wildflowers are strange things:
dangerous in their captivity.
the texture of feathers is easy
to forget. you are searching
for homelands, to resurrect
hope in possibilities
of things outside
these boundaries: how stupid
of them to contain you.
it is a struggle just to keep on
breathing - your lungs cannot
continue like this. maybe
they thought of cages as home,
but you see between the lines
towards worlds unimagined:
the tragedy of make-believe
is right here - encasing
your veins, so-called protection:
you often wonder why wildflowers
appear the way they do.
and yours cannot grow
on whispers
alone-
this is
Rats?) Questions Of a Child by Spice-Twinkle-Pop, literature
Literature
Rats?) Questions Of a Child
Are rats tired of running?
are they afraid of the traps filled with food they haven't had for awhile?
so do they starve on purpose?
why does their rib cage become sharp enough to punture
Anything still, moving?
and if they died would it be, silent?
why are rats classified as vermin?
As if we are any better
we create bombs to kill each other
and teach guns how to paint
before we learn how not to pull the trigger
and how children were forced to become the teacher
but are rats scared of dying
like humans are
.. or is it normal to them?
did they learn how not to care by a sucidal man
or are they just tiny foot prints stained on the pa
Leaving the stars behind us by Spice-Twinkle-Pop, literature
Literature
Leaving the stars behind us
I Drag my feet across dusty wooden flooring
like a mop my toes clear the dirt from the stars behind me
how every slab of wood has atleast one screw to loose or way to tight
how just demanding the filth won't make it go away
but we still try
until our lungs run out of oxygen and our throat is dry
we still try
to sweap our feet on the stars behind us
hoping to fine the beauty and shine
only for it to never go away to begin with.
photography relies
on learning to see
the same thing from
multiple angles
and knowing how to
manipulate shadows
to paint real life.
your eyes are honey-
colored in the sunlight.
and your eyelashes
remind me of paintbrush
bristles, renewing your
vision with every
vertical stroke: i
have learned this
rhythm before, from
heartbeats and cursor
blinks-time has
strange ways of passing,
when i’m around you.
your laughter breaks
up your breathing into
stacatto blips - and
your skin turns into
shades of crimson- these
fits have ways of
orchestrating
contagious smiles
in their decrescendos.
and your palms make
lightshows out of the
nerves u
Blue is the love steady, burning, unseen -
The love intense like a non-luminous flame.
Red is the love where roses bloom and die -
The love that grows and dwindles away.
Green is the love that stays rooted -
The love that stays while all thing decay.
Yellow is the love which consumes two young at heart -
The love, a ferocious and glorious fire.