Scribbles

You have once held my hands, led me out of a mess I didn't ask to be out of and I have followed you. Later I have looked back and called it love because it was. Cause I have loved you. What a privilege it had been to be me when I was loved by you. You have once held my hands, tighter when I wanted to go and I dared, I stayed, because you asked because it is you. I called it love because it was because it was true. My sometimes muse, my usual writer's block only for you I'd compromise the absence of ink on my paper only for you I'd call it love because it was. You have felt like the card I cheated to win my last circle on 'bingo!' my inexplicable luck my 'too good to be true.' I called it love because you were because it was. You have smiled, and I have giggled like a child for it - for your happiness. You have cried, and I have sobbed for I was your trusted audience - to your sadness. You were a mix of this and that and no matter which day it was I loved you nonetheless. I call it love, because it was. Would it break you if I told you I no longer miss it? That I am struggling to write this but it isn't the same as the days you used to dry up my inks. Would it stop you and make you count your mistakes? Would you perhaps find another word for what once was? Modify it? Call it something else? Or is it still love, even when we no longer abide by it? Would it stop you from your steps if I told you you make writing feel like work? That neither the love nor the hurt made me a better poet would it cause you disappointment? I have suffered the loss and I have come out of it. Neither better, nor worse just different. And I see it. I see what it was and I set the record straight. It was love. I am sure it was. Only now I don't really ache for it. Not from resentment but from an abundant lack of interest. You and I sit across the table from each other and there isn't a single thing about me I want to tell you so you can try and get to know me better. I see before for what it was and I nod for now - for what it is. But for what it is worth I call before 'love' because it was. ( - And now is called: moving on, I guess.) #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

"ታንኳዪቱም አሁን በባሕር መካከል ሳለች ፥ ነፋስ ከወደ ፊት ነበርና ፥ በማዕበል ትጨነቅ ነበር። " Beloved, I lived. Maybe because survival is an instinct You put in me when You created me maybe by a mere chance and coincidence በአጋጣሚ in the middle of the ocean when the waves hit their strongest and I didn't know how to get out or knew better to call out for You I survived and stayed in the blue. Maybe because water was your creation and it could tell so was I maybe the waves gave me የማርያም መንገድ and let me float by. Dearest of all, how long did You have to wait until I looked around and called out? "ጴጥሮስም መልሶ ፦ ጌታ ሆይ ፥ አንተስ ከሆንህ በውሃው ላይ ወደ አንተ እንድመጣ እዘዘኝ አለው። " Beloved, I am nothing if not your child. But I am a child that doesn't go around looking for parents often. I wonder, for how long did You have to sit and watch as I try to endure? As I look, hesitating to say it louder dearest of all, would You let me walk on water? Despite all my doubts despite all my scars if I seek, and I seek only You would I be able to walk on water? Would I be able to come to You? Can I? "ነገር ግን ፥ የነፋሱን ኀይል አይቶ ፈራ ፥ ሊሰጥምም በዠመረ ጊዜ ፦ ጌታ ሆይ ፥ አድነኝ ብሎ ጮኸ። " Beloved, my fear cripples me. And though change is a scary thing the idea of everything staying the same takes my ability to breathe every night. And when that happens I hope the only voice I am left with is the one that is loud enough to call your name. "Lord. Save me." From myself. From my mind that thinks of You as the shopkeeper who gives out candy for everyone but me. From my heart, that seems to carry too much that has gotten so heavy. Abeg. Lord. Come and save me. Let me call. And let You come. "ወደ ታንኳዪቱም በወጡ ጊዜ ነፋሱ ተወ። " Beloved, so I live. For I am your child. And blue is just the color of your creations when You are around. - How I learned swimming : the better version. #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

