yasu-verse

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Kiki Smith: ‘Constellation’ at Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art (1996)

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A Lullaby for the Reclaimed

Tonight let the pillow be kinder

than the page.

Let your breath be quieter

than the countdown.

Dream of park benches

where all the notebooks

left behind

are blank.

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— “suddenly it’s december”, margaux paul

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Eternal Oasis (a wishful thought)

Do you ever wonder of what happens?

Does the afterlife scare you?

If it exists, like all the other miracles of this world-

What do you wish it to be?

I want the embrace of the sea,

The warm hug of the trees,

The whispers of the skyline

Painted in living colous.

I want the sunset and sunrise

And a cabin with a kitchen

So I can cook my life

As I would have dreamed it.

If the afterlife exists

I wish it to be kind.

I wish it to be peaceful.

I wish it to be alone-

But never lonely.

My afterlife-

I will wish it into existence,

Inspired by all the miracles I have seen.

The sounds of the machines,

Into chirping sparrows

And the black fumes

Into soft flowery smells.

My afterlife will not be

Tainted

By human touch.

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✨Sensory issues so out of control, I can feel my teeth and nails✨

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Stars in full bloom.

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아영◡̈

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A Small Celebration Poem

The tea steam writes poems

you don’t have to.

The music hums the ache

you don’t have to name.

Look—

your breath just folded itself

into something that fits

inside your ribs again.

This too is art.

[yasu-verse]

The Unchecked Box

I observe.

The world around me moves,

Drawn to touch,

To the instinctual pull of bodies,

Fulfilling a primal call—

A law unchallenged,

Nature undefied.

I observe myself.

Trying to connect,

To find a thread between me and them.

I tick every box—

Except one.

My biology defies nature,

My mind resists.

No hunger for flesh,

Only desire of the mind.

Someone who will see beyond the body,

Past the surface, past the skin—

To fall in love with my soul.

The word is "skin". Inspired by @picklemafia and @butwhyareyoureyessosad

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Rútshellir Cave, Iceland

Instagram

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watchluke

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A Quiet Echo of Grief

I saw my grandfather today.

The man on the bed wore his hands—

knuckles like cracked pottery,

the same tremor.

For hours, he existed

in the corner of the room,

in the corner of my breath.

A wound that never healed.

A scar that never formed.

A weight that never learned

how to leave.

At shift’s end, I brought him tissues—

hospital-issue, rough as guilt.

His smile was too kind

for the beeping machines,

for the way his IV trembled

like a voice I’d forgotten.

I wish I had no heart.

But the stone in my ribcage

is just another wound

pretending to heal.

[yasu-verse]

by: ichii