The Ritual of WishesThe story goesThe Ritual of Wishes by forgetyoself
that a man wishes something away
without understanding its integral importance.
He watches as his life swirls into chaos without this thing
and is lucky enough to wake up
in the forgiving arms of sleep.
What really happens to us
is that we slowly rub ourselves against the grindstone
trying to dissolve our faults,
every day we hope that life
can grind us down
to the essence of our true selves.
We hope, too,
to get the things that we want
but we know
that a wish
like a rainbow
has no tail end.
The eyelash falls
the dandelion scatters
11:11 jumps to 11:12
Dream-ThoughtsWhat if we could reach into our headsDream-Thoughts by forgetyoself
and pull our dreams out by the fistful?
There'd be colors we've never seen before,
loose fibers of memory, people we know.
I have heard that every person that populates your dream
has been one you've seen before.
So pick the one you once loved, the co-worker,
the face you saw on the sidewalk
from your bones, and mold them into stone,
let the silk of dream ring 'round your neck,
the colors above the dust, the lost meaning
swimming on your skin, the shadows trailing
like a cape--
take all the brain-velvet
that has slipped across your fingers
and inhale its metal smell.
If you are lucky enough to see in the sun
what dances behind your paper lids in dark,
do not, for the life of you,
let it go.
A Poet's ManifestoI want to write. I want to keep our imaginationsA Poet's Manifesto by forgetyoself
alive, to find a place for the bitten tongue,
the drowned stuffed animals, the song lyrics,
the lake's sun crystals. I want a place for the
imperfect skin, a body's warmth, the sacred meal,
the dying sun. I want a place for inspiration
and for love, especially resurrected love.
I want to write to feel. I want to write to remember,
to dream. I want to write to have bits of the imagination
I can be proud of.
The Third DeathFor RonThe Third Death by AyeAye12
The first death
turns your body
into the grass
every breath of air you had
sent sprinting like children
across the blue-sky meadow.
The second death
is when the laughter
and champagne-gold connections
quiet into sparks.
Illuminating our cities
for as long as us.
The third death
is when your actions stop
It is never,
it is when post-heat velvet
bursts into a new cosmic flower.
Every kiss, every laugh,
all those tears-
they turn the Sun.
Every laugh of ink
that bursts from our pens-
that is the immortal part of us.
Life, this ball of beauty-chaos,
it is to be cherished.
You gave us
so many flowers.
May their petals live forever.
pollen on my pillowi.) the sunflower you picked mepollen on my pillow by emo-black-cat
is not making my room feel
any goddamn brighter;
it is spilled pollen on my pillow
where your heavy head should rest.
ii.) i watched the sun set without
you, because you were finding
her on the tips of your fingers
while i waited for your smile
to peek back over the horizon -
this night has been too
long without its radiance.
iii.) five hours ago you kissed me
like she never existed,
but we can merely lie to
each other, never ourselves.
to-morrow, perhaps, truth
will be blinding in the east.
iv.) while i wait for your dawning,
i make a memorial of weedflowers
for our love, which is ending,
and for this feeling which will not.
v.) dearest love, your sunflower
is crying on my bedstand
and i need not mention that
i’ll be joining in soon, so
these bruised knuckles and organs
will hope for a sunrise to-morrow -
a sunrise with teeth and lips
and your smiling eyes all over.
vi.) for now, i’m picking fights
with the shadows in my room,
because none o
written on the back of a concert ticket[the mountains this morningwritten on the back of a concert ticket by emo-black-cat
seemed to take up the sky
and, just like you,
seemed to swallow my life.
a dried up lilac
sitting on my dash
from a midnight thievery,
a sunset behind the
jagged hills which take my mind.]
[you say your hands are sandpaper
but they touch me like
i’m made of silk.
the bird says that i’m
made of silt - a
groveling girls, settling
down in the gravel -
but you are crystal, dear,
[i write you poems
in the back of my mind
because you live there and
knock when i never have time.
so pieces of paper live
next to receipts
in the cup holder of my car
between our two seats.
scribbled words and vague feelings -
the ones that won’t sit
still long enough to be written -
litter my life but they are not trash.
they are glittering shards of you,
fluttering as I roll down the window.]
[there is a dried lilac
sitting on my dash, and
its blossoms swirl as
the night air embraces us.
you sing off-key:
dear diary, what a day it’s been.
recovery vs. drowningI am supposed to berecovery vs. drowning by emo-black-cat
feeling better every day
but it really comes and
goes more like a wave.
and I am supposed to
write down a list of your
blemishes, to honor our
memories and write it
all out there to dry.
yet obligation to love you
and obligation to leave you
are not so clearly matched
now as they were that day.
instead of getting better,
i’m merely procrastinating.
he asked why i left him
and i said that there is
facing one’s fears
that makes them strong
in the stench of
a predator’s breath.
he asked if i was
going to be alright
and i just smiled
and let it take me down.
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