thorns and blood

Shall give all its unending love

And spill its blessed veins upon all

Those broken children of the Fall

[keenmankawaii]

O Mournful Tree

O mournful...tree! You stand there, riddled with the sadness of centuries. How you droop under all the heartbreak and all the death you have seen! Life after life you see pass by, generation after generation. Does it ever get tiresome, seeing all of these brief flickers in time go about their day unaware of their own mortality? Do you grieve for them, O mournful tree!

[keenmankawaii]

Titled Number 8

There is a faint murmur in the wind

An unsettled voice that wishes it didn’t have to speak

Everything should be simpler, it sings

As it cries tears and watches a million mistakes

[keenmankawaii]

To give yourself over to another body That’s all you want really But to be owned and consumed by another To swim inside the skin of your lover Not have to breathe, not have to think But you can’t live on love, and salt water’s no drink You’re dying of thirst so we feast on each other The sea is still our violent mother The blood round here pours down the water Each wave a lamb lead to the slaughter And like children that she just can’t teach We break, and break, and break, and break ourselves upon the beach

Poem by Florence Welch, written for the “Queen of Peace/Long & Lost” music video. (via thefatmfanclub)

[keenmankawaii]

*releases pack of dads into home depot* go……be free

[keenmankawaii]

(via https://soundcloud.com/mrgnome/rise-shine?utm_source=soundcloud&utm_campaign=share&utm_medium=tumblr)

[keenmankawaii]

I drew a thing

[keenmankawaii]

Listen to: The Albatross by Foxing

[keenmankawaii]

Listen/purchase: Heavy Hands by Lithuania

[keenmankawaii]

Listen/purchase: Hold Still Life by Field Mouse

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[keenmankawaii]

[keenmankawaii]