"ታንኳዪቱም አሁን በባሕር መካከል ሳለች ፥ ነፋስ ከወደ ፊት ነበርና ፥ በማዕበል ትጨነቅ ነበር። " Beloved, I lived. Maybe because survival is an instinct You put in me when You created me maybe by a mere chance and coincidence በአጋጣሚ in the middle of the ocean when the waves hit their strongest and I didn't know how to get out or knew better to call out for You I survived and stayed in the blue. Maybe because water was your creation and it could tell so was I maybe the waves gave me የማርያም መንገድ and let me float by. Dearest of all, how long did You have to wait until I looked around and called out? "ጴጥሮስም መልሶ ፦ ጌታ ሆይ ፥ አንተስ ከሆንህ በውሃው ላይ ወደ አንተ እንድመጣ እዘዘኝ አለው። " Beloved, I am nothing if not your child. But I am a child that doesn't go around looking for parents often. I wonder, for how long did You have to sit and watch as I try to endure? As I look, hesitating to say it louder dearest of all, would You let me walk on water? Despite all my doubts despite all my scars if I seek, and I seek only You would I be able to walk on water? Would I be able to come to You? Can I? "ነገር ግን ፥ የነፋሱን ኀይል አይቶ ፈራ ፥ ሊሰጥምም በዠመረ ጊዜ ፦ ጌታ ሆይ ፥ አድነኝ ብሎ ጮኸ። " Beloved, my fear cripples me. And though change is a scary thing the idea of everything staying the same takes my ability to breathe every night. And when that happens I hope the only voice I am left with is the one that is loud enough to call your name. "Lord. Save me." From myself. From my mind that thinks of You as the shopkeeper who gives out candy for everyone but me. From my heart, that seems to carry too much that has gotten so heavy. Abeg. Lord. Come and save me. Let me call. And let You come. "ወደ ታንኳዪቱም በወጡ ጊዜ ነፋሱ ተወ። " Beloved, so I live. For I am your child. And blue is just the color of your creations when You are around. - How I learned swimming : the better version. #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

Let’s say the sun had a corner where light couldn’t penetrate. Let’s say the sun had a colony where darkness ruled— a street, a block, or a town that resisted the rays, a force that chose the stark void over heat and sparks. A growing population, a popular concern. And let’s say the darkness spread. If the sun were infected, if the sun were dying, do you think we would notice before it’s too late? If the ball of fire cried out for help to the generations she raised, do you think we would answer? Do you think a soul would care? Would you fight the abyss, or would you watch her drown? Tell me—who would be mad enough to save the sun? Let’s say your father’s joints crack and his cartilage wears out. Let’s say his memory works against him, and you have to repeat words for him. Let’s say his voice of reason fades away, and his sharpness crumbles every new year. If your father falters, if your savior struggles, do you think you could fill his shoes? If Atlas bent under the weight of the world, would you take on a continent? Or would you watch him drown? Tell me—who would be mad enough to parent a parent? Let’s say her face is changing. Let’s say her smile is on sabbatical. Let’s say she loved the unlovable in you, and the unlovable is fighting back. She stood as a lighthouse for ages, but you fired your cannons in the wrong directions, and now you scar your own source of joy. Let’s say the nerves at the corner of her lips forgot what love felt like. Let’s say you proved yourself right. Let’s say you were unworthy. If your lighthouse begged for a life raft, would you express remorse? Would you hide it in a poem? Would you break the ship that crushed her walls? Or would you watch her drown? Tell me—who would be mad enough to apologize? -Dogs get arthritis. @MenAce7

【Dear Idiot Reader #4】 I am the youngest child. That of course means I raise my voice a little bit louder to get my point across and I fake nonchalance about the things I care about most. Reader, I specialize in making sure the 'dear' is followed by an 'idiot' so you can't pinpoint how much you mean to me. I am of the generation that isn't allowed to make mistakes but learn from those who became before me. I work to keep things light, you see. Light enough for you to think it's not that serious if you ever did wrong by me. I smile long enough to convince you I almost never take things personally. Dear idiot reader, I am the last in my family. That means I learnt all things everyone does last so I had to learn them perfectly. I am of the generation that put pressure on my self when nobody is putting pressure on me. I am of the kind that took half a decade to rewire and convince my brain it was okay to make mistakes because at a young age a mistake kept me at night and felt like it could end me. I am the youngest child. That means everyone had an opinion on who I was, and everyone branded me. I am of the generation that became exactly who they said I was and I am of the generation that has to work again to rebrand who I was told I was so I can find me. Loud. Smart. Rebellious. Perfect. Strong. Quiet. Weak. A child. An adult. I am of the generation that roams around between this and that. I am of the descent that gets told I have it easy so I handle everything that gets thrown my way with no thoughts of it being heavy with no regards to how it might break me. Because I am a witness of it being done way before me. Tell me reader, what is so different what is so special about me? Dear idiot reader, I am the youngest child. That means I have a reputation that precedes me. I am the voice of everyone before I am lot's remedy . I am of the generation that migrates where nobody knows my name in hopes to learn and find me. Because I am the youngest child, I am everything and nothing all at once. #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

