Posted : 1 year ago

the plight of the paper people

my skin is paper thing
my bones are paper frail
and similar to my kin
i am paper pale

we live in a paper town,
nestled warm in our paper houses
but we all wear paper frowns,
from elders to spouses

because we are so light,
just little more than a feather, 
it would be no surprise for us to float away,
onto something arguably better

being paper people.
there is only so much we can do
so we cover our injuries with paper band aids,
and carry on anew

knowing not what could come
or even if it’ll be different
we release our ankles from the chains 





a melancholy summer (by tara rose toes)
Posted : 1 year ago with 25 notes | Reblog

And When It Was Impossible


It was new, this feeling. When she was around him, she felt her stomach twist pleasantly, and her heart kicked into over-drive, as if she’d run a thousand miles. Her cheeks would flush, and she could feel it, and a smile would instantly creep onto her face when he called her name.

It had been a long while since she’d like someone this much, since she’d been unable to rid someone from her mind, since she’d wondered constantly what that someone was doing, and if they thought of her. It had been so long, in fact, that she’d forgotten what it felt like, and how pleasant this feeling was.

Did she love him? No. She did, however, take a great liking to him and while she relished the way she felt around him, she was also afraid. She didn’t want to get hurt, and was naturally very shy when it came to these types of things. The last relationship she’d had hadn’t turned out the way she would have liked, and it was her fault, but she couldn’t help but be wary.

She wondered if he thought of her the way she thought of him. She wondered why he called her out of crowds to talk to her, wondered if he enjoyed their chats as much as she did. She wondered if he knew that he lived only a few minutes’ walk from her house, wondered if he knew that she wanted so badly to interact more often with him but was too afraid to say so.

She wanted to know about him. Wanted to know what all his favorite video games were, what was his favorite thing to eat, what repulsed him, what he thought was funny, what his views on life were. She wanted to know everything, wanted to have those deep conversations that exposed one’s raw soul, the kind of conversations that for some reasons people felt safe to have with her even after she’d just met them.

But most of all, she wondered if she was crazy. She didn’t believe someone like him would ever like someone like her in that sense, and inwardly chided herself for hoping as such. She reminded herself to try and not annoy him, reminded herself to not sound too eager and needy, reminded herself not to be clingy.

She did, however, hope.


crossword | maialino by naftels on Flickr.
Posted : 1 year ago with 95 notes | Reblog

to all the poets (may we never stop aspiring nor think we have become)


metaphor, it matters little
it’s not where the poem lies
should we dare to speak of ‘cliché’
i will bring up beholder’s eyes

or more exactly - eyes of authors
those who dare to break apart
the walls they built to shield themselves
exposing heart to dark

moreover, if it brings catharsis
or grants clarity to thought
then there is beauty to the process
of unfolding one’s own heart

how writting helps you is what matters
if it strengthens sanity
or prolongs a grip on precious things
then it matters too, to me

Posted : 1 year ago with 34 notes | Reblog

White walls.


It was true.  White walls, not eggshell or cream, or sunshine yellow for variety – bleached white, to help people forget their shadows.

Here to ignore the voices in her head and the rhythm in her step, and the light that connected her to everything by her fingertips, she was blinded by white.  White light makes things right.

Half-done face, unsure how to hold her smile. A grimace, showing square white teeth, something even canines would understand.  People found this reassuring, so she tried to pull the muscles tight.

“You’re a lucky one. “ Doctor said, “You acknowledged that you needed help.  It’s a big step.”  His handful of pills didn’t really work, but sometimes she offered, “I’m feeling a bit better.”  He was young, unlined and hoping for the placebo effect, medical school education giving him endless faith in useless pharmaceuticals.  She was hoping for a placebo effect as well.    Maybe it meant she wasn’t crazy. 

But the “overwhelming” had consumed her, oh, for some time now.  It was like she was coming off Ecstasy - sweaty, dehydrated, somewhere on a spectrum of melancholy and optimistic revolving between the two of them frequently. Tears, hysterical laughter, fog, disconnect, strings of meaningless words, coherence, repeat. 

It was better this way. Here, where her bracelet had her name and date of birth clearly printed in ball point.  She tried to imagine herself glowing from the inside.  She watched daytime television of normal people on game shows and mimicked their expressions.  She was so eager to reconnect with her life, though it seemed her life had untethered her.  Sometimes she’d try to sweat it out, and pile all the blankets over her head, up close and personal to the dark.  “Stop CRYING” she’d command herself, and ignore how it hurt to inhale.  

“Just choose to be happy.”  Skeptic friends, who didn’t need the bleached white walls to feel better.

“Just choose to be happy.” She repeated, knowing that it would take so much more than words to ever fill her up.


