How her skin shines so elegantly in the bedroom light
It’s like the dust that brushes from fresh-ground pearls in the moonlight
It’s like the miles and miles of ocean waves in the sunlight
So Bright
And not at all
The reflection of the refraction
Makes my heart skip
Two beats
In the shadows she glows
With skin so soft, so pale, so gloriously
white
So Bright
And not at all
And I see the hair of her arm
Invisible and gentle, standing on end here and
There is nothing I would like more than
To press my lips against her flesh
To touch her softness
To taste her quietness
To inahle her loveliness
And feel
So Bright
And not at all
Anis Mojgani “Shake the Dust”
I want to write to make you feel infinite, like this.
It’s an addiction. It’s like playing with fire, gambling with time, fate, and sanity. Being a writer. It’s hard and it’s painful, to let the words swell and then extract them from the depths of my innermost brain - self. But I do it all the same. I can go for one, two, five days - never a week. Never a week. The words combine and coalesce and contaminate every thought, every spoken syllable until I have to, with haste, pick up a pen and write. I write. I write about the love that is, about sex. I write about the love and sex that will never be, or coffee. I write about music and writing and how fucking difficult it is when the words climb one on top of the other like Yertle’s turtles and in one fell swoop come crashing down into the bottom of my skull and surf down my brain stem, along the current that is my spinal cord and extend to all of my appendages and orifices, to come toppling and spilling and spewing out of my fingertips and lips. (I write about sex.) It’s an addiction to pick up a pen, so innocent, so necessary, so this is what you meant by doing what you love. What is love? What is time? What is life? What the fuck does it even matter? You are here and I am here and this is our world, our life, our time, this is our love. We love what we know and I love everything that I don’t. I will conquer mountains and lions, I will feast on the dirt that the poor are forced to consume on a day-to-day basis (so necessary), I will rule the land that reaches to the edge of my backyard as far as the fence. And then I stop. And I write about how unfair it is that we all want this, we all need this, we all have this - but no one gives a fuck anyway. I put the pen down. I tear the paper in half, down the middle, straight as possible, carefully and precisely, and I tell myself that it’s okay - because words won’t get you very far anyway. Into the trash with the rest of us, and I shut the door behind me, quietly.
——————-
Words hurt my brain and put me on edge when I don’t give them the attention they crave. I am procrastinating. Am I a writer?
(via samanthalynnn)
Too tight or too loose, reality pales in comparison to the alternative. Take a deep breath.
SCF won the poetry slam! I did not read, however, I was a judge for the poets who did perform. It was so incredible and I am PSYCHED for the next one!
Ray McNiece has beautiful words. Look him up.
He bought dinner for me afterwards. He’s so nice!!
Also, my professor said:
“Maybe you should end up majoring in English. Perhaps one day, after you completely come out of the silly shyness thing, you could be teaching college. You certainly have a knack at reading and criticism”
Makes me feel good :)
We are warm together, lying
on this, our lover’s bed,
with our toes touching and
our legs crossed and
our chests pressed and
our fingers tracing patterns on
our backs and hair, while
our lips lock and
our tongues explore the darkness in
our mouths.
We are love embodied and presented as
two gorgeous women who
understand
love, beauty, sex, and the world
through the eyes of each other
through tactile encounters
and mind-reading
We lie together
on this, our lover’s bed,
and with gentle caressing, hushed voices
we talk of past and future
of flowers and nature
of time
of people
of desire and wishing
and of ourselves, living this way,
forever, on this,
our lover’s bed.
———————————-
For you, because you asked me to write you something beautiful.
I hope this qualifies.
