I did not weep until I was pulled from my close grave,
Until cold meat held fast my bones, my eyes once more could see,
Until I had a mouth to scream and lungs to give it voice,
Until I was alive, and safe no more.
Hermes the cat can say the word "meow"
He doesn't have lips so we're not quite sure how
The sound of an M should not be in his range
But he meows like a human! Isn't that strange?
to be afraid is to deny yourself choice,
to be the hand stifling your own lovely voice,
to be the tree bent low by its own growth,
to be the pins and the butterfly both.
and again I am inside-out, close enough for pain
and no more. I can see the flames, know the warmth.
but I am cold.
in equal measure I equate
light with love as well as hate
day with calm and also fear
night with safety and despair
I don't remember childhood,
or being, without insults, good;
I don't remember feeling safe,
or wearing skin that doesn't chafe,
or any time not being tense;
I don't remember confidence,
or being near you without fear,
or feeling your words were sincere,
or kindness every child is due.
I don't remember loving you.
swallow me the void—I am not ready
and not ready, and not ready
for leaving this world—for staying—
for lifting this my head up high.
lullaby me now the end.
steal away my dreams the lie.
close my eyes the kiss.
cut me down the sword.
but I'm not an actor. I cried these tears
I walked these steps
I held my breath, my tongue, myself in sterile lonely rooms
this is no mask; no costume; I am not scripted
yet you shout "encore!" as I try to retreat.
let the winter enter; it is hot now, far too hot
and now we need the cold before relief has been forgot
o traveler! though you must feel your mind is in a haze
just take some time to look upon the eyes throughout this maze
so as to see another path and of course the soul
don't take the journey step by step. take it as a whole.
it's safe here now. the keys are not hung
from our necks but carried in our bones.
there is no lock but trust.
close and warmth, the quiet tick tick tick,
voices blunt, smooth, safe.
nothing for cutting, breaking,
no reason to be afraid.
they left to find the trail of crumbs long gone
a feast for those few birds in winter left
no tracks were left that snow'd not fallen on
and they were of a pathway home bereft
but they had seen the witch go through her spells,
and frostcold, shaking, they took up her tools
but oh, a witch in every forest dwells
and those who hope to change that are but fools
so when they tried to learn the witching art
no longer did they try at all to leave
but fought as witchgreed drove the two apart
and one did a cruel killing blow receive
that forest had a witch inside it still
a mindless creature using spells to kill
some stagnant word days, dense with smoke and short of self
faltering, withering, some fatal weeks for words
and months, and years,
and stagnant words throughout
far too full am I with song of sorrows never mine
to make a mark on paper half as pretty as is thine
but though I falter, lest I fail, I'd like to try again
to change perhaps the color of the ink poured from my pen
for giving advice to the masses
Seebs was poked at by internet asses
who called him cishet—
"Oh, I may be both yet,
and badly in need of new glasses!"
melt me down to make your war;
this is what the past is for—
for the breaking and the binding
your clever webs' winding
for my lies and your loss
and a lonely length between.
it's not about each little light.
I can see from here the fire
and the core of my desire
is to be allowed to stay
or else be kindly turned away.
it's not about each little light.
it's not about each little light.
they serve as what they're meant
and a handful make no dent
in the pain that I am masking
and the question I'm not asking.
it's not about each little light.
it's not about this fire.
it's about one long ago
and children who did not say no
but did not move to leave a space
for me to take a certain place.
it's not about this fire.
I want tomorrow. I don't care. let it hurt.
let me fall. let me cry.
let me rise up with my bruised knees, skinned palms
and say "may tomorrow come.
may the morning be sweet; may the sun be bright;
may the rain drown out the noise of the world.
may the night be stuck with stars.
may I live to see it."
I fought for this tomorrow; it is mine.
each lives their own tomorrow, each day, each day,
but I clawed my way through a year of todays
and years of todays before that,
and I have won tomorrow. I have won the greeting of the sun,
the hush of the leaves, the light snow, the bees,
the blooming of the flowers, hand resting on a purring cat,
the warning scent of clouds on a cool and gentle breeze,
chocolate on my tongue, a smooth stone in my palm,
the pain of falling. the pain of standing up.
it is mine. I have not lived just to die.
give me the pain; I want to be hurt.
I want to know grief, and sorrow, and fear.
I want to sing out that my voice might be heard.
give me the pain. I want to be hurt.
I want to live. give me my raging heart stirred.
despite it all, I do still want to be here.
give me the pain; I want to be hurt.
I want to know grief, and sorrow, and fear.
each stitch upon the cloth we chase
to keep the twist of fate's swift pace
and follow close its running red—
what needle does the river thread?
between it all the god of strife
is bringing dead wood back to life
and with his strange disturbing knack
he rests fate on a rusty knife
there is a place for certainty
a time for knowing where you stand
and all between's a drowning sea
there is a place for certainty
that may reveal itself to me
perhaps a shore, a solid spot of land
there is a place for certainty
a time for knowing where you stand
his numb and blistered legs gave out;
he did not whimper, much less shout
just gently shook and each cold bell
rang for a failure's death. ah well.
the king tends to his sacred rule
as rope awaits the broken fool.
onwards pressing always with the barest pale of light
keeping focus from the shadows in the corners of our sight
perhaps outside this empty hours pass for clocks to chime
but we walk still in silence and the dark that swallows time
o, to be a breath above the ground
and breathing still, yet make no sound,
and pass through clouds and hills alike.
o, lovely would be such a hike.
webs grow wide in headcorners.
and so does the silence of no flies.