The night before Chris...
No no, if I did it like that then everything would have to rhyme with a certain meter and feeling. And it would be forever dated to a small period of time.
Fuck it. Just write it.
It's so tough though, to take everything I feel and dash it into words. Smiting the hundred, thousands, and millions of possible words I could say and putting all my thought and heart and soul into a single set.
It was the day before Christmas and I'd gone crazy. Not from the season, the stores, or the preparation. My only seasonal buying was an anonymous gift on the internet to a person I'd never met and what I got in return was a plain blanket. All I'd asked for. The stores were a storm to be weathered for the essentials I needed. And festive decorations were the bright lights outside my door on other houses.
I was alone and it felt fine.
So many years of my life had been spent as a nursemaid for one parent then the other. They
Fear is realizing you have no place to hide and no escape root should They come for you.
And They will.
How can They not? They are in your phones, in your computers, on your streets, and in your banks, hospitals, and airports. They can access your emails and watch you on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube. They have voice recognition and face recognition and soon fingerprint recognition and you are no longer a human being with rights to privacy and protection from your own government, but a case file and a collection of data and when they’ve had enough of you, they will come for you.
And you have no place to go or to hide, no quiet spaces. In the cafes, they watch you from other people’s phones and computers. In the parks, they find you with their street cams and drones. And in your house, in your house you are most vulnerable, because that is where you feel safe and so you relax, but
Composition C by Piet Mondrian
The best way to describe the modernist movement is through the piece of visual art above. Piet Mondrian was, in fact, a modernist painter. The general idea of his work was stripping down art to its simplest, most basic form: primary colours, clean lines, straightforward composition.
The same concept applies to modernist literature.
The general period for Modernism is considered to be from the late 19th century to 1965. It arose as a negative reaction to the strictness of Victorian society. There was a general sense of disillusionment among artists in particular, and they felt alienated from their rapidly shifting society. Modernism also contrasted with Romanticism as interest in the natural world dwindled.
Modernism gained momentum when the Lost Generation came of age. This generation, having grown up during World Wa
The moment I was put to Death
I watched my world unfold;
And took it in one failing breath
Amid the sinking cold.
I saw the waters part for me,
The prison walls come down;
And held my head up gallantly
Prepared myself to drown.
The war drum beat in unison
With my instable heart,
While I marveled at the passion of
Its long-forgotten art.
Then quick, the noose, with bitter force
Was tightened round my neck,
til blood began to change its course
and surge along the wreck.
I felt the world dissipate
In a white, magnesium flash,
And blind, began to levitate
Into the bidding Past.
And felt the warmth of gentle seas
Lull still the vessel tossed.
Now silent in the reverie
Of new beginnings lost
Then soaring high above, I left
My shell that winter morn.
The moment I was put to Death
Was the moment I was born.
A Sonnet against Sonnets
I do not care for sonnets very much;
Poetic form that makes me
Today was one of those days where you simply wished a moment of peace. Out on the Davenport Homestead, there was certainly enough wide open space for you to roam around in when you were not needed. You thought to yourself as you walked along the shore by the ocean, almost forgetting how long you had been there.
Three years. It had been three very long years, away from the comforts of the twenty-first century and everything you knew and held dear. If it hadn’t been for the good graces of the people living out here, you may very well have met the barrel of a redcoat’s gun or the claws of a wild animal. Achilles, Father Timothy, and everyone here was building a community, and for saving your life you had put in the work to become a part of the community. It perhaps had crossed your mind to figure out a way home. But honestly, you thought, what were your chances? The events that led you here were as random as the possibility of what m
let me be honest with you
I am small enough to fit into pockets and be forgotten
tangled up in the loose ends of jeans
quieter than the twinkle of coins against keys
is how small I am
to every hand I've been in
and there are not many I let hold me
in this form because honestly
I said I would be honest
I am so much larger than pocket change
or I try to be
far away and expansive
somewhere where you
one cereal box over
not hiding from your grasping grasp
I want you to
take me away and
spend me to fill you
but looking closely into my
window to my naked soul
is not a glance I offer
(I think the ground is the only one to stare so deeply)
is my honesty laid out like
bread crumbs to the universe,
me, brimming with its nature
a nature in you too
but even with this, vastnes