writersdelusion
formlessness
jacqueline, she/her, 20-something // mostly stream of consciousness prose, expect very little form
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Text
the statue was dressed up
though it never came to life
prepared for sporting events
waiting for a moment which
could never come to pass
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warm days trickle
melting ice in waning march
my words hide under dingy snow
waiting for gentle whispers
of a south wind, a sonata
releasing sunbeams of energy
feeling daffodils opening
cups of gold spilling over
the wealth of spring a desire
a metamorphosis with
a kiss that awakens petals
a sky of sapphire blue
the treasure chest unlocks
wafting the essence of you
butterfly memories tremble
as words flit freely
unforgotten
Ā©ļø-Aubrie-2024
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You were made of light, so brilliantly bright that I couldn't help myself. I collected your lumens, the very essence of you, greedy to make it mine. Insatiable - I consumed you through and through. Believing that if I engulfed you whole, you'd live inside of me forever; that we would be one.
I took everything. Selfish in my desire, I screamed from the top of my lungs and you stood before me, bewildered and in disbelief. To absorb you was to consume you. To consume you, was to extinguish you.
Dim | nb
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I think my biggest regret
Is this ever aching need
To chase after each step
I lose every moment
Reaching for the next
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a new spring flesh flat white morning voice dalliance to be deciphered
decided sunflower squirrel in loveĀ
with charitable bright blue latex glove used faith twice
use faith as social dementia
in the crowd where are we attritionĀ
leave neptune if you leave singalongs your lorgnette
apoetic if i bring up a need
impersonal night touch me like your obscure page stroke
like your life smoke and mirror mildew
slow sun no one wants want night eyelashes you won't share
anything with my git sleep rouse
clock we gasp in too-muchness
truly who peeps at intestines of your clarinet apostate artform
daylight infernal saving i infer
or human heads pinned in tender sepia
ache to uncloak other navajoĀ
moving divine dark around garden fantasies at misconstrued silence
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little figgy is ready for the spring!!
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bolstering a dream
choosing a pop of color
underneath Monday
desperate leaps through fog
hoping to the banish blues
we just make purple
a far reach across
winter into springās delight
falling into place
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you loved me like breathing
so I strangled your throat
unripe for consuming
unworthy of air
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Alone for so long,
You become nose blind to your own scent,
Merging with the silence of solitude.
It becomes bland; neutral,
Until someone enters your world.
Their scent clings to you for days,
and yours, to them.
It lingers on the couch,
On walls, on the shirt left behind.
But when you dare
To touch and be touched again,
Pungent is the smell of memories
You can't seem to forget.
But at some point,
the air will clear long enough to
Cleanse your palate
So you can breathe again.
nb | phantosmia
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All is well
Sacrifice the day
Let tomorrow's claws
Sculpt its fantasy
Where do flowers go
When they are still lovely
But forgotten?
To the heavens inside
Where the past and the future
Crave each other
I am and I am not
You well-meaning evil
You are free to go
I am free to be
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When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, āStay awhile.ā
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, āItās simple,ā they say,
āand you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.ā
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A Shoe-In
A shoe-in for a ghoul once all the normal mechanisms give
and you've gotta find a second being to be.
A ghost just can't keep it together,
a vampire spends too much on clothes. We could go through the list,
but suffice it to say, you'll do well here,
sign off and we'll start the preparations.
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āItās March. I open the window and spring floats in, kisses me on the nose. I have waited so longā and now the Sun is washing the world in yellow, and now the seeds sprout green in the dirt, and now the trees are budding and ready to bloomā and it was all so worth it.ā
ā Schuyler Peck, Worth the Wait
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I can only hope that every time the sky is ablaze,
youāll think of me
And Iāll think of your gaze.
I blast your anthems in both of my ears,
in fact, Iāve never felt closer to you, but
Iām starting to realize that we will never be
Because it turns out,
Despite convincingly innocuous exchanges,
you just loved dancing
not dancing with me.
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It was never my hand that turned the
pages and so deciphering another's
intent would grow tiresome.
All at once, I put it all down and forbade
my soul to play soothsayer.
Eventually though, a retort in form of a
revelation swooped in like a comet. Its
debris bearing fire is a spinning ringāI
am its designated planet trying not to
choke on noxious fumes.
I had been preordained, groomed really,
to collect and carry the great wooden
resentments and shattering iron ore
turmoil of countless.
I donāt even know their names.
I donāt think I even care.
I accept, I am resentful about all
of itāand it is such an ugly thing
to be this human.
This all feels like a dirty porcelain cup
left out of placeāleft by all means, on
purpose
to accumulate dust bunnies and fallen hair.
I was urged earlier in the week to leave this
cup alone. Your house wonāt care, I was told,
but my house is my body that hoards
sensorial memories
and as the advice hung between the ears,
my mindās eye played Scorsese.
In time lapse, the filthy porcelain cup rotted
and I forgot that it had even existed.
In layman terms, this was an afterword to
a death that does not ever take your life.
It is a death though that relishes in your
fearing it, as if it could.
It was foretold to me, long ago that
my mind would become slower than time
and that the grimey quicksand that
I used to conceal my giving reason
to where none exists, would one day,
be all gone.
I cannot pretend that I donāt see all the
shipwrecks and carcasses.
There are too many.
It is not yet February, but this morning
I began a hunt while in the wilderness.
All odds are against me, but I have
urgency.
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