— Thanksgiving 2006, Ocean Vuong, from 'Night Sky with Exit Wounds'
[text ID: Brooklyn's too cold tonight
& all my friends are three years away.
My mother said I could be anything
I wanted — but I chose to live.]
A Sprite by a Lakeside Temple (Max Roeder, 1894)
preoccupied poet, maude phelps hutchins
I take a photo with the old camera out of my mum’s drawer
A quick shot of life
One short silent depiction of how I view the world
I like the old films
Colours not too bright
I’m not good at photography either
Smudged pictures on 15mm
Too orange, too yellow, too bright
I like looking at people, like capturing how life is for them
I don’t like being near them
I like myself on black and white film
I crave a love so deep, the ocean would be jealous. - Pablo Neruda
Life is art
Art is beauty
Others are modeled
Life adds to them
Builds up their beauty
I’m carved by life
It takes and takes and takes
I’m art
I’m beauty
That eventually disappears
Because life has taken too much
Birth
I have my mother's rage.
The quiet rage, the unassuming one,
the rage which grips onto every molecule of your body,
until it claws and licks at your whitened bones.
The rage which sinks its sharp canines in you
which savours the taste of blood,
it craves it.
It lures your loved ones in carefully, it invites them into its stenching residence.
Sets out a nice cup of tea, or perhaps, the good tablecloth.
And when they think it's gone, the rage twists their necks,
and laps up the blood with its serpent tongue.
I have my father's indifference.
I sit and watch as it happens, smiling, as I watch and watch my house burn.
- e.u.
— Mary Oliver, from Blue Horses, "Little Crazy Love Song"
Hush
Too far, too wide, too fast
Not yet
Don’t go
Don’t, won’t
Don’t, can’t
Not now
Beware
Hush now
Haven’t done, won’t do
Couldn’t do, won’t do
What can I do?
Can’t do
And can’t and can’t and can’t
I’m scared
Don’t ask
●a way to let go of my thoughts because I fear they might crush me● ||they/them||
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