AHHHHHHHH YAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TODAY <3333333
anyway haha here's some poetry :)
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poetry—
it's the technicolor reservoir
i drink from, bathe in,
cooled rivulets of sun
sliding down my throat,
bright blues staining
my skin
until i turn into
a robin-egg summer sky
(that can stretch itself
to wrap around the world,
encasing this bruised earth
in tender beauty)
and lemonade laughs
(that are dulcet, sweet,
sticky in the air, on memories.)
poetry
reminds me that
the monotonous thrum
of my life
can be pulled and warped
into music, a stumbling jazz,
a splash of piano keys
and a low, plucking bass,
and these weeping shades
of monotone grays and blacks
and whites
can be pushed out of frame,
like wringing out muddy water
from a plush, ivory towel.
poetry—
it's what i hide in.
i curl up in the "o"
of solitude,
sleeping soundly behind
the fortress of words
that has risen up
from the ink
like a fog
as opaque as onyx stone.
i cower beneath
the thick-wool canopy
of heavy purple prose
that carries the aroma
of light vanilla
laced with
earthy undertones
and wild gardens
with vines that crawl up
wooden trellises
to kiss
the stars
that glow like small bits
of polished moon,
and with full, rich voices,
they serenade
my sailor heart
like sirens,
the elegant vibrato
sending lazy ripples
through the night.
i am not courageous
in writing,
in laying my mind out
like this, flat on the stark white page,
on this sterile metal table
beneath a cold, singular lightbulb
just for you to dissect who i am,
my soul
heavy and limp in your hands
like a corpse.
i am only seeking shelter,
an inner hideaway,
retreating into
myself
to weave together the words
that lay resting
at the bottom of my stomach,
under my tongue,
beneath my nail beds.
every poem
is a discovery.
a documentation.
a record
of my existence
for when i find myself
breathing in the stale air
of a silk-lined coffin
with my heart
still beating, begging,
and i need to remember
how i lived
and how i'm still alive
when i've only been drawing
real breaths
from the poetry
that is rich in heartbeats,
in inhales and exhales
and the ornate simplicity
of living.
poetry is my lungs,
but prose is my sight.
it slides a bright film
over my vision,
and every moment
is amplified, vivid,
and wholly sacred.
it seems that
i do not need to remain
lifeless.
poetry—
once it enters my system,
i become everything
and nothing
at all.
i am the observer
and the artist
and the stars
and the whole universe
stuffed into a once hollow girl
who has spilled ink
into every fluttering page
lining her lungs.
she is human
yet she is immortal,
because when the earth
finally swallows her,
it'll spit back out
her aged, moth-eaten pages;
the wind will carry them
to a wistful soul
that mirrors her own,
and darling,
her heart will be read
and it will beat again.
love,
mari