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The Dawn Gate :icontheechodragon:TheEchoDragon 317 5 Morning Walk :iconjflaxman:jflaxman 1,019 83 OLD - beach 06 :icongreenleaf-stock:greenleaf-stock 381 129
Literature
Streetside
it trembles, a
crooked form caught
in a black sea,
its surface
stagnant now – the
still waters rumble
with the passing of cars and
unmoving eyes, casting deep
shadows over its
small
broken body
alone and
weary
it croaks, a feathery wing outstretched,
reaching
a mouth, wide open
unable to utter a single
cry
:iconDragonsDwelling:DragonsDwelling
:icondragonsdwelling:DragonsDwelling 1,374 157
Octopus :iconpshoudini:PSHoudini 3,257 683
Literature
My Pillow Can't Hug Me
My Pillow Can't Hug Me
It's been...6 months.
Since I've been enveloped in any embrace.
I kiss my mother
every morning of every day 
on her right temple. 
It's a ritual I started at 13.
That's 1,318 days, today.
And starting then, a shift arose.
I've never been overly affectionate,
but as I get older,
the more skin aches from no touch.
Loneliness beating me down
like the sun stifling withering petals,
their descent nearly as gorgeous
as when it flourished.
Malnourished, I lie down on this bed,
as the only thing being fed is the lead 
in my eyelids.
Leading me to the only thing here
that has consistently be there.
And its slumber.
But she doesn't like answering calls
when there's light out.
:iconchromeantennae:chromeantennae
:iconchromeantennae:chromeantennae 158 167
Nosce Te Ipsum :iconliiga:liiga 683 95 Quarter Horse 46 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 305 190 Paint Horse 5 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 737 455 Friesian 15 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 349 168 Standardbred 3 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 297 78 Paint Horse 57 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 446 174 OLD - beach 07 :icongreenleaf-stock:greenleaf-stock 1,336 170 OLD - beach 05 :icongreenleaf-stock:greenleaf-stock 266 58 On Writing Love Poetry :iconthebrassglass:TheBrassGlass 414 168 LAUDE NOVELLA :iconmementomoryo:mementomoryo 1,574 62 Appaloosa 4 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 339 102 Miniature Horse 11 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 326 76 Paint Horse 36 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 689 395 Paint Horse 26 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 232 155 Belgian Draft 2 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 281 122 Callum and the Tree People :iconjflaxman:jflaxman 215 41 Landscape-stock 19 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 442 268 Giant Pixels :iconbenheine:BenHeine 648 86 RedSpec's Innocence 01 Refined :iconlaticis:Laticis 1,161 97 Victoria in Form :iconlaticis:Laticis 2,659 320 Quarter Horse 19 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 472 282 Arabian 16 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 634 233 Belgian Draft 4 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 383 197 Paint Horse 8 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 329 166 Thoroughbred 5 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 287 178 Arabian 5 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 198 148
Literature
Simple Thing
I’d like to be an off-beat
syncopated little thing;
note and stem floating on the melody, just sitting in
appoggiatura, grace-note, special thing.
I’d like to be a sailor
swinging on the ocean wind
coarse old rope between my hands and salt-spray where my toes begin
nimble little sailor, clever thing.
I’d like to be a bed-sheet
gentle thing to warm your skin
thing that you hug tighter when the morning starts to filter in
falling through your creases, lucky thing.
:iconbonfirelights:bonfirelights
:iconbonfirelights:bonfirelights 136 56
Literature
Portrait Of Black Jesus
Portrait of Black Jesus

i asked a painter the other day
“paint me a portrait of black jesus”
and he looked at me
like he really did see the holy ghost
and he asked me to repeat my request.
“paint me a portrait of black jesus,”
“don’t you know that is blasphemous?”
“no, i do not know. i believe in him as you do--”
“jesus wasn’t and isn’t black,”
“have you met him?”
he seemed confused at my question,
“what did you ask me?”
“have you met him?”
“well of course i have,”
“and what does he look like?”
“he looks like--”
“no, what does HE look like?”
“i don’t understand…”
“did he come to you as a man or concept?”
“concept i suppose but that doesn’t--”
“yes it does.”
“get out of my shop.”
“may the lord bless you.”
