Thrushwing
Manic potato
So some of this is my own. Some of this is made by others but I love it all the same.
untitled
Between her lips lay a deadly phrase
She uttered it and joined the millions of voices
Crying out to be heard.
Together and yet alone.
This moment frozen in time
She was trapped in this trajectory.
As many tears as wishes
For brokenness did not make her
But in the final battle she was defeated.
And so she hurled toward the firey balls of light in the sky.
-thrushwing
From love her wild
"My sweet darling,
all these tears,
this hurt,
the pain in your heart,
do not fight it anymore,
it is a gift, you see, to feel this much
and even though it’s hard
it means you’re alive
with each of these tearful breaths gasped
your soul awakens,
more alive in the pain
than you were in the numb,
you are coming back to me now, my love,
lucid in this darkness—
so cry aloud,
yell,
and fall,
and I will be here waiting
to catch you
when the waking up is done"
- Atticus
title unknown
You are made of stardust;
Your skin sparkles the way those stars do.
Your blood is made of the earth;
Your veins bloom flowers and leaves and trees.
Your breaths are made of the air of this planet;
You blow life into this world.
Your mouth, your lips are made of words;
You speak tales that nobody else feels.
Your eyes contain the universe in them;
They have stories to tell and stories to bury.
Your scars are made of the chronicles your life has lived;
They're constant reminders that you've felt emotions nobody has.
You are infinite.
How'd you think it's okay to burn yourself down?
- unknown
imagine sisyphus happy
Give me tonight to be inconsolable,
so the death drive does not declare
itself, so the moonlight does not convince
sunrise. I was born before sunrise—
when morning masquerades as night,
the temperature of blood, quivering
like a mouth in mourning. How do we
author our gentle birth, the height
we were—were we gods rolling stars across
a sundog sky, the same as scarabs?
We fit somewhere between god
and mineral, angel and animal,
believing a thing as sacred as the sun
rises
and falls like an ordinary beast.
Deer sniff lifeless fawns before leaving,
elephants encircle the skulls and tusks
of their dead—none wanting to leave
the bones behind, none knowing
their leave will lessen the loss. But birds
pluck their own feathers, dogs
lick themselves to wound. Allow me this
luxury. Give me tonight to cut
and salt the open. Give me a shovel
to uproot the mandrake and listen
for its scream. Give me a face that toils
so closely with stone, it is itself
stone. I promise to enter the flesh again.
I promise to circle to ascend.
I promise to be happy tomorrow.
Nicole Sealey
Even the gods
Even the gods misuse the unfolding blue.
Even the gods misread the windflower’s nod
toward sunlight as consent to consume.
Still, you envy the horse that draws their chariot.
Bone of their bone.
The wilting mash of air alone keeps you from scaling Olympus with gifts of dead or dying things dangling from your mouth, your breath, like the sea, inching away.
It is rumored gods grow where the blood of a hanged man drips.
You insist on being this man.
The gods abuse your grace.
Still, you’d rather live among the clear, cloudless white, enjoying what is left of their ambrosia.
Who should be happy this time? Who brings cake to whom?
Even the gods have gods.
Nicole Sealey
untitled
Between her lips lay a deadly phrase
She uttered it and joined the millions of voices
Crying out to be heard.
Together and yet alone.
This moment frozen in time
She was trapped in this trajectory.
As many tears as wishes
For brokenness did not make her
But in the final battle she was defeated.
And so she hurled toward the firey balls of light in the sky.
-thrushwing
From love her wild
"My sweet darling,
all these tears,
this hurt,
the pain in your heart,
do not fight it anymore,
it is a gift, you see, to feel this much
and even though it’s hard
it means you’re alive
with each of these tearful breaths gasped
your soul awakens,
more alive in the pain
than you were in the numb,
you are coming back to me now, my love,
lucid in this darkness—
so cry aloud,
yell,
and fall,
and I will be here waiting
to catch you
when the waking up is done"
- Atticus
title unknown
You are made of stardust;
Your skin sparkles the way those stars do.
Your blood is made of the earth;
Your veins bloom flowers and leaves and trees.
Your breaths are made of the air of this planet;
You blow life into this world.
Your mouth, your lips are made of words;
You speak tales that nobody else feels.
Your eyes contain the universe in them;
They have stories to tell and stories to bury.
Your scars are made of the chronicles your life has lived;
They're constant reminders that you've felt emotions nobody has.
You are infinite.
How'd you think it's okay to burn yourself down?
- unknown
imagine sisyphus happy
Give me tonight to be inconsolable,
so the death drive does not declare
itself, so the moonlight does not convince
sunrise. I was born before sunrise—
when morning masquerades as night,
the temperature of blood, quivering
like a mouth in mourning. How do we
author our gentle birth, the height
we were—were we gods rolling stars across
a sundog sky, the same as scarabs?
We fit somewhere between god
and mineral, angel and animal,
believing a thing as sacred as the sun
rises
and falls like an ordinary beast.
Deer sniff lifeless fawns before leaving,
elephants encircle the skulls and tusks
of their dead—none wanting to leave
the bones behind, none knowing
their leave will lessen the loss. But birds
pluck their own feathers, dogs
lick themselves to wound. Allow me this
luxury. Give me tonight to cut
and salt the open. Give me a shovel
to uproot the mandrake and listen
for its scream. Give me a face that toils
so closely with stone, it is itself
stone. I promise to enter the flesh again.
I promise to circle to ascend.
I promise to be happy tomorrow.
Nicole Sealey
Even the gods
Even the gods misuse the unfolding blue.
Even the gods misread the windflower’s nod
toward sunlight as consent to consume.
Still, you envy the horse that draws their chariot.
Bone of their bone.
The wilting mash of air alone keeps you from scaling Olympus with gifts of dead or dying things dangling from your mouth, your breath, like the sea, inching away.
It is rumored gods grow where the blood of a hanged man drips.
You insist on being this man.
The gods abuse your grace.
Still, you’d rather live among the clear, cloudless white, enjoying what is left of their ambrosia.
Who should be happy this time? Who brings cake to whom?
Even the gods have gods.
Nicole Sealey
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