በእሳት በባህር እንዴት አለፋችሁ? ከጨለማ ብርሃን እንዴት ወጣላችሁ? ከሬቱ ውስጥ ስኳር እንዴት ቀመማችሁ? ከሙሾ ውስጥ ቅኔ እንዴት ዘረፋችሁ? በማቅ ላይ ሀሴትን እንዴት ደረባችሁ? በእሮሮ ድንኳን እንዴት ዘመራችሁ? ስራችሁ፣ ኑሮኣችሁ፣ መግባት መውጣታችሁ፣ እንዴት ቀናላችሁ? ሲንተከተክ ምትሰክኑ፣ ስትናጡ ምትረጉ፣ ስትገፉ ምትበዙ፣ እናንተ ምትሀቶች፣ ዛሬስ እንዴት ናችሁ? -something from the notepad #26 @MenAce7

You never learned to knock before you closed your doors shut. You are the band-aid I kept after I sprained my ankle. I kept you on for too long. You fell off when I learned to run. You are the milk on my stovetop; you decided to cause pain the moment I took my eyes off of you. You are six inches away from me on my bathroom sink. Man in the mirror, my own reflection, you suck at goodbyes. You never learned to knock before you closed your doors. I was unaware of the hold you had on me until you got up and left. Your departure, sudden yet expected—I never saw it coming. I carried you, little lamb, to schools, to churches, to pews, and to all the places you don’t belong. You followed me all this time, then you cut your leash loose. I never meant to kick you out of my life. If you wanted to leave, then why did you stay silent when I begged you? All I wanted to do was grow up. Grow apart. From you. From me. Shadow, you never learned manners. You leave the party unannounced; you bring drone attacks and rain hellfire when your absence is noticed. All you bring is the inconvenience of presence, but you bring hell when you are away. I can’t love and caress you, and I would lose my head if we tried this entanglement long distance. I stayed up last night trying to calculate our optimal distance. I measured. I measured. I measured. I multiplied and divided. Numbers are such pesky traitors, and I’ve never been that good at math anyway. You dead weight, I need you to survive, I need to be rid of you to thrive. My love. Put your helmet on and get your guns ready. I’d rather make us duel to the death than make a decision. You seem to enjoy teasing me with your absence, knowing how fast I would run back to you. Promise not to close another door without knocking me down. I wish I could put into words what you mean to me. I wish I could put into words how much I hate what you mean to me. But words are such pesky traitors, betraying the poet in moments he needs them most. I wish nothing but to grow out of this. You never learned to knock before you closed your doors. For the unforeseen future, promise to announce your departure. I’ll promise not to notice. -አልማዝ ምን እዳ ነው? @MenAce7

-To the man I love: for multiple reasons:- I was an adult at your funeral. But all my life, I have loved you like a child. For the love you have given me, for as long as I have known you for taking me as I am, at my words while I continued to grow up, I have only ever loved you like a child. You are the man I love. For you carry the residuals of home in your face in your voice and though I found it a bit scary to look at you at the representation of the face I missed the most I loved you for it. I stole glances and I memorized the lines of your face, and in the deepest of my brain, I buried it. For you were home, when home got burnt. To the man I love: for multiple reasons your funeral was of seconds. Everything seemed like it was getting repeated only this time, I became an adult of the world the minute you were no longer in it. I had no time to take care of the bruises on my knees that came about when I heard you no longer existed. Isn't this what becoming an adult consisted? I pushed through the day and all the responsibilities that fell on me I tried to do all of it. (I am sorry I failed on some of it.) To the man I love: simply because you were home after home got buried you were luck after luck had lost all its meaning you were music after the world had gone mute and you were love, one of the two I had left. I was an adult at your funeral so I made a note of the sun as we were heading to your grave remember? Good people still go as the sun shines her brightest it doesn't matter the sky hasn't wept yet. I was an adult at your funeral so I didn't fall instead I followed you closely to your grave and the residuals of the child in me it died alongside you, when you got buried. -Death at a funeral #5          #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

