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She is going to kill me, but I love her. I love what she creates in sleepy moments, words and analogies whispered to a matchstick horizon, though she tries to make similes of my hair as embers and claims that is where the beauty lies. I love the art she makes and hates - there's this one titled "inspiration" that I helped her splatter paint on. It featured a lightbulb she smashed with a hammer, and some wire going up and about and crazy through different drops of paint, all placed on a canvas. Someone offered her money for it, she won a competition with it, and she said "no, it's trash" but I snagged it so she wouldn't throw it away. I love that piece.

I love the words she weaves unknowingly and knowingly, and even more when she chuckles to herself at her own decided cleverness. She is my favorite artist, my favorite person, and my favorite friend. Though she puts on a rough exterior, she is the kindest person I know. She makes me always want to strive to be a better person. I want to feature her now, as you may have seen me do before, but never as my sister, I don't think. I posted a couple pieces and linked her, but she only let me reveal it on one, so I'm not sure how many people actually know that I have a beautiful, sarcastic, charismatic, and delightful twin sister (SoundlessWhispers). I always hear the rough draft and the final before posting (just as she does mine, though she chastises me for not posting all of them), and I love every one.... so picking favorites is hard, but here are the currents that have been on my mind:

The Expansion TheorySalivated knots incapable, tone denial; I am camouflaged,
embossed dictionary like brail, index finger surfs on consciousness - judges its content,
pebbled nipples of perspective, rip my shirt to ingest silent scripts printed and exposed,
stacked high on intern shelves because I am paper-backed, mulch of my spine easily creased
and it takes little effort to tear—
Auditoriums empty I entertain ghosts, echoing as if swallowed by some whale, ribcage dweller,
another Jonah; flood of silence, hotel of depression, each room neatly numbered for a different stay
though I make no reservations
        “Welcome, and please enjoy your stay!”
and I become saltwater seeping through the sheets, fabric induced coma, aquarium of suffocation,
room service delivered dopamine only available in afternoon, leaky faucets that drip drip drip
through my dreams like faltering kneecaps in opposition to conflict.
And I dream in high notes of a piano that resound like tin
Of Letters and Blank AddressesI decided to write a letter to you. I’ve seen other people try and they start out “Dear Depression,” but I start out:
“Dear Friend,” because it is the rain that causes the rainbow, the taste buds to the flavor. You cannot love any more than this when you are achingly empty, when your fingers blister on the space unfulfilled. Gaping cavern of loneliness (should we think about the potential?) though these echoes are shadows, unbearable at night —
“Dear Childhood,” the finger-painted sky, rewriting her bruises with antiseptics before telling the skin that it’s ugly; facing the mirror is ugly (you who deserve this, you who are only worth this). Making a meal of myself, forkful shovel into your mouth... there are too many graves; there will be many more. Like an animal since slaughtered you masticate my freeform butchery, cannibalism of adolescence because I could never quite fit under the bed —
“Dear December,” birthda
Pelicans and Peninsulaspelicans and peninsulas
we scour North Carolina
in crosswords, paper boats
the manicure of Poet harbors
twisting lighthouses for lead;
the sea walks through our palms
and breathes suicide ashore,
makes rivers of our lifelines,
feet sinking depression
our toes empty shells,
skyline of butterfly nets;
hide-and-seek, we end
in word-finds
AfflatusHand to mouth, what we all carry like trapdoor hunches
soul-heavy and hardly worth a penny; somehow we convince -
now you know: herbal tea smoke makes shamans
pen in hand, perspective the tilt to the calligraphy hand,
I never knew that thought could be so wild, untamed wolves wandering
collection of puss and new skin cover abrasions like that of metaphors,
like that of the idealists hunched on the edge of reality
you, in my head brushed aside like wayward branches
sit atop the welcome mat of my mind; blink, circle three times before lying down
because there are animals in us all, undefinable beasts crouched in the feign of sleep
but how they startle awake with fistfuls of skin
eyelid weights like cement blocks discarded during construction,
ruins of labor, forgotten memorabilia, though we find ourselves again
in the folds of midnight’s scarf, wading moon puddles, walk like Jesus,
suns in our hands, star pitchers overflowing

