- Collective Writing -

interesting, kacie. I like how mysterious it is.

 

please do.
:]

 

got a rock off the sida the road
tripping beautiful little rock.
Stone, even
gem-like now the way I see it-
shiny rainbow reflections diamond even a lil bitta
crystalline precision in your bouldering bubble of dense chaos, little
rock (that's really who's saying all this)
(and by who I mean what) you are
as precious as the carrot
the way I see it, standing upside down
on Earth's oil painting. Every molecular
vibration, the rainbow bliss that tornados
my nadhi's I'll forget about you little gem
and find another moment your second cousin
even more beautiful. The ones near the blue
moss orange light green dry and furry to the touch
crumbling sea life away wet binding to big giant
boulders. Family scattered in space,
we web.
bouncy in the

wind

 

Something I wrote in a few minutes while sitting at the computer just now

The streets run red in early autumn.
Fiery Butterflies congregate down south.
Iractically they pass me.

My feet are covered in their bodies.
Bronze blood fills the sewers.
The afternoon turns orange with chaos.

The lead hat men mar the innocent.
The no hat men get victimized.
Spirits swirl between it all.

God's symphony terrorizes the people
Change is harsh on human ears

 

reverse the bass.
slide around, take notes,
involuntarily absorb them thru your face.
walk around where they used to hang us in the street-
my feet on fire, ashing in trays.
glad that was my headphones
not my head phones
home,
a planet. Meridians weave my soul
through dinosaur bones I sleep
like a diver, count like a giger.
Slip through the night like a statue
of a tiger.
Hey witches!
Come out, come out,
wherever you art

Found it. Walk accross lakes with it. Sting
rays eyes
peel an onion with it. it's spectacular.
humans dance the calm before the
storm (!) You're mixing primary colors
on your neck touching coiled bronze
strings, sliding around these frequencies
surround . .
the turtles take it out to sea,
believe me,

red
Red resonance I
salivate the present;

Volcanic
way we wake
don't be dorment
piece of cake ​

 

Nice. I love it!

 

little boy blue
who stole your horn
and left you with
nothing but bruise and scorn

little boy blue
why are you so pale
didn't anyone save you
from your violent hell

little boy blue
so twisted and used
processed for clarity
and issued a ruse

when I come back
from this haze
will you remain staring
your glassy gaze

they say death is funny
the grand cosmic joke
did you feel that was so
when you croaked.



if anyone understands me on this poem, I'll love you forever lmao.

 

man I really liked this one!

 

little boy blue
sat in the corner
breathing heavily
glowing green

 

I know it was silly at the end, but that was part of it's point.

That poem just made me laugh until I cried and taught me more than I have learned in the past few weeks combined.

man, I should write more often

 

You should I dig your poem and if your getting something out of it, its worth doing.

 

- She Smells of the Sun -

Sitting on a crate
Do you hear this endless bickering?
I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter
In either case.​

Steel, Silver, Breathing walls
Organic metal, shifting tiles
These lights are flickering like a cheap horror movie.
And still they don’t realize
What a joke we are in.​

A leaky drip
Can hit my eye if I look up
But that would be impossible
(didn’t you know you should be paralyzed for this?)​

Anxiety is beginning to abound
It always starts in the pit of the stomach
Right where it can affect you the worst
Is the same place where it starts.​

Full head rush now
When a soul affects my own
But be calm; it will change when​

She walks in​

Wow, I didn’t know you could slice reality
But I guess YOU can’t, get it?​

Walking over towards me with
Grace that makes the Wind turn as Green as the Earth
The Cardinal Points are all set ablaze
Sliced reality begins to unravel
When she touches my hand.​

I am​

 

I like this one Josh, especially the aniexy nasusea part.
This is one I wrote about having a bad trip

 

very nice, you two.

 

I'm a shit head

 

haha, neodude, that is awesome!

 

Thanks stalk

It's a sister poem to the one above it.

