Sta.sh
I'll wade through all the work, and push past all the pushy people, and try to make it all work. Wish me luck.
Till Next Time,
Shelby
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I Am From...I'm from the French Garden in Jonathan's Room,I Am From... by ~Surustu
To my own stifled closet full of Delia's jeans.
I'm from anything cooked in Georgia's home-style,
To fair food as heart-stopping as the carnival rides.
I'm from the swung speech of a Southerner's twang,
To the capricious talks of "redeeming reputations."
I'm from viewing a world with my Grandmother's eyes,
To painting the sights with my Aunt's hands.
I'm from silent nights spent in silent books,
To chattering pencils speaking scratchily on paper.
I'm from sidewalks colored like TV static,
To shoe ornaments on the wires dangling above them.
I'm from journeys taken by my brother's
My Dear SonWith the clicks of the crowd's footstepsMy Dear Son by ~Surustu
Setting the rhythm for my restless heart,
I pressed onwards up the crosswalk
And wished to be elsewhere.
My thoughts were askew,
Scattered chaotically,
Like marbles on a tile floor.
But I promise I was sane.
Yet you were running,
As if completely gone from the world,
Not smiling, yet so carefree,
As your young little face hit my middle.
What a stoic child you were,
Not even gasping an "Ow"
When your pallid nose crinkled,
Before you peered to see your obstacle.
Your dulled-cobalt eyes saw me,
A mousy girl you'd never met before
Clad in, what else –
A black turtleneck and an insul
.your cough.The density wavered in jagged movements that drew out towards the borders of an organic, rectilinear shape. Our fingers, the chosen ones, met at their respective ends, where fingerprint would crosshatch fingerprint, confusing identity in between. We were children miming the motions of adults, quoting their language, their words, using their clothing as capes to fly into our own sense of adulthood, maturity. We ran across time as if it were borrowed, inaccessible to reality, parallel systems that interacted only in surreal moments of passion, disillusionment..your cough. by ~slurpeesncigarettes
I stacked the plates in the kitchen. She made a soft, coughing sound from the be
yadda yadda1yadda yadda by ~diddlyhohum
love is strange
working through many avenues-
sometimes, it takes a peak
of shoulders through a slim
shirt.
other times, it takes a year of
friendship and not caring if she
fucked your friends or not, if
your friends loved her
or not.
and still other times, it takes a bed
and too many hands and not enough
space and little time to wait and no
time to waste-
and no time to wait.
2
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my artwork ! (: