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the butchers knife fandom is really dyin out, reblog if you love cleavage

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Watch: Poet G Yamazawa nails what it’s like to grow up in the U.S. as the child of immigrants.

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Rural Boys Watch The Apocalypse (rough draft) by Keaton Michael

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A Moment

Originally written 12th April, 2019

The stars aligned with all the impetus

Of a crashing wave, Overwhelmed

By the realization that this is us.

A simple grin, from ear to blessed

Ear. A twinkle in their eyes and

A chuckle that seized my wilting heart,

Thus- I knew we would never be apart.

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American Romance

Originally written September 29, 2020

The way her skin glows under the cold blue glare of a televised menu

Her hollowed cheeks rounded in a rare smile

that I overdrew my bank account just to see one last time.

Who knows if we’ll make it, living the american dream

Working nine to five and crying five to nine not old enough to drink it away

But old enough to die.

We cling together just to survive but even then it’s not enough

Handing over scrip for the promise of freedom

But enslaved by those who liberate us

Her eyes shine like glistening stars streaking through the sky

Downwards to the helpless below-

All they need is some bootstraps and a little elbow grease.

The value of our lives is measured by our worth as laborers

In my eyes she outworks all the rest,

transcending her place as a valued employee.

We are left ragged tied together by strands of love

And when I stumble home again from labor that means

Nothing

It’s her and I, surviving.

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Flowers don't bloom in the dark

Originally written December 19, 2021

He’s not dead, I’ll promise to myself, just gone for a while.

If only I could shake this ache hollowing out my bones.

The worst of days, in the beginning at least, it simply consumes me.

Rage brewed within me and took him from me, not long before everyone else too.

A Shield protects at any and all cost, what happens when no one’s behind it?

It’s only the memory of him powering these weak bones when everyone leaves.

More and more the darkness brews closer to my heart, my home.

I’ll fight it, inch by inch by inch until there’s enough room in this world for him again.

I was too much, he did it alone because of me.

The ache he left behind is a void like any other, and in such dire times it needs filled.

Eos needs a shield. My dearest Iris grows day by day but teaching her to fight reminds me too much of the old days, when he was young and petulant.

I cannot look anyone we knew in the eyes, so I found myself a refuge in strangers.

More often than not in their beds as well. The sheets too soft, the ceiling too close.

All alone in the cold of night, I’ll imagine him alone in the crystal.

This rage that hurt him, that hurts everyone who gets close has some semblance of a use.

I will shield them, I will maw those who would kill the one hope of his return.

I was not expecting the return of the dawn to be so literal.

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Luster Dust

Originally written October 2022

Morning sundew,

yeast rising,

gluten stretching,

proof of love.

Flour dust floating

on well worn pages,

a story through time

rising under heat.

I want-

I want-

I need-

To rip into that crust

and pull from within

the Divine

its steam forgotten

in the hunt

for that melting constant.

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Bread

Originally written May 2022

Soft hands with rings of golden halos,

Steps that echo with rapt attention following,

Eyes so kind and full of wonder,

Give a smile of warmth and ambrosia.

Rings which follow to places unheard of,

Attention that stings like sweet pineapple.

Wonder spanning endless as threads of fate,

Warmth that smells of sheets drying in the sun.

The heavens above and abyss below

And those who would call themselves Kings between

Cannot take plush chairs and tea untended,

Nor can they have the dust in our pages.

I will love you in the ways that matter

And at the end of it all, we’ll make bread.

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the moon asks a question by dirgewithoutmusic

illustrated by purutsukid

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Loving you is not expecting something from you; is simply waiting for you, silent, night and day.

Loving you is not demanding of you, it is not forcing you, It is not to pressure you, it is not to convince you, It is not defeating yourself; is to help you free yourself from yourself, of me, of everything, is to lend you my breath, to seduce you without desires, or objectives, is to enjoy yourself.

Loving you is not reject your flaws; is to make me sensitive to them and make you sensitive to them, never expecting you to change them.

Loving you is not take refuge in your person; is to build a shelter together, with our own hands, where the whole world can fit.

Loving you is not wishing be the center of your life; is to drive you, If you let me, if I can do it, to the life of your center, without seeking rewards.

Loving you is not giving up to my dreams for you; is waking up from my dreams, with you, taken from your hand.

Loving you is not flattering you is not puffed up, It is not weakening you is not to get your attention, it is not confusing you; is to show you worth of your shadow, the wonder of your own light, is to help you live alert, is wanting you to fly while I look at you, absorbed, happy.

Loving you is not fearing you is not owning you, it is not guarding you, It is not watching over you; is hugging you warmly, is to open my door for you, is to observe you in full light, in total darkness, with the soul’s eyes.

Loving you is not just looking at you, smell you, or taste you; is looking with you at the same time anything, make me one with your smell, be part of you.

Loving you is not tell you that I love you, It’s not to think that I loved you that I will love you; is asking myself Yes I love you, is to feel it, leaving let it develop in me, without any need to tell you.

