I Don’t Care If It’s Cliché To Love The Dead Poet’s Society. It’s A Brilliant Story And If Loving

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

— E.B. White

oh, the human condition …..

Sotce

my heart lurches into my throat and lodges at the back like a jagged-edge stone. my lungs sprout wings and fly away.

the aching of their absence in my chest is heavy, despite my rib cage housing hollow. my skin jumps and begs to rip free.

i wake, and it is not a dream. my body is running from me, yet my mind will not free itself- it delights in it's cranial prison.

i wake, and your body is still rotting 6 feet under, your heart and lungs and skin and mind no more- but i cannot gift mine.

sometimes i’m not put together. sometimes i’m not pretty. sometimes my words drip with the crudeness of bukowski and the bite of the primal woman beneath them. sometimes i’m broken and wheezing, or just hollow. as a poet, i won’t hide it. my writing follows me wherever i go. stoned, on a come down, in the thick of the healing and of the pain. i’m not palatable, no matter how you look at it. and that’s just too damn bad.

🥰🥰😭😭 this is so damn sweet

how could i kill the weeds

when i watch the bees frolick

among them?

the rules of mess, by lila kane

1. there must be no fewer than six items crowding your coffee table. at least two must be either:

a) an open packet

b) a hand cream or lip balm

c) any writing utensil

d) your phone, keys, or wallet

2. all laundry baskets must return to their natural state of overflow within ten business days of being emptied.

3. rubbish bins may only be emptied once no amount of tamping down will allow the lid to close.

4. forgotten miscellaneous items must collect themselves beneath beds, sofas, and cabinets.

5. dust may be permitted to accrue in all spaces containing knickknacks or trinkets. it may only be removed on a whim, or when the space is about to be used or observed by outsiders.

6. all neatly folded linens and towels must return to a haphazard state within twenty business days of straightening up.

7. cosmetics and personal care items may not remain in their assigned spaces for more than two uses, especially if you’re running late.

8. no more than fifty percent of books in the house may be read. at least four must be started then abandoned. at least five must remain free from shelving at any given time.

9. sheets may only be washed if:

a) bodily substances (such as blood or semen), or drinks like coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, have been spilled

b) you’re expecting an overnight guest

c) you can’t remember the last time they were washed, and the mood strikes to wash them

10. an excess of blankets and pillows must be present in at least two rooms. they may not remain aesthetically arranged for more than five business days.

Write like a song. Or write like somebody else. Write about anything so long as it’s not yourself, and don’t worry, because it’ll still be about you. It all came from you, the potter who could never completely buff away her fingerprints from the clay. Write vaguely, don’t show your hand. 

But you do not want to do anything anymore. You want to lie in bed and watch the crane spin around the skyscraper outside your apartment, until its lights turn off and it rests for the night. You wonder if you were perhaps not built for love. You joke that you’re stupid, but the joke isn’t funny anymore when you tell it to yourself ten times a day. You are no longer funny, you have become Pierrot, a foolish fool. 

You passed a man with his shoe untied walking to his car downtown. You almost told him the news about his laces, but you imagined he’d feel dismayed so you let him pass you by. You want to stick in people’s memories the way they do in yours, but you don’t know how. Maybe next time you walk down the street you’ll untie your shoe and imagine that somebody noticed.

Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet

paused mid breakdown after THAT scene from TLOU season 2 to document the psychic and physical damage that WILL inspire my next piece. ache in the back of my throat still hasn’t subsided. i pray for every poor soul who never saw it coming, or knew it was. a tragic, haunting, brawling masterpiece that will BE 2020s television legacy.