Prompt: MetaphorSelf-fulfilling prophecy, worn map
composed of orality, gods of mouth:
Hercules comparisons between that which is
and that which could be
we all Olympians in the arena with sharpened
tongues and oracle fingers; departing trains
smuggling refugees of new perspective,
illumination moons overhead like sapphires and Artemis
seeker mouth to hunt and shoot
silver-tipped harpoons; sperm fertilization for creation
the ovaries skull-capped and bleeding
naturals naked and raw in the forest
of self, wanderers with grammatical shoes
leaving storybook footprints in unmarked fields
brushed by the harvest skirts of Demeter
as she sings lullabies to the barbarians in our veins.
(there is no Alzheimer’s for the soul)
Like PrayersI am in love with broken people.
The times they cut my fingers like broken glass
are hallelujahs in an open cathedral
We Untitledwe are stratospheric, pictographs pointed out
by pacifistic children while the sky remains blue
and they remain dreamers,
prehistoric in the way that we have long
become dust but continue to breathe
through the museums of our fossilized lungs
mummified version of ourselves as we
evolve past the primal and into poets
wearing graphite fistfights about our necks
and there is no god that will take us except the blessed
reprise of silence as the demons are chased out
in bouts of self-purging
Ice FishingRelationships are the foreign language that I cannot decipher but for the few words that fall from behind my teeth to describe the way I die.
The mother that can only love through open palms and through the fistfuls of my hair she cries, but I cannot hear any guilt and that is what strangles my too young vocal chords before they have the chance to grow into anything resembling hope… or love.
The father that sits in silence and deafens himself through the early a.m. phone calls and the late-night shifts to avoid the girl that shares his DNA but whom he doesn’t know -- though he will smile awkwardly and try to grasp her. Though he was her god, her creator through a wash of sperm, and she learns young that gods will shrivel into nothing but men and the holy crowns will instead resemble nothing but fallen saints.
The boy who saw me through zipper and fly and praised my bloody lips because there was something new in the way I hunted down my own demons to slaughter. He would whis

Winter Woods by SoundlessWhispers Commission by SoundlessWhispers Akari by SoundlessWhispers Artificial Beauty by SoundlessWhispers

Happiest late-birthday (so you wouldn't expect it :giggle:) to my soul and ravenwing, a constant reminder that there is a time for flight and a time for quiet and stillness. You are the brightest light of my life. Don't shy from it: embrace it. Skies will always have cloudy days. Just as seasons have life and death. You are brilliant in all the ways you know and don't, and you will continue, continue, continue. Burn on... and know it is your desire to go out smoking, all fearlessness and a ball of brazen courage, that inspires me the most. :heart::hug:

SoundlessWhispers Featured By Owner Edited Jan 9, 2016  Hobbyist Writer

So... I finally saw it. 
And I'm not sure what to say, except that I kind of wished you hadn't. Rest assured, I harbor no ill-feeling towards you… I just feel a little like sloppy seconds, in the way that everyone will have expectations that I will laugh like you; write like you; love like you. I’m an exhibit for apathetic voyeurs. (See, I'm not as brave as you think I am ;P ) And what's this about me killing you? I could never feel anything but fond of you. Your unique perspectives and nurturing personality are adorable (like sometimes I want to crush your bones with hugs) and a blessing to receive.
Regardless, your words are beautiful, and I feel undeserving of such praise. I feel as if you are at the disadvantage, here. After all, I have troubles expressing myself, and so I often don't tell you the things that I should, like how much I appreciate you or just how much I enjoy you because you are by far my favorite human being. So I'm trying, but I'm even having trouble trying to say what I feel in this message. Luckily, you always seem to understand me in a way that no one else ever could. So, in fact, I'm the lucky one: lucky to have such a brilliant and caring partner in life - and to be honest, I cried a little (maybe a lot). You’ve always been there to support me: in my spirituality, in my creativity, in my dreams and aspirations... You’re always the first to say ‘you can do it!’ and with such conviction that I have no choice but to believe it. Hell, you even wasted thirty minutes role-playing as my boss so that I could deliver a resignation speech without stumbling (because 'I quit' wasn't enough).

