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Nullibicity

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in my dreams there are voices in the kitchen soft fresh bread to pull apart warm milk in the evenings and my eyes have never shattered there are swallows in the yard moss on the old well and honeysuckles climbing up the garden wall . if home is a hearth we build then my walls have been too full of drafts to house a flame if rebirth is a choice made day by day then some morning i will wake again unnamed

All

4567 deviations
The Kiss Of Alienation

Featured

4002 deviations
The night creeps up on us...

Poetry Inspiration

88 deviations
Literature

a million little pieces

i only use wood to build houses in my mind so that every morning when i wake up i will look   at the ceiling and remember the tree that died for me. sometimes i will rip the panelings from the walls until i have splinters digging under my nails and the whole street can see me, standing alone in this godforsaken house that i have destroyed, just so that i can sweat out every single drop of water in my bones as i rebuild it right on top of the rubble. and yeah, i'm going to go the whole goddamn nine yards and drag this place out from the ashes with nothing but my skinny arms and a couple meters of twine simply because i can. and all the sk

Poetry Roadtrip 2013

85 deviations

Journals

105 deviations
whale!

Tattoos

185 deviations
Literature

twenty / something

growing up   means :     bird metaphors   are becoming trite / i must no longer   write about leaving the nest but decide where i can find a place to build. like this we all pay our rents. i think about Franklin and his taxes / skull collector / his eventual place in the dirt / a nest of paper : currency                                                           of misappropriated quotes. i return home / find my poster of Che folded into tablecloth / critical theory textbooks mothballed into the ivory of closet. / by home :          i mean nest / or conjugal remembrance.  when i dream anymore, it’s about equity / fringe benefi

Fav

45 deviations
Literature

an elegy in birdsong.

Attic apartment, birds nesting between roof-tiles, I hear them scratch and I hear them cry. The rustle of their mother’s wings, the quiet sounds of sacrifice and hunger, these pink-fleshed chicks inherit their parent’s strength and swallow it down with clacking beaks, I hear the slow devour of motherhood, the gentle expansion of growing wings sprouting feathers. My bed-sheets awash with haze, outside the city shivers in the winter air and gathers itself into suits, newspapers, morning commutes, polite conversation and I watch the sun catch my ceiling with unblinking stares, prying its way across the room, frothing up tidal at the

to comment on

9 deviations
Literature

C-PTSD (CW: description of the triggering process)

The only thing greater than my capacity to love you is my capacity to leave you shaking in the cold. “No, I am proud of neither my fear nor my aggression but I need space,” I. are the words fumbling in confused languages from ancient tongues taste and touch, I am a tortured bull dying to die and maybe in these kinds of moments, lunging to take the bystanders and matador— dying for a thrill— to the death alongside me. II. Traumas do not look like monsters with gaping jaws and talons – if they did, we would have no trouble finding ways to escape them. We are designed to avoid predators larger than us. Inste

raw expression

2 deviations
Literature

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in my dreams there are voices in the kitchen soft fresh bread to pull apart warm milk in the evenings and my eyes have never shattered there are swallows in the yard moss on the old well and honeysuckles climbing up the garden wall . if home is a hearth we build then my walls have been too full of drafts to house a flame if rebirth is a choice made day by day then some morning i will wake again unnamed

Literature

26 deviations