The days sneak past like a peddler who just got away with a scam. I wake up, Late for my commitments. I fix my hair, Brush my teeth, Go about my business, And sooner than later, I realize, I haven’t thought of you. Eureka! Newton with his apples, Einstein with atoms, Armstrong on the moon, Or Armstrong with a trumpet— I find triumph, A resolution to my never-ending endeavor: I forgot you. The memory of you is locked away, In the basement of my mind, Guarded by an ocean filled with sharks And starving piranhas. I trace the way to you, I pave the path, But I’m never in motion. I can’t quite read you, I can’t write you down. I think I loved you, But I forgot you. How dare I? I forgot you, And all the wounds you left open Are bound by the stitches of time. The sun shines brighter, The water leaves an impression on my taste buds. My eyes see hues, My lungs breathe clear. The reversal of years is an old trick of memory. I forgot you, And I am a child once again. I am a survivor of an avalanche, Hanging on to a branch, Supporting my own weight, Hoping against hope That your love pulls me back to the surface. But I forgot you— Not by choice, but forced by convenience. My weight tugged at me, And I forgot to hold on. Good riddance is the true gift of God, And healing starts with indifference. Dear mountain, You are nothing but a pebble in the eyes of time. I forgot to involve you in the way that I think, The way that I speak, The way that I dress. You have no power over me. I am free From the shackles of what was, And you Can do nothing but watch me Run toward what could be. I forgot you, I forgot to remember! What is the punishment for a man Who turns his back On the village that raised him? What penalty, What torture, What curse, What jail can hold such a man Who self-inflicts desolation? * I fail To miss you, To think of you, To compose a text, To reciprocate prayers. How dare I? How dare I not give you a second of my time, An acre of my mind, A spot in my heart? How dare I Live so enclosed in my own captivity? * In the basement of my brain, Protected by an ocean Filled with sharks and mannerless piranhas, I would love To know what I had loved. Whoever you are, Find it in your heart to forgive a broken soul. My mind Sneaks past me like a peddler who just got away with a scam And often reminds me That sometimes even I could forget. -TheAmnesiacCaterpillar @MenAce7

ጥበብ ያለ ስፍራሽ... ፍቅር ያለ ቦታው እኔም ያለ እቅዴ ወደድኩ። Perhaps I loved you more. A little bit more. To make up for the fact you found me first you loved me first and you loved me quicker. Because you understood and compromised because you knew I needed you even when I didn't know it myself. I am indebted to you. For all the times you have made the foggy clear and I shrugged it off like everyday occurrence like I was perfectly capable of that... without you. I am indebted to you. For all the times you have made me laugh but I still managed to pick a bone with you telling you, you weren't that funny anyway when we both know that's not true. You are funny. And I owe you a lot for all the times you have made me laugh when I was too close to tears. ጥበብ ያለ ስፍራሽ... I think I knew. I knew from the beginning I didn't deserve you. But I never had the will power to deny you or let you go. So I carried you. Even when it seemed inconvenient to do so or you were too heavy and all I could do was lie to keep you coming. I carried you even when I wasn't capable of carrying. ጥበብ ያለ ስፍራሽ እኔም ያለ አቅሜ because it's empty without you. When it's all grey and it feels like you have left me hang to dry when my inks are empty and my papers blank when I think I just did the one thing that's interesting about me for the last time and fear you are no longer mine worried you may never be coming back I still hope against it, every single time. I hope. I pray. Please come back. For you are everything but I am nothing without you ፍቅር ያለ ቦታው እኔም ያለ እቅዴ I picked my pen and I had fallen in love with you. My something old my something new my something borrowed my something blue I adore the part of me that reflects off of you. Even when I'm just a frog and you, the princess even when I'm only a beast and you are all the beauty there ever is even though love is a comfortable caterpillar when misplaced and you are stepping down from your league when you chose me I hope to God you never walk out ጥበብ፣ may you never leave me. 【-2- ፍቅር ያለ ቦታው አባ ጨጓሬ ነው። 】 #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

Scribbles is on TikTok!!! For all the TikTok people out there we are glad to announce that Scribbles is now officially on TikTok. Catch your favorite poems on TikTok...read and enjoy (or judge😂). https://www.tiktok.com/@sc.ribbles?_t=ZM-8sXsgPWleIX&_r=1 Onwards -Scribbles Team

