“Simplicity”

emily-dickinsonHow happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn’t care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.

— Emily Dickinson (b. 1830 – d. 1886)

“The One”

two strangers
“Dreams of the Rain” by Leonid Afremov

Photo Credit

“I don’t want you to love me because I’m good for you, because I say and do all the right things. Because I am everything you have been looking for.

I want to be the one you didn’t see coming. The one who gets under your skin. Who makes you unsteady. Who makes you question everything you have ever believed about love. I want to be the one who makes you feel reckless and out of control; the one you are infuriatingly and inexplicably drawn to.

I don’t want to be the one who tucks you into bed; I want to be the reason why you can’t sleep at night.”

—Lang Leav

 

Poetry Post #17: Labyrinth Eyes

stained glassPhoto Credit

Her voice alone is an art—
so full of resignation,
and painted violently internal.

That soliloquy tongue
manifested a quiet, gentle creeping—trickling
lazily, like hourglass sand.

Over time, she introduced pieces of herself to me—each one so beautiful,
like a shard of stained glass.

The way she finally stormed in
was something God-like—
brutal, blinding, but nothing short of holy.

She settled into my silence,
pouring herself, flood-like,
into these once-idle veins.

And yet, here I stay—
my love enisled,
living a cursed life.

God was a tragedian,
making my heart shift a space
for the girl with the labyrinth eyes.

Prose Post #10: She Was Never Found 

 “The Story of a Girl and a Crane” by Hu Jundi

Eight years ago, they should have found a body at the bottom of the Newark Bay. Female of Asian descent, between 15 to 17 years old, about 5-foot-one, with long, dark brown hair. She was driving a black 2000 Toyota Sienna without a license. 

But, she was never found because she was meant for so much more. 

Poetry Post #15: Estranged Wings

I found her through the decades,
searching left and right,
taking a vast nip of codeine.

Trust there’s flies
But something more extraordinary
underneath.

Something colorful,
but estranged
from its own wings.

From all angles,
she’s a garden.
And I don’t have enough water.

Twenty-three years it took—
All because
of her pomegranate shampoo.