Loving you is not always be by your side, It is not always thinking of you It is not always dreaming of you; is to be available to you, is to be you, to become one with you, is to be aware of your dreams, and of mine with you, is to allow know me completely to the very center of my pain, and of my love.

Loving you is not look at you from above, or from below, from behind, from the front; is to cultivate a balance that again and again feel what happens for our common center.

Loving you is not projecting ideas about you is not idealizing yourself; is to see you from afar, from close, from within (from you), from outside, see you from beyond me.

Loving you is not loving you only when you love me, when you’re pretty when you smile at yourself, when you kiss me, when you caress me, when you walk gracefully, when you are calm, when you are happy; is to accept you whole As you are, always and everywhere, with simplicity, gladly.

Loving you is not writing you my love poems; is to be love when I write to you, and when not.

Loving you is not writing that I love you; is to share with you the best of me (love), no return, without horizon.

Ousía Poética ©

Amarte no es esperar algo de ti; es simplemente esperarte, en silencio, de noche y de día.

Amarte no es exigirte, no es obligarte, no es presionarte, no es convencerte, no es derrotarte; es ayudarte a liberarte de ti, de mí, de todo, es prestarte mi aliento, seducirte sin deseos, ni objetivos, es disfrutar de ti.

Amarte no es rechazar tus defectos; es hacerme sensible a ellos y hacerte sensible a ellos, sin esperar jamás que los cambies.

Amarte no es refugiarme en tu persona; es construir un refugio juntos, con nuestras propias manos, donde pueda caber el mundo entero.

Amarte no es desear ser el centro de tu vida; es conducirte, si tú me lo permites, si soy capaz de hacerlo, a la vida de tu centro, sin buscar recompensas.

Amarte no es renunciar a mis sueños por ti; es despertar de mis sueños, contigo, tomado de tu mano.

Amarte no es halagarte, no es envanecerte, no es debilitarte, no es llamar tu atención, no es confundirte; es mostrarte la valía de tu sombra, la maravilla de tu propia luz, es ayudarte a vivir alerta, es querer que vueles mientras te miro, absorto, dichoso.

Amarte no es temerte, no es poseerte, no es custodiarte, no es vigilarte; es abrazarte cálidamente, es abrirte mi puerta, es observarte a plena luz, en total oscuridad, con los ojos del alma.

Amarte no es sólo mirarte, olerte, o probarte; es mirar contigo a la vez cualquier cosa, hacerme uno con tu olor, formar parte de ti.

Amarte no es decirte que te amo, no es pensar que te amé, que te amaré; es preguntarme a mí mismo si te amo, es sentirlo, dejando que se desarrolle en mí, sin necesidad alguna de decírtelo.

Amarte no es estar siempre a tu lado, no es pensar siempre en ti, no es soñar siempre contigo; es estar disponible para ti, es ser tú, hacerme uno contigo, es ser consciente de tus sueños, y de los míos contigo, es permitir que me conozcas por entero hasta el mismo centro de mi dolor, y de mi amor.

Amarte no es mirarte desde arriba, o desde abajo, desde atrás, desde delante; es cultivar un equilibrio que una y otra vez sienta que pasa por nuestro centro común.

Amarte no es proyectar ideas sobre ti, no es idealizarte; es verte desde lejos, desde cerca, desde dentro (desde ti), desde fuera, verte desde más allá de mí.

Amarte no es quererte únicamente cuando me amas, cuando estás guapa, cuando te sonríes, cuando me besas, cuando me acaricias, cuando caminas con elegancia, cuando estás tranquila, cuando estás feliz; es aceptarte entera tal cual eres, siempre y en todo lugar, con sencillez, con alegría.

Amarte no es escribirte mis poemas de amor; es ser amor cuando te escribo, y cuando no.

Amarte no es escribir que te amo; es compartir contigo lo mejor de mí (el amor), sin vuelta atrás, sin horizonte.

Ousía Poética ©

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~Eat Me~

Originally Written 8/24/2020

A frosted cake and just a nibble,

Doesn’t even matter how little!

And so I started growing.

The cotton walls shrank and stretched

While polyester strained and snapped

And so I kept on growing.

The laughs arose like thundering steps,

The mirror a distorted funhouse

And so I kept on growing.

A potion labelled ‘DrinkMe’ is nowhere

Lost to time, a flare of despair

And so I never stopped growing.

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genderf*ck

(content warning: nsfw language, mentions of genitals, sex, & kink)

A poem about the complexity, eccentric beauty, and ecstatic joy of a nonbinary gender experience

-zoebug | 2/14/18 (Draft 1)

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comp het

dictionary poem, november 2019

Keep reading

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The Ritual

Originally written 8/19/2020

The steps thunk upwards towards the sky,

keys jangling in my hand to and fro

With a whir and click I give a wistful sigh-

The smell of spiced cider and a cool breeze

paired with a chorus of Hello

is almost enough to bring me to my knees.

I laugh and retire to my room of soft sunflower

A place to lay down and mellow

When the clock strikes the first untimely hour

I turn into my cloud a bit soured.