I have looked for you. Inside water inside blue when i was struggling to breathe and came out on top before I was used to the coldness and my feet could reach to the bottom before I figured out a way to see inside I have looked for you. In my own way but in the way you would know because you knew me with smiles on my face with quivery lips with tears in my eyes I have looked for you. I have always looked for you. Before. Way before I had to learn a breathing technique to continue to breathe way before I realized how to adjust my hands or put my legs in harmony way before I was told to trust and let go and before I trusted and let go way before I forced myself inside water to drown just so I'd remember I wanted to live before all of it I have looked for you. And after. I looked for you. When my hands did a great job saving me grabbing on to something the minute I slip up when they started pushing through leading me to the shore and when my legs followed with rhythm following the steps of those before me who were kind enough to do it slowly so the rest of us could watch I looked for you even then. And my legs, they added to the quickness. I started reaching the shore quickly and even then just in case I looked for you again. This time to see. Are your hands working? Are your legs? I looked for you after. After I learnt how to not drown but before I started to enjoy swimming oh my, I really hoped you'd be coming. I looked for you inside yellow. When the sun was still shining and it was warm and comfortable after I laid down and started to enjoy it even then I wanted you in it. All my life since I have known you, I have been looking for you. Not because I needed you. Simply because. I have looked for you before. And after. The average person takes 8 days to learn all the techniques of swimming, and that's 8 days long for those who have deep fear of the water. (according to my coaches) but I learnt how to get to the finish line on day 11. I learned how to not look for you a whole later than that. And the first time I swam with no help, a wave of water came and took me to the other side. But I still managed to swim and got out. And on day 17 I jumped into the pool and I didn't panic inside instead I laid down. It took me a lot longer than that to see colors after you were gone and find the love I buried inside. It's my life's greatest tragedy that I stopped looking for you. And yours is that you let me. I regret I was unable to breathe the air you weren't a part of I regret that I held on to your hands that tight I regret that I drowned and I regret I didn't want to survive. It's your life's greatest loss that you took the love I had to offer and didn't love me right. In sickness in sorrow in blue in yellow in laugh in love. I eventually stopped seeing you in any of that. And I taught myself how to be okay with that. Not only did I learn how to not drown but I now swim with style. Ah. How terrible is that? -Love lost. And I won. (How I learned swimming, and you.)       #RANDOM_THOUGHTS

-shadowman.md @MenAce7

In my heart, there is a room filled with your imperfections. A room I visit a little too often. Life, as i know it, has become a dance with mosquitos on a summer night under my covers. I toss. I turn. I toss. I turn. Life, as I live it, has me acting like a father in the waiting room. I pace. Back, and forth. Back. Forth. Back. Until i reach that room in my heart where your crooked smile resides. More life to you, and more life to the piece of my heart you colonized. The candlelight shines on your horrible handwriting, your broken hand, your unibrow, the way you sneeze like my father, loud and apologetic, the way you turn red like a chameleon with anger issues. Your manly feet and the way you tell stories a little too loud. The way you lose all sense of space when you’re sick. The way you can’t dance to save your life. More life to them, to the heart you made a home of. More life to your snort, your short temper and your inability to rock bangs, more life to your sense of rhythm and your skills with a makeup brush. More life to your self doubt, your taste of music, your taste in coffee and your sense of direction. More life to them, to your imperfections that trapped my heart with yours. In my heart, there is a room i visit too often. Sometimes after a storm, winded, crawling or with a cane, climbing or falling downhill. I run home to you. Life as I know it, has become moments in between each visit. More life to your room, abundant with all the things you lack, beautiful with all your ugly scars, art with all your scratches and typos, a destination filled with all the things you run away from, bright with all the bulbs you wish to cover, perfect with all your imperfections. More life to it. More life to you and your crooked smile, and death to your orthodontist. -Death to your orthodontist. @MenAce7

