#heart poem

[frostedpane]

I felt parched. Like a young garden that had lost its charm with the passage of time. All it's blooms and naive climbers wilting one after the other. It was bare, separated from itself and held only by small patches of green, remnant of a rising forest once. The gentle rain had not touched it for years, nor the birds sang their morning notes anymore.

It hoped for the little drops from the skies to trickle from the spaces in it's heart and nourish the tiny seeds that lay buried deep inside. The breeze had been a lone companion that still rubbed and snuggled sometimes, hoping to see signs of life once again.

It waited for spring to return..!

- SG / April 27, 2024

[funkygroovejam]

heart poem

If I want to send someone one of my poems, this is the one I tend to send, because it has quite a few heart references. I need not send it anymore, since it's here now.

Your beloved’s heart is beyond the door that you have endeavored to patiently stand before. If you open that door with any thought or effort, you will enter the illusions and nothingness of the desert; however, if you open that door by merely being present, you will be graced with sips of the gods’ erotic nectar—a mortal’s most precious and sought-after treasure—so that you will be inspired to lay down not only your shield and armor, but also your sword (in other words, truly surrender), because, otherwise, you will not be able to reach your soul, on account of your body remaining anchored to the floor, your mind remaining in a repetitive song, and your heart remaining at war.     

If, after you traverse the doorway, she accompanies you to her heart, will you try to provide her with the will to unlock it, the strength to open it, the courage to enter it, the sense to grab hold of it, and then the faith to shock it, thus finally restarting it? Or, will you try to force your way into her by (1) adding honey to your salt and vinegar, (2) setting up mirrors so as to make yourself larger than your largest miniature, (3) feeding her berries infused with liquor, or (4) being a calm, soft-spoken preacher whose intonations embody poetic literature?

As soon as your wheels are unchocked, your checklist is complete, and your hand is on the throttle, love will set your heart afire, thus making you both the navigator and pilot, and therefore, the controller of direction, alignment, and progress. As soon as you realize you were not forced, but welcomed, aboard, and that you entered the cockpit because you felt not only withdrawn but also forsaken, destitute, and forlorn, you will be able to escape from the labyrinth by flying over its unscalable walls, at which time the sky will be yours to explore as you search for the break of dawn. However, if you do not change your throttle position, you cannot change where you have always been; thus, you will not feel pressure, turbulence, and air flow, only progress as a result of your comforting vertigo. Only after you have metamorphosed your body can your heart be restarted so that your mind can ascend out of bondage.

Will you live the rest of your life utterly unaware that you are trapped inside a pocket of air? If you are to move past this diabolical impasse, you must (1) wholeheartedly believe that you can maneuver while levitating or floating, and (2) be fully prepared, ready, and able to breathe while suffocating or choking. Both of which can be achieved if you are relaxed, focused, and temptation-free. In the meantime, you will imbibe your erotic treasure, and thus, become drunkenly awake and alive, but, at the same time, because of the weight of worldly pleasure, be pressured away from soberly converting your treasure into something more valuable: the ashes from which you will rise.  

Once you escape from the bubble in your heart, you will have no further use for your instruments or your charts, because love will be your guiding light even in the darkest of nights. As love seeps into your flaming heart, the fire will grow and intensify, and to such a degree as to neutralize the dark, become the unclouded sun in the ubiquitous sky, and then restart your immaculately burning heart, thus awakening your mind. These molten streams of love will enswathe your spine, commandeer your every nerve, and then combine their magnetic fields in order to reveal the door in the azure. You will then be able to fall apart, rise from damnation, and then heal yourself by means of your beloved’s heart’s every vibration.

[regrettably-human]

paper flowers

i made you paper flowers

you said you'd love them

i worry that the tape that holds them together

can't hold us together for long.

i made you paper flowers

the paper started to rip

the tear in my heart grows

but the flowers stay put.

will you? will you be my valentine for the end of forever?

or will i be mine?

[llovely]

here's a fake interview about my me & my girlfriend that i transcribed from my head. enjoy!

[missinyouiskillingme]

[bebs-art-gallery]

Dear Desolation by Eliran Kantor † Love of the Wolf by Hélène Cixous

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

– Juansen Dizon

[academia-lucifer]

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

— J.D. Salinger.

[luxlightly]

It always upsets me so much when I see interpretations/illustrations of the two headed calf poem that show a living calf being torn away from its mother and killed to sell to a museum and framing the poem as being "humanity kills beautiful things for being different".

Two headed cows almost never survive more than a few hours after their birth. The farmer finds the *body* the next day. The calf was destined to die, and that's a tragedy, but for the time it was alive, it had a beautiful and unique experience.

It's not a poem about the cruelty of man. It's a poem about the beauty of life in an indifferent universe. It's about purpose and beauty being able to exist even in an existence doomed to come to an end, as all our lives are. It's not a poem about how a calf dies, but how, even for only a brief moment, it was alive.

And, for that moment, because of that life, however fleeting, the sky had twice as many stars.

[caruccio]

I need her head on my heart, she needs to hear it beat for her.

[becomingvecna]

[despondentbeauty]

In another universe, you stayed.

— In this one, you didn’t and it ruined me.

[missinyouiskillingme]

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

—Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays

[flowerytale]

Li-Young Lee, from I Loved You Before I Was Born, The Undressing: Poems