I know I can be fickle and selfish, so I'll try to do a better job in returning the favor. I'm a simple person, so I forget that I need to use my actions more. And I wanted to let you know, because sometimes you worry, that some mornings just having coffee with you is more than enough. As long as we can still occasionally sit together, and I can see you smile, it won't matter how much you change or how much you feel you are dimming - you're always like the sun to me.
As always, you can make my day so easily. I think this last one was truly one of my favorite birthdays. Thank you for spending that day with me. You're always a constant, and each time I find myself thinking you are the best present I could receive. One that's with me for life. Although it doesn’t always seem fair, and there are times when I regrettably and undoubtedly take you for granted, thank you for being the Watson to my House.…

Nullibicity Featured By Owner Edited Jan 10, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
A reader does not expect a Cummings to write like a Poe, a Plath to write like a Frost. Just because we are twins does not mean we share identical whims and styles. Our wardrobe choices should be enough a testament to that, silly. Why should art be any different? Know you are what you expect of yourself. Know voyeurs of art do not expect art to be the same - artists, the same. Hint: the way art connects to the viewer in similar emotions but diverse mediums and styles is why people enjoy it so much. While I enjoy your laughs and your ways of loving, those are strictly human traits, which are not viewed through art, normally, unless shown. Do not compare my person (as perceived by you, as these are only your personal perceptions, and not necessarily shared or seen by others) to your artist. They does not correlate, dear. Do not be afraid to embrace your artist in all the ways you love and don't; be messy, be bold, be you. That is all that matters. I am inactive, and watchers usually are uninterested in features. I just wanted to show what you mean to me, and to showcase your talents to the ones who were willing to lend their eyeballs for a bit. You are not a pretzel whose worth/shape is decided upon what the audience likes best, so do not fashion yourself into one through your tongue. I will be disappointed in you if you do. You are Chihuly, love, remember? Be as you will. People come and go. Let it be so, so long as you are content with your art, and yourself as an artist. No more pretzel nonsense. : P

Communication need not always be crystal, dear. Genuine expression comes across best (: for it is even through your truthful stumbling that I learn you best. So don't worry about communication with me: so long as you are genuine, I will understand. Thank you, too, for the emotions here, and for the time you took to write this all out!

Also, correction: time with you is never wasted... rather treasured. If this sentiment draws doubt, please read the journal again until reassured :giggle:. Just put your feelings towards me, and mirror them as mine towards you. Of course they are probably not exact, but they are damn close, I'm sure! I appreciate that you view me so highly and brightly. That is always so inspiring, no matter the state I find myself in. Dead stars are not seen as dead for many years, but if the afterimage of rays can be cherished for the rest of this lifetime, I will take it. I will store warmth in my ribs, and I will cast afterimages. I am not crushed by this fact. I am content to be warm embers. Thank you for giving me worth and purpose in this regard!

So if I start singing "Cuz Iiiiiiiii'm sixteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen" will you break that vow against homicide? If not, I may hate you for all time. I would deserve to be shot. Even typing those lyrics made me cringe. Please, let us never do that, again. Unless it would make you smile haha, then I'd be on... *board*... ;) puns all around~ good thing you like meeee~

Who else would stop you from overdosing? ; )
It is always a pleasure! :heart:
SoundlessWhispers Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
I never did like pretzels...

Dead star, my ass. More like a nebula cloud. Death is inevitable, perhaps dimming, too, but you are a constellational nursery and new suns will be birthed from the wreckage. If you think about it symbolically, a star dies the minute its core starts producing iron. We use iron to build things, particularly for this example, skyscrapers. So, think of it this way, when parts of you can no longer be stars, and turn to iron instead, you are still building yourself. Kind of like a multi-media collage of art. And steel is strong enough to support many floors and windows, as well as people, all while reaching for the sky. In case you don't understand (because I sometimes confuse myself): You are a persevering, inspiring thing - and you're beautiful to me.

Actually, I renege my statement about killing you; if you sing that song I may just commit homicide. I think reliving it for the sake of its nostalgia is definitely a one-time thing.

I realize I said Watson instead of Wilson lol. But hey, Wilson was a Watson to House's Sherlock, so maybe it qualifies. ;)
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Submitted on
January 3, 2016


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