pages and pens

letters and ink

scattered across my desk

like shattered remnants of

what i used to be and what

i once could possess and create.

they lay idle, dust-covered and worn

from the use they once had seen

but now remain lifeless as

the day i set them down

and walked away

not knowing if

i would one

day ever

return

to.

Fistchallenge4Kids want to Thank the three people on Prose out of a million that had the heart to donate to Fistchallenge4Kids for their t-shirt drive for the homeless families and people. For over five years we have been mailing out and dropping off shirts and books to homeless people and shelters. The majority of the proceeds came from my own pocket for years. But unfortunately last year I had became disabled and had to stop working. But the "give" in my heart lived on. Last year and this year I had a t-shirt drive to help purchase more shirts, supplies and books for kids. Very sad to say that only three people, very appreciated people on Prose had the heart to bless us with a donation. I thank you

@Danceinsilence, @Robert_Lee, and @Mnezz for blessing us with your donation. With the help of some Facebook followers and friends, so far the drive is doing well.

We still need alot of help . If you have a blessing on your heart that you want to donate, any amount will help, even a dollar. So if there is anyone else that don't mind a bit of change to build a smile that will stretch a mile .

Please help at:

Cash app. $fistchallenge4kids

PayPal. poo3sha@hotmail.com

Zelle. Fishchallenge4kids

Or mail to :

Fistchallenge4Kids

Attn. Shirt Drive

P.O.Box 13402

Richmond VA 23225

Thank you so very much for all the help. Be blessed

So.

A revelation.

It Appears I have always learned to forget.

absorb information, retain long enough to regurgitate, forget, repeat.

Let's discuss for a moment, how the information in EMT class is NOT like this.

You gotta learn this shit, retain it, and apply it, CORRECTLY, or people DIE.

That was a powerful sucker punch of levity.

This is not learning to forget. It's acquiring a skillset to foster survival.

And man. It's terrifying.

And pretty fucking cool.

Not long ago I made a matcha cake. I curved the buttercream and arranged strawberries on the top and through the middle. I'd made sourdough and banana breads before then and this week I am making carrot cake and pimms cupcakes, for some friends.

I think I like baking because it absorbs and satisfies those parts of us that like things to be pretty, the parts of us that love to love and love to give.

I'd like to love my mother in this way. I like making her her favourite things—a clean kitchen and a platter full of scones or cakes. She loves breads, too, especially when she can smear them with her very own quince and strawberry jams.

I want to send her mince pies, victoria sponges and anything that will make her smile.

My dog has just died. She held him til the end, and maybe I inherited parts of her tender heart because I've cried three times since it happened, which was yesterday. Even though I know he was an old and happy dog.

I wish I could hug my dog. Dogs are definitely the best beings to do hobbies with. I like long walks and quick runs. I like cycling to my favourite hot chocolate place and getting dark hot chocolate. I like seeing artsy films at the cinema and eating fried chicken afterwards. I like trying the seitan and deciding that I don't like it, and my friend letting me finish his fried chicken instead. I like slow Saturday mornings, spent in the sunshine or shopping for Chinese foods.

I like dancing in kitchens. I like it when my younger brother self-consciously joins in and then relaxes. I love his joy when we're dancing together.

I like dancing in bars, too. I like drinking martinis. I like giggling and one of my friends forcing me onto water, so that I have the best night possible. I love my friends, and spending time with them.

I like being alone, too. I like the quiet. I like soy milk cappucinos and full fat frappucinos.

I like packing picnics. Organising them. Acing it. I like long walks that mean you deserve the picnic, and a stop in the pub afterwards.

And, in case you hadn't realised. I really like writing about myself.

Music differs greatly, from style to emotion. As a musician, the intricacies in music are beautifully intimate. Playing for me is really soothing and connecting. Whenever I am playing -every movement, error, note, harmony- works toward a very unique part of our world. Music itself can have emotions that connect us all. It is kind of like an expression of emotions; it brings specific ones and explains others. Presently, people feel more of a connection to music than to those close to them. Just like an orchestra works together (putting every note together to form a wonderful story), so does music web us together. A nice way to put it is with the popular phrase "When words fail, music speaks." So every time I play, I do it to connect with other's unique stories, and convey what I really feel.

(A nice piano piece I would recommend is called Am Anfang by Musicalbasics on Spotify, if you're interested.)