This is what God looks like to me.
Posted : 1 year ago with 22 notes | Reblog



            I buy my books used and look for others’ markings in the pages of my books. I do not attempt to rid myself of their presence; to see the highlighted words of another is the second greatest joy a reader can experience—the first greatest is to mark the words for themselves. I like to see the swift lines of yellow that coat the stark white pages of novellas and I like to imagine what it was that these people were doing when they were reading. Where they sitting cross-legged as I am now, turning pages with their fingers and hoping for the best? Where they crying for the character—the lowly woman torn apart by the cruel patriarch? I know they must have felt something akin to what I feel now: passion and anger, understanding and truth, for the passages that they have highlighted are ones of profound importance. Perhaps they were writing a paper and these are the quotes that they used: the pieces of textual evidence that helped craft a beautiful paper full of insightful analysis. Or perhaps it is the opposite: perhaps they were forced to highlight and their movements are precise out of boredom. Perhaps they did not care for the book the way that I do. Perhaps that is why they sold it: they were done with it, that was that. Perhaps they had grown tired of the book and they need a quick profit; perhaps it was simply a school project and nothing more.

  And it is true: they will not keep the book on their shelf like I will. They will not organize it alphabetically nor will they paw through it when they are in need of inspiration. They have given the book away: sold it to the highest bidder and for what, twelve dollars? But perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps they have given it away because they know they need to. Perhaps they have let it go into the wild to rejoin the cycle—to touch someone’s heart in a different way. Perhaps they are stronger than me, perhaps they are able to do what I cannot: let a book go. Perhaps that is all I am: a book hoarder; someone who hoards memories and quotations, stacks them together, piecing together a safety-net for those days that are much too rough. Perhaps they are stronger than me, in fact, I am sure they are.

Posted : 1 year ago with 21 notes | Reblog

Red Apples Through The Ages, a triptych


I. Garden Apple

The undergrowth was beginning to itch underneath her bare feet. They didn’t hurt her before. Nothing did. Perhaps they knew that she had disobeyed the rule.

     Spies lurked everywhere. The very trees spoke to each other in their own secret language. She used to understand it but her knowledge of woodland dialects was slowly fading. She heard them mutter unintelligibly to each other and feared she may be too late.

     She rushed towards their resting place last night. She was certain he’d still be there, ever the obedient follower of orders she didn’t understand. But now that she had fully grasped their situation, she thought it prudent to tell him. They were, after all, partners until death – because they were told to be.

     True enough, she found him in the same grove she had left earlier that day. “What’s going on?” He asked, instantly noticing. “Why do you have leaves all over your skin?”

     That question made her want to slug him. The snake was right. It was surprising for such an unassuming creature to provide such revolutionary insight.

     “Here,” she handed him the half-eaten apple in her hand. “Why don’t you finish that and find out.”

II. Polished Red

Women should be allowed to be themselves and not become ruined by age, playing the only role that chauvinistic, sadistically traditional men see fit.

     Unfortunately, the man she married was so like the rest, and so she had to kill him. She thought he’d be ready for her vision: an era of strong, independent women, capable to rule.

     And why not? Across the country, women are taking arms to fight wars, start revolutions, usurp sovereignty. She herself had mastered the dark arts for her agenda, at the risk of her own life.

     But now her stepdaughter is a shame. A young lady that could use her beauty to turn oceans into flaming seas, mountains into silver castles, men into putty, kings to slaves and vice versa. And what does she decide to do? Sweep floors for seven little men!

     But she’d found her stepdaughter’s hiding place: a forest cottage. She had made sure her stepdaughter would be alone when she visited. She knocked on the door, concealed underneath an old woman’s rags. She’s going to make that little twit eat a poisonous apple, no matter what it takes.

     A necessary thing to do.

     For deliverance – the future liberation of women.


III. Bloodfruit

The blood apple ripens only once or twice in a year cycle, and sometimes not at all. They said it’s so shiny that it glimmers in the night, like flames from divine torches blazing from afar. When you set eyes upon it, it burns inside you and never quite leaves. When you find the perfect one, you lose the desire for another, and once you’ve tasted it, your life simulates a believable perfection, a state of undiluted euphoria guaranteed to blind you.

     Blood apples contain the Meaning of Life. Living without tasting it is like a wakeful death. However, some legends become timeworn and subsequently forgotten, while others get revised in the retelling.

     Now, no one truly knows what the bloodfruit – as the bloodapple is also called – looks like. Maybe once in a while people would come across it, but it won’t be recognized. Some will think they’ve found it, only to have a festering aftertaste once they’ve taken a bite. But much as it is a need, the bloodfruit has grown more elusive and almost improbable to find. Like the Holy Grail, like the Phoenix, like nacreous cloud formations, like the true meaning of dreams.  

Posted : 1 year ago with 70 notes | Reblog

A Poem About Someone Else


There were a thousand madmen
who perched within a tree
I read about it somewhere
none were me, none were me

and they spoke about the Flower Queen
they spoke like it was true
‘bout her pedal curves and soft sweet skin
they spoke of you, they spoke of you

And one said he had met you true
of all I liked him most
he said that you and he had stalked
the streets like ghosts, the streets like ghosts

But now he dreamt your moonlit frame
slow discovery of your skin
through the patchwork wardrobe you employed
to spend his mind to sin

A collarbone to meet you
Your hair down to disarm
Your lips, your lips said such sweet things
your wanted kiss killed charm

And it’s said that he went crazy
when he asked the moon your name
and climbed a tree to clearer hear
I’m the same. I’m the same.