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~Mysterious-Ways
~~~Cake or Death?Dream
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A Love PoemWhy Shakespeare Never Wrote to YouA Love Poem
You have a mouth too quiet for your face which clenches with whispers you hesitate to release. You've squeezed yourself too thin too fast, battling bone structure and blood. Your eyes don't shine or flash enough to catch any notice or pause any breaths -- but freckles abound your skin like stars fade into the sky with the sighing of dusk. And I wish to travel to each, to live a thousand years on every planet that lingers. And with each millennium I could never hold enough of you -- never take enough of you to fill this lack
by ~Mysterious-Ways
Our History TeacherAs we were set free that day in June from the last of the classes (which dumb the complexities into portable bite-sizes) Sylvia leaned to my left and studied the face of our long silent teacher, cradled in grass, resting in the shade of his arms. "I wonder if he remembers the same sort of June that his youth used to bring." Always too philosophical for her own good. The June stays the June, they stretch on like soldiers waiting for us to cut them down. Then he stired, calling out for the class -- see you next fall.Our History Teacher
by ~Mysterious-Ways
BlanketsBlanketsBlankets
tugging at the blanket tangled in my mother’s wasted limbs. From the hall outside their room I listened
as love, caught and fettered, howled at its captors, gnawing at its own flesh in its frenzy to escape. Then I entered -- From “The Blue Blanket” by Sue Ellen Thompson
My grandmother’s comforter was white with blue and green twined in it. I don’t distinctly remember the pattern—it’s blurred beyond all my skills to reconstruct it—but I know it was somehow floral. My sister and I would sleep beneath it when we were
by ~Mysterious-Ways
Yet Untitled PoemI dislike that I define my life as antithesis of yours; because I like to smile as we sit across the table --polar sides of a globe. I like to say, I speak for reason; I am not a conquest you are not Don Juan. As much as we are the same-- no matter how much fun it would be to trace the line of your neck with sharp kisses; what's marked was marked before path, pattern, and death. So my hand pressed to this table that's the most-- that's as close as polar magnets will ever get.Yet Untitled Poem
by ~Mysterious-Ways
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- Current Residence: Wells College
- Interests: Writing, Reading, Drawing, Music, Books, Alan Ruck
- Favourite movie: The Princess Bride, The Royal Tenambaums, Serenity, Princess Mononoke, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
- Favourite band or musician: Aimee Mann, CoCo Rosie, The Fratellis, Enigma, The Loomers, Brandi Carlile
- Favourite genre of music: almost anything
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- Favourite poet or writer: Neil Gaiman, Garth Nix, Diana Wynne Jones, Borges
- Favourite game: Apples to Apples
- Favourite cartoon character: The Tick
- Personal Quote: "SQUEE!"
- Tools of the Trade: pen and paper
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I might not show respect for your job, but he didn't respect you. That's the difference. Inara, he doesnt even see you.
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"details as the raw material for abstract photographic compositions has become one os the most deadening clichés of today´s photography of architecture" - Robert Elwall in Building with Light.
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"Im gonna swim to the moon one day!" --Me
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