Facing my fear

I turned

Away

My mind full

Of all they'd say

Or had said

And heavy with dread

I sank

My spirit

Ready to fly

Was caught

In a thorny place

And so

I looked for a nice face

A distraction

Corporeal satisfaction

And I found you

Or maybe

You found me

Either way

It came to be

We shared a space

You teased me

About sharing a race

I found myself

In our first embrace

And for once

I didn't feel out of place

That space

You held for me

Kept me

Feeling free

Like I wanted to be

Anything you wanted

From me

And I would have changed

Just to know you more

But you asked

For nothing

Except a peek inside the door

That keeps the truth

Of who I am

From prying eyes

And what I showed you

Fell soft under your gaze

Even as my hardest days

Were recounted

And I

Retreated into myself

As my feelings mounted

But you

Kept saying "hey"

Brightening up my day

And coming my way

And then

You introduced me

To your friend

And I realized

In that peek

Inside my door

You had seen

So much more

And suddenly

I was released

From that thorny place

My spirit

Free to fly

Whispered to me

Stop the lie

This isn't a love poem

(but I think I love you)

Can I not miss

you tonight.

Turn on you

half past love 'o'

f...

My dreams

and yours collide

and make

a slurry

of stars

as we glide

past all the moons.

Can I not miss

you tonight,

bathe

your

diamond

eyes

with my blushing

desires.

Living without you

is not allowed...

come here. the world is not an ocean

to fight your way through tirelessly.

i think my hands will fit in yours

because this is what hands were made for

if not to hold other hands then to hold

the paintbrush or the pen or the bread.

just as our backs were made not to be

sharp and bulletproof but to shimmer

at the sight of the decadent sunlight.

you do not have to bleed to be alive

but when you do i will clean your wounds.

let us follow the ritual we have done

for hundreds of thousands of years

and that is waking up in the morning

and kissing the blue sky and being alive.

come here and wash up on the sand.

we can have love in the middle of this war

with ourselves. we can lie in this bed and

sleep in the middle of the churning sea.

but please when you wake do not think

of the body like a mission. do not think

of tenderness like a conqueror

with every sword drawn and polished.

the world, your world, is not a battlefield

nor is it, again, an ocean,

nor is it a prairie

full of birds taking flight - as much

as i would like it to be.

there is no cross waiting across the river

there are no crowds waiting to watch you ache.

there are, of course, people waiting to love you.

think of the hands and what they are made for

and the way they refuse to die.

know that in your sleep while you dream of knives

they trace your face still

and they do not draw blood

but rather memorize the fluttering of your eyelids.

this, i think, is the song they sing in church

on the good days.

where the sun becomes its own blessing.

death has a thousand of its own songs

but none of them have made it extraordinary.

i think of a country like a body

and a body like a country. i think of her

destitute, i think of her lonely

i think of her sinking to her knees

when grief floods the land

with that merciless high tide.

suffice it to say that if grief is a god

then i no longer know what to worship.

if the sunlight is a god

however every morning is a prayer.

in summation when all my bones are broken

my knees will be the thing which i fall upon

and when i look up from the cool earth

i want to look upon something good.

in the meantime i think of you, going to every party

in the dress you wish to die in.

i think of you under the moonlight,

white lace like a war flag shivering like a soldier

so that if you were to fall into the swimming pool

and never return you might at least be remembered.

you were glowing, once, but not like this.

you were a radiant thing, but not here.

the silver glint of the sword

is not sunlight, nor is it stars.

you are praying to the wrong god.

to be human is to want to be something else -

god. ocean. bluejay.

empty stadium swelling with the ghosts of applause.

i’m sorry that you’re angry over this.

over all the things you are not all the time.

i’m sorry that you dream of such decadence

all through the night - making monsters

out of men while your hands

make air out of air out of air.

while you dream of biting that silver bullet

and spitting it back out at the world.

because what are you

if you’re not angry? who are you

on the nights where you do not dream of blood?

i will remind you: your hands are not curled into fists

while you sleep. we have been over this.

while i clean your bloody knuckles please

tell me a story and leave out the parts

where you were too cruel to bear.

tell me what is left after the bruises fade.

find a story about love buried in your chest.

are you afraid you will see the sunlight?

so much of it that you cannot turn away?