“fuck you.”
i
:iconchromeantennae:chromeantennae
:iconchromeantennae:chromeantennae 53 94
Quarter Horse 6 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 270 168
Literature
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do
 
because being okay is expected,
if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,
what can we do to be okay?
we can scribble illegible words
on a canvas made for by painters
masquerading as notebook paper,
and hope that we can sell the burn
of stinging emotions for some paper.
but the funny thing about that thought?
is that american money isn’t paper,
it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.
so even the money you'd earn from your misery,
isn't anything you can write on
when you realize your money isn't 
made to heal. even if it does talk. 
but it never really ever says enough, does it?
But that's okay...
being okay is the hardest thing we do
because sticks and stones do break bones,
but you can hide the scars 
with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.
or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.
words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.
and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,
the way your
:iconchromeantennae:chromeantennae
:iconchromeantennae:chromeantennae 132 119
Literature
mornings
sunday.
the croissant crumbles in my fingers
buttery flakes drift towards mismatched
china
and your lips are stained with
strawberry jam.
monday.
sleep clings to your eyes
like a shadow
and i watch you breathe, while
i trace your collarbone with
tired fingers.
tuesday.
we wake before the alarm
and count how many times the
neighbor's dog barks
before she finally lets him in.
your soft laugh blends perfectly into
the early morning sun.
wednesday.
your fingers trace the curve
of my spine
the old window rattles
in the wind
and i press my cold toes against your leg.
thursday.
half asleep
i mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaper
looks pretty in the sun.
you tell me i look prettier.
friday.
i tickle your cheek with my eyelashes
and make my fingers do
ski jumps
off your nose
and wonder out loud why
the room smells like oranges
[you tell me you ate some
         for a midnight snack.]
saturday.
linen
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 63 36
Appaloosa 7 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 325 192 Gypsy Vanner 2 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 301 110 Paint Horse 44 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 301 91 Paint Horse 45 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 827 288 Quarter Horse 26 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 213 98 Landscape-stock 18 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 436 347 Siberian Tiger 3 :iconequinestockimagery:EquineStockImagery 214 64
Literature
en route
my body is the
abandoned bank
on main street;
my body is the
burnt hull of an
apartment complex
only now in repair;
my body is a
feeling of shame,
a pungent rot,
a score of roadkill
in half decay.
my body is migratory:
a flock of wearied birds,
a search for belonging,
the fat on my hips.
with too few windows
and a steep indoor climb,
my body is home.
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks 77 58
Literature
Adagio For Hot Soup
I'm a swallowed heart-string – adagio for hot soup, golden glider. Don't think I couldn't miss your cooking. Not when I'm wrapped up, cold toes and crunchy boots, whisper-leaves and the sky.
The sky is cold. Not then.
It's inside that I see the first limits of a smile – tipped up in freckles, little braids in September colours. We're a worrisome story as the nights bend in, cramping us with shadows.
We're in the transitional time – apples sweet and winds cold, and caught between antonyms as the beach shuttles us away on Sunday with grey clouds and the promise of rain. Yet we have finger-gloves fumbling on thermos necks and the soup mists up our car windows and the crash of the surf is remote. Season doesn't belong by the sea; it's too timeless. We have bitter walking along the bare-necked cliffs, scrubbed dry of sunshine, and the wind jumping down like stones. Winter raincoats too early, driving sleet and banging doors, headlights on the long road and warmth, carpets, a
:iconSolarune:Solarune
:iconsolarune:Solarune 28 67
Literature
Soles (Forest Human)
Soles (Forest Girl)
i didn’t believe in carving initials into trees.
i always told you that was corny to me.
i told you i was a city person,
comfortable in car drafts
and gleaming lights
that dilute natural shine.
more accustomed
to the sight of airplanes,
police cars and helicopters
than anything else.
but you dreamed of wings
so much bigger than aspect ratio,
so much wider.
you were higher.
so that day you took me there,
i knew i was out of my element.
your forest stories teased me;
sitting on the edge of your shoe soles.
and that riverbank that you tiptoed on.
little smirk always flashing your white pearls
when you were whisking through this place.
holding my hand in a tight grip
as you gave me a tour of your hidden burrow.
i had never been so in--
and out of place before.
the atmosphere was brisk
glancing the hairs on my neck,
goosebumps rising on my skin
as i swore feathers fell from your shoulders.
purple streaks nuzzle orange bands
that hold together golden twines
b
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:iconchromeantennae:chromeantennae 38 43
In a Dark Cellar :iconplastikstars:PlastikStars 604 65