ትንቢተ ኢሳይያስ ፶፫ : ፪ - ፫ ፪ : በፊቱ እንደ ቡቃያ ከደረቅም መሬት እንደ ሥር አድጎአል። መልክና ውበት የለውም፥ ባየነውም ጊዜ እንወድደው ዘንድ ደም ግባት የለውም። ፫ : የተናቀ ከሰውም የተጠላ፥ የሕማም ሰው ደዌንም የሚያውቅ ነው፤ ሰውም ፊቱን እንደሚሰውርበት የተናቀ ነው፥ እኛም አላከበርነውም። ~~~ I heard the crows sing gospel hymns when the vultures strike. Sore losers sing songs of effort As murderers become defenders of the innocent. War is a curious thing indeed. I heard the devil is heaven-sent when you approach heaven’s gates. I heard lust is love at dawn, And I heard pain sings songs of health when the stethoscope listens. I heard the crows that morning, Outside of my window, As my curtains stare at me in judgement. As they gossip about their crippled owner, As they pray for purpose. I listened to the wind that morning: Whispers of the mundane, Whispers of the ordinary, Whispers of a man Misunderstood in the eyes of many, Sore for the eyes, Burden for the heart— A man that looks like me, Only seen to the blind, Only heard by the deaf, Only felt by the broken, A God that sees. I heard the chatter that afternoon, As the universe laid down under the artist’s feet. I heard of truth only seen by the eyes of the blind. I heard that love walks on water and the cloud. I heard he painted everything in between. I heard of his might and valor, Of his grace and bravery, Of his wrath and mercy— But then, I heard of his features From men that see with no vision, From men that perceive with no perception. I heard a lord looks like a slave. I heard a shepherd lives like the flock. I heard a God looks a lot like man. I hear the crows sing every morning, Yet I never see the dawn. I heard a man’s soul can burn hotter than the flaming sun. I heard free will ain’t that free. I heard the brain is a terrible inmate and a merciless master. Flesh is a curious thing indeed. I heard life is for the living, And the living die daily. I heard it’s dark before dawn. I heard home is always a step away. And I heard a man is blind When he stands facing God. *** The wind confused, The townspeople shook. Love knocked down my door— A glance was all it took. The crows went silent, The curtains spared their judgment, And dawn came through my window. I heard Him. I felt Him. I saw Him. If you see me On the road to Siloam, Blind and restless, Tumbling to the water, Stumbling through, Save your pity And make way for the blind man who saw the sun. If you see me On the road to Siloam, With a smile on my face and music in my heart, If you see me dancing on the road as the world falls apart, Save your wonder— He gave purpose to my curtains. If you see me On the road to Siloam, Begging for direction, Getting injured on every step, Blind as the crows that wake the town, Broken as my curtain hangers— Messy, muddy, dirty— Spare your sight, Save your strength; He painted colors on my eyes. If you see that blind man on his way to a pool, Blind yourself for a second, And see the man that saw him. -Road To Siloam (I keep losing my glasses.) @MenAce7

You look like my car stalling in the middle of a highway, a panic attack in the gym, or a phone call on a Friday night. You look like that one nightmare I had when I was thirteen, the rush of my blood as it pours out on the kitchen door. You look like a desperate prayer, tears in the shower, tears at the café. You look like a wrong turn taken at the right time. You look like my dreams of becoming a pilot before I found out I hated flying away from my mother’s smile. You look like my mom’s broken hand, and my P.E. teacher’s quick temper, or a foggy day birthing a Tuesday afternoon. You look like a friend in despair or an enemy at a feast. You look like a “see you later” that learned to say goodbye. You look like the flames that drowned the house I grew up in. You look like the time I almost lost a grip on my soul, my heart sinking into a hospital bed. You look like pain prescribed. You look a lot like my bedroom at 3 a.m., when I run outside to escape the love hiding under my bed. And when my house gets flooded with home, you look like my confidence in math class, or my braces when they snap from a candy bite. You look like my sprained ankle at seventeen, and my broken heart at twenty. You look like my flaws, my birthmarks, my horrible eyesight. You look like me, and I hate that I can’t hate you right. -Hate me, Hate me not. @MenAce7