 

.

 

neodude!
she smells of the sun. that was great.
I'm loving that.

and now for something I dug up from the depths of old high school files. got a good grade on it. this was a teacher who liked my writing; my favorite teacher, in fact. I still email her the things I write from time to time / visit her at the school.

-----------------------

Maybe it’s not the most original time to write about love. Maybe I’ve been enticed into that sea of silliness, hopes, and falseness that seems so much more alluring this time of year, thinking of Valentine’s Day. Maybe I’ve fallen victim to glitter and hearts and bald aestheticism just like every girl I swore I was above, but maybe it’s okay, because I am sixteen years old, and can still be forgiven my romantic delusions.

Okay, love.

It’s his name rising from silence with every note, swelling and diminishing with every phrase, roaring and whispering prelude to greater things. Fugue and minor chord and dissonance and climax and silence, my song, is the only pure representation I have of things I never vocalize, cannot rationalize.

It’s his methodical destruction of the tightrope I walk every day, the crowd staring at the strangeness, foreignness of the features I’ve painted myself. Destruction rages until the circus, the noise, my costume lie abandoned at my feet – I, the performer, the artist, stand silent and bare, accepting judgment, accepting silence – praying that my confession will not be mistaken for performance.

It’s the light of a hundred moons, the quiet understanding of waxing and waning (but never extinguishing). It’s my distraction, the heavy closing of my eyelids before dreams I will to be graced with his image. It’s gambling even when (especially when) the stakes are high.

It’s a fire I started on purpose, burns I wanted for myself. We sit in silence in an empty parking lot, and it occurs to me that I’m not watching the sunset, but noticing it as his background. I’m in reverence not of the skyline, but of the way I can still smell him on my skin, the way every place he kissed me sparkles and stings in absence of his touch.

It’s the force of every storm I’ve known, sometimes thunderous and compelling, sometimes silent and occult. I feel pressure mounting, clouds gathering every time he reaches for me, I can see his storm in his eyes, my tempest reflected there. If skies clear, we revel in the aftermath, sometimes pretending a new storm hasn’t already begun.

It’s the reason for the hidden, narcotic half-life I live, holding my breath perennially in fear of losing something I’ve never gained, upsetting a balance I’ve never achieved. I fear that if I move, if I breathe, if I blink too forcefully, all progress will be lost, any semblance to structure will shatter and crumble before me. It’s the uncalculated hindrance, slipped onto that balance measuring rationality and treachery – safety lies on one side, potential on the other, and I’m waiting, waiting for the scale to tip and for treachery to reign.

I am sixteen years old. It is mid-February. I wore pink today. Call it foolishness, smile patronizingly at me if you will – but I know about love. It’s dangerous. It’s inconvenient. There is a flight or a fall, and I’m too far gone to tell which, but maybe it doesn’t matter.

 

and this, more recent.
from a different sort of great teacher.

--------------------

A quietly dimmed TV screen proclaimed that “EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG” -- bold, capital letters, almost indiscernible from a black background. A hand wreathed in orange-gold flame reached to switch the overhead light of the aircraft to the off position. In that bizarre, dreamlike hue that everything takes moments after waking, I saw mottled, blistering faces in peaceful slumber, chests rising, falling, and wheezing with every even, measured breath. I didn’t notice the sensation of a freefall until it occurred to me that, perhaps, this grotesque sense of nausea and vertigo was product of an uncalculated descent – maybe we were falling out clear out of the sky and it made me even sicker to think that I didn’t really know for sure. I burned my palm trying to open the window-shade, and looked out with some ill-placed reverence of the perfect, faultless turquoise rising to greet me. I tried to vomit and I tried to cry and I tried to regret the things I had done last night, but as it turns out, we are just as foolish and pride-driven in our last moments as in the rest of them – my last thought before being swallowed by either ocean or flame (I’m not sure which) was “I’m not sorry”.