When December comes
and the snow appears
my only wish
is that you’d be near
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
A Special Thank You
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
Or mail to :
Attn. Shirt Drive
Richmond VA 23225
Thank you so very much for all the help. Be blessed
like your heart
works better than mine
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.)
This Isn’t a Love Poem
Facing my fear
My mind full
Of all they'd say
Or had said
And heavy with dread
Ready to fly
In a thorny place
I looked for a nice face
And I found you
You found me
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
You held for me
Like I wanted to be
Anything you wanted
And I would have changed
Just to know you more
But you asked
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
Retreated into myself
As my feelings mounted
Kept saying "hey"
Brightening up my day
And coming my way
You introduced me
To your friend
And I realized
In that peek
Inside my door
You had seen
So much more
I was released
From that thorny place
Free to fly
Whispered to me
Stop the lie
This isn't a love poem
(but I think I love you)
What are you waiting for...
Can I not miss
Turn on you
half past love 'o'
and yours collide
as we glide
past all the moons.
Can I not miss
with my blushing
Living without you
is not allowed...
love letter to the sixteen year old who wants to be a martyr
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?