A caterpillar grows wings at a bus station, Or a classroom, Or the principal’s office. Maybe in a queue for a vending machine, Or an ATM. Wherever love smiles, Wherever you see her. When her gaze hits your heart, Life starts living, The sun starts shining, And in her eyes you see nothing. She is the secret Cupid kept from yesterday. Two parallel lines slow-dance on a baggage claim carousel, Or in the kitchen of a house party, Or on a church pew, Maybe at a Starbucks, ordering the same energy drink. When the music plays, You will crawl to her dance floor. She is the edit to your calendar, An asteroid you did not see coming, Your take-back, Your correction. You followed the blind, You trusted a fool. Yesterday never knows. Life starts When you see her eyes, On the yellow brick road, the Emerald City, or in a dark alley after hours, where the thugs hang out, Perhaps in the urgent care waiting room, Or on a beach overlooking the ocean, On a gaming server, Or in the grocery store. Life starts In the Garden of Eden, When God yanks you from a nap, When you trade a rib for wings, When your world shifts overnight. And the caterpillar grows wings in the Garden of Eden, Or on Armageddon. Today is a low blow to the lungs, A new breath for the future, And tomorrow never knows. -Two parallel lines slow-dance at the end of the world. @MenAce7

what I call equality

In my dreams, The hands of God gift-wrap a present. A garden grows in the middle of nowhere Where God’s hands carry a gift With an entourage of angels. A gift like no other, Carved with meticulous design— Light escapes through the box. The sun seems to have enlarged in space, The wind moves with a warm breeze that seems to carry a chill. In my dreams, I’m transported to a party in outer space, And God’s hands tie a ribbon, A finishing touch to the most precious gift. Some angels sing a chorus, Others start a drumroll. As I peer into The Pandora’s box of all good, The envelope of the ultimate love letter. Inside lies change, Sweet change, A chance to be different, A chance to be new, A chance to cleanse and clean, A chance to become, A chance to dissociate, A chance to look A little like the hands that made the present— A chance To live. A way out, A do-over, Rectification, A cheat code, A sacrifice, Pain, Pleasure, Beauty, Destruction, Order and Chaos, Reversal and continuation, Love and Life, Fear and Wisdom. God’s greatest gift for all, God’s greatest gift for me. Inside Lies death, Defeated in all its glory. The garden shakes, The angels cheer. I’m left to stand, Holding onto my greatest adversary, Now stripped down to an ally. The knife in my back, Wielded to an armor, The fire that burned my house— Now nothing but a lantern for my travels. Death, Old friend, How did you find your way back into the garden? Death, My first enemy, My toil, My pain, My wandering— Death, My pathway homeward. And before I could utter a question, Before I could face the hands in defiance, Before I could ask how— The garden shakes, The angels teleport, The trees collapse and the sun comes raining down, And I awake To question it all, To, live to die another day. -In October, the boogeyman sings Happy Birthday. @MenAce7

"Don't let this darkness fool you, all lights turned off can be turned on..." - Call Your Mom All this blood was once poetry. You know that right? That I would make something out of it, that I would try. That I have tried. I have managed to turn this dripping blood into an art for sometime. But it is yet again a Sunday afternoon and I can't breathe I can't make art. So the red glares at you, and I am somewhat ashamed of the gaping wound you see. It's an old fresh wound I am sorry, does it smell? I swear I have tried cleaning it time after time I am sorry it still hasn't dried. All this sadness was once love. But you know that, don't you? That I'd cry in your absence in the same manner your presence made me laugh. You know that. It's light, or the absence of light. It's this, or that. And these days it is just that. I wonder, what do I do with that? What did you do with that? Because all this grey was once a state of calmness you used to stare at. I appreciated it when it was quiet, it's scary now. What do I do with this emptiness inside? What is it that you do when you don't run? All these scars have managed to make people feel they aren't alone they have served as a reminder they have served as a beauty mark but now they are simply dead skin slowly killing me slowly surging into my inside. Oh dear, what do I do with all these hurt inside? Hey, look! It's fire. It burns. It hurts. Call for help and make the damn thing stop. Add water. It's cold. It's dripping. It's too much. It's drowning. Call for help and make the damn thing stop. But where do you go from that? All these that 'are' now they also 'were' once. All this darkness was once light. All this anger was once love. And I knew how to hide better I knew how to write. What is this present that makes me ache for the past? Oh God, what is this numbness inside? So I carve, a reminder with the pen I used to know. I wasn't always like this I didn't actively look for the had been, I was a writer I was a reader I was fifteen. "...I'll drive, I'll drive all night, I'll call your dad, it's alright." #RANDOM_THOUGHTS