The Past is Just a Story We Tell Ourselves At Night
You are asleep. I am in my night-bound day dream. I wander from empty space to empty space. There I collect strewn, abandoned memories like constellations, joining sparks of moments passed beneath my eyelids. In the curling corners of the universe in my mind, I keep them, in dark corners swept under exuberant galaxies of my happiest thoughts. There they stay: hot spheres of grief and passion, tangled in endless webs of pinprick lights and buried in the depths of gloomy, fading nebulae. Smeared in the dust of dead stars. The most painful ones trickle from my eyes in pearly streaks onto the pillow, salty and warm. Some are lodged - like comets, fallen - in the bottom of my chest, and I feel them against scrape my ribcage when I inhale.
When you wake, you run your tongue along the bite marks in my bottom lip and you come away with the taste of celestial splinters, like ashes of broken hearts. The past doesn’t mean anything, you whisper, and my suddenly meagre world collapses on itself in slow, surreal explosions. The memories I am so tangled in, the lattice of starlit stories, begins to tumble from between my decaying lips in a sigh of defeat - unravelling, lost forever in daylight’s logical stare. Trembling, I watch as the sun burns through my beloved memories and turns them to meaningless stories. But I retell them to myself - in new constellations - when the night arrives again (because constellations, and memories, and the past, are just stories).
Can you write me a haiku?@Anonymous
This is a haiku
I was asked to write by an
You Are The Weekends
Days reduced to cinders at your burning touch,
Like your fingers were lit matches, struck
against my blushing cheek
My lips are bruised from saying your name in my sleep
And I wake every morning with my hands gripping the sheets
(white knuckles wrapped in white linen)
In the time it takes to make a cup of tea, I can swing
Between adoring then abhorring myself for everything
I’ve ever done and ever will do
But no matter how much the week erodes my bones,
The weekend inevitably falls on me, re-wraps my broken parts again
always, though it never stays
You are so quiet and brave I forget you are suffering.
Conversations Over Coffee
It begins with the question: “how do you take your coffee?”
Not “how do you like it?”
(although that’s perfectly acceptable also)
but “take”, like a medicine. Like a cure
for rainy days
and sleepless nights.
"No milk, no sugar," I say,
as if I know another way.
Black coffee mixes well with my acquired taste
and endless self-criticism
and I grip the edges of the cup like a life preserver,
drowning in an ocean of social niceties.
I wish conversations were more like coffee
I try to finish both before they become cold
Your analytic writing is very clunky. Maybe work on getting the right labels for your word classes before you attempt to analyse texts that are out of your grasp. No one likes a show off; especially when there isn't much to show off about.@Anonymous
Thank you, I always really appreciate it when someone takes the time to read my stuff. My whole life revolves around creating and this collection of art / music / writing is just my little corner of the internet where I feel I can share my love of what I do. But of course, I’m always trying to improve.