flammenwerfer asked: Do you think that I should write some poetry? If so, do you think I should make it into a pic or just type it out as a regular post? I have had some ideas but I've been afraid to share them because they're rather depressing.
I feel somewhat ill equipped to answer this question. I’m not any sort of arbiter of poetry. Wordsworth defined poetry as “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings”. Emily Dickinson said, “If I read a book and it makes my body so cold no fire ever can warm me, I know that is poetry”. But it’s a bit silly to try and shackle poetry with definitions. I guess the best answer I have is if you feel poetry, if you live poetry, then write poetry. And never be afraid to do anything. Ever.
“I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.”
-Frank Herbert’s Dune
The Language of Butterflies
“Your eyelashes speak the language of butterflies.” she softly whispered.
We were high, no one says things like that sober.
The drugs doubled our vision, and made patterns creep from the walls.
There was a vague sense of sadness drifting through the air
like cigarette smoke, curling, impossible not to breathe in.
I blinked a few more times in rapid succession, brushing against her cheek.
She managed a laugh, in spite of everything.
I guess it was a sort of goodbye, drawn out as long as either of us could stand it.
She picked the scabs from the wounds that she had left just a week before,
Fresh blood bubbled up, and she pressed her tongue to the spot.
I had dragged the mattress into the closet to escape the day
and for as long as we could stay in there, nothing else could find us.
“You look like shit.” she said. And kissed me.
She was right, I couldn’t bring myself to care anymore.
We talked about all the ways this could end, and unsurprisingly,
they all seemed to end in tragedy.
Happy endings are for fairy tales and massage parlors.
I was falling apart. She already had.
All we had left were prayers to the goddess Never Not Broken.
Stuck in moments of heartbreak and disaster.
Despite everything our flesh cried out with homesickness
and when she took me in her mouth, I cried out so hard my teeth cracked.
I swallowed all the broken pieces as she swallowed me
and I couldn’t tell you whose mouthful hurt more.
She’s gone now, back to whatever hell she has left,
and I lay here alone, cupping her scent from sheets and pressing my hands to my face.
We never should have ended up here, but here we are.
Lost, alone, and wishing for a death that will never come soon enough.
I don’t know what we could have had, but surely it couldn’t have been worse than this?
Now we’ll never know.
As far as goodbyes go, I’ve seen it done worse.
Why couldn’t we just exist in 3 am forever?
How arrogant of me to have thought of her as my city before,
And how different her hands feel cradling me to her breast,
Her lips whisper more harshly, with kisses more tender.
Perched high in my tower, reaching out to embrace her,
I blow smoke to the sky to soundlessly scream,
“I am inside you, and I shall delight in you.”