Original Art Sunday :)

Today I'm feeling like I've got nothing to lose. Here's some of my original writing, poetry and photography. Hope you enjoy!

Istigkeit

I'm quite sick of "why". We were in love once and "truth" was my g-spot, but one day I tasted life and why didnt seem to matter anymore. All that mattered was that moment and every single thing around me in that moment that tickled the 5 senses. I wish everyone would stop caring why things are and just start feeling it. Accept everything! And not because you can justify it, but because it just is what it is. Istigkeit! Isness. I dont care why a waterfall falls! It just does and it's beautiful and I want it. I dont care why a particular author wrote what they wrote and all the whom elses of the worlds theory about it. I take it for what it is: a story of life, experience, imagery. I dont need explanations, I just need to feel everything! And the feeling is explaination enough. I find myself in these modes where I wish to be an all-cosuming being; just to be able to consume everything in the world: all feelings, experiences. I want... life. I want the winds across my knees. I want to be a seed in a hurricane. A molecule in the sea. I want to be the burmuda triangle. I want to be a waterfall, endlessly falling, I want to be! just be, simply be. I believe in the grass. I believe in the eye of a feline. I believe that we dont need to ask for tomorrow. It shall come, it shall render change sometimes life changing. And when it all stops. it all stops and that is all. 

A butterfly is of a strange kind, but a butterfly is just like you and me the same. Indeed I am a butterfly. except I transform daily. I have a thousand different wings and within them one million different colors. As I travel I hear the wind sweep past me and as I fly I see things others cannot. A butterfly is of a strange kind, I am a butterfly, indeed I am of a strange kind.

Well

A hallow well is at a loss for syllables. Each brick is molded

across the rim, but standing. However, not sustaining are 

the drips that echo like howling. Succulents scour the

depths, their vines in search of swollen dirt. What

remains is not forgiving. With cracked agony,

it seethes for its bucket to descend into

a yesterday lined in faces made of 

ripples, eyes and sun mixed to 

crystals. A simple sorrow 

swells with no, 

nothing, but a 

raspy groan.

I am a fleeting memory,

a youthful summer breeze.

My seasons carry hot nights, 

thrown dandelions, mason jars filled with firefly wings.

The sliver of the moons silver lining

sounds like the rounds of a crystal glass.

An illumination of lines tear down

a frosted cloud.

My eyes like sequins twinkle,

a body like a snake crouched in leaves. 

I fall from my meal nest. A great howl:

splat! The streets hollow.

What is this force of hand

that demands I say

what I know?

To bleed through pages with grey edges

and marked with blues a-glow;

to stamp my nerves in stone.

And oh! the excuses to not,

to withhold my lichens and leeches,

so that I can remain whole.

My stars and moonshine make me,

burnt frost hair and hips shaking,

the maypole quaking, my kindred sisters.

God oh God what is this force of hand?

This central instinct to create. 

Waxing and waning, each season I'm changing,

a brown leaf in the gutter, my nature can rot.

Last Words 

He was like the guys you see in old-fashioned movies; black and white. His smile was like the moon light, illuminated. “How are you sweetheart?” he asked. How am I? Who cares, I thought. “How are you Pop? I love you, be strong.” He didn’t even know, they didn’t tell him. He would have gone on forever, if they had never told him.