The engine chugs, sputters and dies.
an idea, an idea, my kingdom for an idea-
just one last ride, where the words
roar to life and spill out onto the page-
flows naturally like a rapid splashing river,
salmon leaping out the water, footsteps
dashing forward, freeing, pushing.
I want life to unfold one more time.
But maybe that’s my problem.
I remember something perfect,
but it was never that.
Push then, engine. Your belts may be frayed,
your pistons rusted, but
Throw me a draft that makes your bones ache
and let my words live.
(A/N: an attempt to compose a poem out of dialogue. Quotes are taken from an actual person that I know.)
“I want a girlfriend so badly.” A void of loneliness will never fade.
“Is it worth talking to this girl if you’re not going to date them?” It is not worth talking to them. Because you are not worth talking to.
“Don’t you look at every woman and just choose whether or not you’d date them?” I do not dare to assume anything. I have my flaws, and I do not judge theirs.
“You shouldn’t disrespect the Bible. Every Adam has an Eve, and you shouldn’t be alone.” If I had to choose between perpetual solitude and your company, I would be lonely.
“Ohhh shit! You need to sabotage their relationship, bro, you totally have a chance.” Do Christians not believe in loyalty and trust? Or is that just you?
“You’re not thinking like a father.” I pray you will never be a father.
“I’m not transphobic, but I do not want those people in the bathroom with my daughter.” She’s in more danger with you than she is with one of them.
“That’s just my point of view, as a Christian.“
You remember a time
when the second hands moved too slowly
There was a time
when the bell could not have rung any later
And you loved the time
where you could run in the green grass
with a smile in your wind-tossed hair
and a song stuck on repeat.
She remembers a time
when she saw the most beautiful births
There was a time
when she saw your face dawn as the circuit clicked
And she loved the time
with the boat surfing the waves of your imagination
on the open sea, entirely free.
I remember the time
when this was all still real.
There was a time
when there were twenty different open doors
And I long for the time
when we could all choose one to walk through
My Spanish professor may not be the best teacher, but he is one of the sweetest dudes I know.
So naturally, when he walks into class nine minutes late (which isn’t exactly irregular, he’s been late before) with a mournful look on his face (which is irregular, since he’s normally quite chipper), we ask what’s going on.
“Chicos,” he tells us, “the world’s greatest poet passed away today.” He goes onto tell us about Derek Walcott and his revolutionary poetry for five minutes before opening up PowerPoint to a listening exercise. His mouse hovers over and threatens to start playing the obnoxious opening to the fictional “Blablabla” podcast, which will spout useless drivel that we’ll parrot back in some way, shape or form.
“Yo odio el podcast.” His sneer is tinted with contempt. It’s then that a student chooses to pipe up and ask the professor what his favorite poem is. He then proceeds to spend another ten minutes searching for a readable version of the poem while I just sit and watch him desperately search.
And then- it appears- right in that sweet spot right before one is about to give up and return to classwork and right after the ineptitude stopped being funny.
The Light of the World is about the speaker of the poem encountering (and silently falling in love with) a beautiful woman on a bus. The professor talks about how beautiful and pure the feelings are, and the poem’s well-written.
And yet… it’s kind of creepy.
Because the poem’s admirably descriptive up until it gets kinda weird (from my POV). “Powerful and sweet odours?” Nooooooo thank you, fam.
“Don’t tell me that you haven’t found someone so beautiful that you fell in love at first sight?” The professor implored to our silent (and probably dead inside) class. “That you could see an entire life with them?”
“Daniel, por favor.”
I could only respond with a noncommittal “ehhhhh.”
Because let’s be honest for a second here, friends, I haven’t even planned what my next meal is gonna be, much less my entire life.
At any rate, silly little story for y’all. Cheers!
I aspire to be like William Blake. (I will probably never reach his level of talent, but wouldn’t it be nice to dream so?)
Seriously though, he put such care into all his work. He was a multitalented man who not only self-published all his work, set the type for it all, he also did all the artwork for his volumes, and no one edition was completely similar to the other. There were always differences, always comparisons and parallels that you can look at.
On the other hand, what do I have to my name but a humble collection of blogs and a talent for the written word? I love them, without a doubt, but they should only be a start. The skills I currently seek to master (Photoshop, performing for YouTube, and HTML/CSS) are skills that probably most everyone has already sought out.
Do I sound like a power hungry tyrant? I might. Ah well.
His feet felt the cobblestone. It was strict, unforgiving, solid ground marred with straight borders outlining each brick. He stepped gently, as if at any moment, a stone might break through the thin canvas of his shoes and stab his heel.
He knew it wouldn’t though. The passage of time and all those people who had treaded where he now walked had worn the road much smoother than the coarse bricks that made up the houses in the tight alley around him.
He heard the scattered chatter of the people around him. Laughter, arguments, and desperate tourists trying to discern directions permeated him and he understood the arrhythmic taps of every step someone took overlapping with one another.
He breathed in the crisp air, tinged with the smell of cream sauce and the smoke of the grills inviting him to a feast. Oh, he wanted to just sit down so badly, or perhaps even go running in the sunset, away, away from his final destination. But he tiptoed on, wishing that he could still feel the burning tears cool on his cheek as they were buffeted by the air.
But he was at the end. He felt nothing and no tears came.
As he finally arrived at his destination, the maw of the path opened up into a large, rectangular courtyard lined with buildings and benches and geometric, perfectly cut patches of grass. And at one end, opposite a tan bricked building with wall-sized glass windows, was what he was here to see.
He took a seat at the stone basin of the fountain. He didn’t mind the occasional spatter of water as the fountain’s spouts continued to shoot water into the full fountain. Reaching into the pockets of his jet-black coat, he pulled out a single chrysanthemum. He twirled it around his finger tips, admired the many pink petals before leaning down. Leaving one hand on the slightly wet off white concrete of the basin rim, he gently set the flower down in the water with his other.
As it floated away merrily along the ripples of the fountain water, he smiled.
the black of my skin is caked in dirt
it no longer feels cool, but as itchy as
as dry as the desert and as deserted too
lays (Why did I do this?) unbraided, gloss long gone
I could have taken just one more step
All that’s left for me is stillness and
(A/N: Hello again, ladies and gents! Just a quick update for you all – I’m still alive and well, I’m just working on non-blog projects at the moment when I’m not being buried in schoolwork, and there are enough tasks that everything is just… dizzying. But anyways. I’ll be back soon enough with some new stuff, to share, but until then, I hope you enjoy this stream of poetry I’m releasing.
Hope you all are having lovely days- feel free to talk about them in the comments below!