radtracks:

ghosting // mother mother

and this is why i have decided
to pull these old white sheets from my head
i’ll leave them folded neat and tidy
so that you’ll know i’m out of hiding

the futures in their rear-view.
reflectors.

crumbling

your life is not a museum;
it’s an archeological dig

they can order it when you’re gone
with monuments and letters carefully packaged away

but not today.

Springtime Prompt

wordswritteninsilence:

Calling all poets.

September 1 marks the start of spring, here, in Australia.

Submit your springtime poetry for the first 30 days of September and tag it “springtimeseptember”.

I shall be tracking this and at the end of it all, there shan’t be prizes. Instead, a chance to interact with new poets and read the works of others; a prize in itself.

Spread the word, wonderful writers.

Cheers,


Navin

emanate.

dove care

there’s an ad on tv advertising soap
and i pretend i don’t see how flaky cracks spread across smooth surfaces
through the smallest of touches

what a pretty lie,
to be white and soft and beautiful in your hands

what a pretty lie i am

"Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows."

Zelda Fitzgerald (via esseekay)

to find glory in pane

can you imagine what it would be like to kick back,
fling your fist in defiance in a state of
re-lax-a-tion,
crumble the earth in your fingertips because it is a dream more vivid than god’s own—

this is semi-permenance:
tall buildings pained,
glass houses paned with heavy windows that reach to heaven only to be shattered by angels who fear their own reflections and see the devil instead like a stain,
pained—

oh, i wish i was immortal
but those who become dust and sand reflect celestial bodies

so i do not need to be.

push me into space and i will leave you too

i am saturnine,
heavy eyes and somber—
perhaps i exaggerate

but at least i do not pretend
to be fifty leagues deeper in space
when i am losing air along with flight-mates
to my own misdeeds

see, when you are haunted by your own misgivings
i begin to wonder if you’ve forgotten the ground beneath your feet

and if we could walk on the moon
would you push me off too?

conversations with the walls.

giant’s tomb

i found gravity in the cracks of a man
a giant who lay in a tomb so vast we called him an island
and travelled eleven straight hours with an empty sail
to bathe in his quiet waters

i stood upon his shoulders
in reverence, my toes curled towards holy ground
for i had never met a god so lonely as he who felt my emptiness and called it his

and when i say i found gravity in the cracks
i mean i found a grave
and a deep quiet

and it was my own.