One of the most common names I’ve ever heard
is my own, a kind
that neither trips up the instructor during roll call
nor sparks much interest at a dining hall.
A name like “Andrew” is clear,
transparent, and plastic.
The kind of name that lets me sift
like a memory into the background.
I have used it all my life,
like a kind of cardboard box
lifting myself out of it
and watching the packing peanuts drift
and settle around my limbs
like newborn snow,
candy floss,
and the long plastic straw
that curled around itself
like time
or Eliot’s yellow fog.
And there was a kind of distance between
“Andrew” and &l
You'll Understand When You're Older by miss-butler, literature
Literature
You'll Understand When You're Older
You’ll understand when you are older
Once the sun has set
On your innocent days
You will see you are like a tree
As a sprout you risk being stepped on
But as you grow the wind can blow you down
Child your roots will grow in
Making your claim in the wild woods
I must warn you the wind is howling up here
But the air is so much clearer
I'm not yet fully grown
A little battered, somewhat scarred
Still reaching out
Digging my roots deeper
And finding myself closer to the sky
Soon you’ll understand my warnings
And soon you too
Will reach for the sky
What really matters
Blood beating, pumping furiously
To see your smiling face
And glinting with familial bliss
Blood beating, pumping furiously
Anxiety riding the crop of humility
And glinting with familial bliss
How you make me feel like shit
Anxiety riding the crop of humility
I sit, hands folded, to your criticism
How you make me feel like shit
Mocking those few glimpses of pride
I sit, hands folded, to your criticism
I will not give my consent
Mocking those few glimpses of pride
Remember who you are
I will not give my consent
Inferiority is not my namesake
Remember who you are
Those friends that cherish my pride
Infer
Ballad of the American Waitress by TheGlassIris, literature
Literature
Ballad of the American Waitress
-For the lonely, the underpaid, and the ones just really tired of life-
"I too, sing America"
"American" which means tax-free for me,
No sense of economy, and absolutely emancipated
From mortuary science, living
As hamburgers do. On the shelf-
Life of shantytown supermarket value menus
Bring me the drink menu.
Thank you. I don't think
A tip will be necessary for that.
I boost the high-heeled boast of baby chairs and safety belts
I glorify flesh in pictures and idolized television.
I worship the lottery, the silent luck, who never (not even once) has tal
I see the heat of streetlights in your eyes
there is sulfur involved
snowflakes swirl in lumination orange and blue
you in your long black coat
hiding your military dress of antique brass buttons and navy blue in all its darkness
Remember that limousine we rode in
do you
It was only hours ago
I remember the year when we met under the sky
and the only light was the sun
too bright for competition and yet you were brighter
and for those moments so was I
We never sat down in limos then
when we could run or lie together
Our bodies were faster than thought
We made so much and said so little
only hours ag
my muse is a cephalopod.
i'm subject to her squiddy whims.
with ten arms wielding staves and rods,
any rebellion could be grim;
it's dangerous when we're at odds.
i'm subject to her squiddy whims;
it's dangerous when we're at odds,
any rebellion could be grim.
my muse is a cephalopod...
i could drown in severed limbs.
Time acts as a gauze to most things
A sealant cast that layers over and hides in the cracks
And the lives wrapped, engulfed, in its stream
Could be as cut and inconsequential as
A trip to the store
So in fore (and hind-sight)
Where does the spindle lead?
Where does the tapestry of stories
Reach the patchwork doll house
Where all these people hide?
Saying:
"Fire burns bright, fiery red
Rockets soar, streaking to the sky
Ice freezes and lingers in the cold
But roses don't grow to be like violets"
No, roses can never be like violets
I visited a garden in my heart.
Child-like, the butterflies flocked
And flickered by my side.
Conversations with Winter by Irrelephantlovesyou, literature
Literature
Conversations with Winter
"I could spend a million years searching for a minute worth living in," she says on a cold October day. A cloud of her breath disappears on the wind and her footfalls make no sound as we glide over a trail of fallen leaves.
I pause to ask, "Would you like to try?"
She shakes her head, sits down on an bench made of rock. "No," she says, "because that minute would be over before I could even think to breathe."
So rarely do we speak nowadays, and when we do, she brings the cold with her. It has been that way since the beginning of time, and it will be that way until the end.
As I turn to take the trail back to heaven, she leaves with t