Personal
I haven't submitted a journal for like, a month and a half.
Whoops. But my life isn't really exciting, so.Christmas is in a week. That's really close. This year has gone by so fast. It literally just seems like I just dropped out of college like, two weeks ago, but that was in April.
OH! And, I have been writing every day for ProjectDFC, I just haven't had a chance to post any of the poems yet. I'm hoping to be able to do that today. Don't worry, I won't flood you guys. I'll do them in incriments.
My dad keep threatening to kick me out of the house. As if I want to be here anyway. But I still don't have a job or a car, so I can't really do anything until I have my license, and that's not going to be for another while because my mom is going to have surgery on the 3rd of January and she'll be out of commission for a few months and won't be able to pay for driver's ed. So I guess I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed that SOMEONE close to my home will actually hire me. I don't have much hope in that, though, since the economy in Nampa sucks giant balls.
Other than that, I'm excited for Christmas to get here because I'm getting a new laptop AND a tablet.
I've been wanting a tablet for years, and it's finally happening. Also, I'm getting some awesome band shirts so that makes me doubly excited. I'll finally have band merch. For reals.Uh, so that's really it. Told you I'm not interesting.
Around dA
ProjectDFC is still going on, and it's not too late to join!
Features
DFC 18: A Man Without HomeForever alone
A man without home
I see
All creatures that roam
The weird and unknown
Species
And all that I know
Is her gentle glow
Through galaxies flown
Each century sows
And reaps
I’ve needed to show
How beings should grow
Like me
For past I atone
Forever alone
Of flesh and of bone
I sit on my throne
And lead
Preventing rifts blown
In time-streams I lone
Foresee
My box and I roam
A man without home
As trees turn to stone
See people once known
Deceased
Life built on sorrow
Paths that I follow
I’ll be
A man without home
Forever alone
the poet's demise.Profanities exist to fill<da:thumb id="417756168"/><da:thumb id="420475544"/><da:thumb id="420038964"/>
the aching gap,
box devoid of pills.
I am drowning in my heartbeat.
The dam will burst,
and there the drought will meet
my empty sheaves,
the pencils stubbed and broken,
like scattered leaves,
about my pale and worthless tongue.
how i like the skin stretched over your bonesyou are not above me
not some unreachable god sitting far away from view
but, oh, there are galaxies spread across my chest
and stars aching in my bones, climbing through holes where flowers once grew
thorns and roses, a songbird's fragile nest
your sunlight shines through the ghost of you and i -
i miss the warmth you used to provide
On reality and other fictitious thingsI chewed out a piece
Of the sky
Only to
Spit it back out, again.
Maybe I’d be better off
Licking clouds
From my fingers
Rather than
Wiping down your
Bed frame spine
And collapsing your easel
Joints like a puzzle.
I swallowed the
Rains sticky heat
Like a shot
And it burns
Just the same.
all of your lives have been addictsmy cat
has turned
my front porch
into a graveyard
as if to say:
this is what we need
but tonight
she tried to lick my claws
back to hands
& I said to her:
"I do not have 9 lives
to spend on the bathroom floor
with 13-hour insomnia
can't we just kill the mockingbirds
pull the concrete
out of our throats
& get this dying
over with
already"
but
she's got 8 lives down
& doesn't answer questions twice
immensemy body, this
carnal empire, is massive
and porous.
its corners creak; its
rattlings echo.
it swallows guilt
in finely-ground powder,
the cavernous machine;
it is tenuous and torpid,
split as indecision.
I am buried somewhere within this void.
Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of ocean
and opened my hands
hoping to catch the truth.
Empty seashells,
broken clams,
and a palm-full
of worn pebbles
were all I caught.
I guess
the truth
is shy.
God is a hipster.God went to Starbucks
because the Wi-Fi signal in
heaven is crap. He pulls
an HP out of the laptop bag and
rolls His eyes at the kid lugging
in a typewriter. He clicks on Word
because He never really stopped
creating – He has more furniture
than He knows what to do with
and no wall space left for His canvases.
He likes Word – His Word – because
it reminds Him of another beginning,
before time, before space, before everything.
I'm sorry your dad keeps threatening to kick you out though.