wounds for harvest.

words inspired from events transpired.
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word-stuck:

When life knocks you down, stand up, keep trying and never give up.

and then kick life where it hurts the most.

(via japanesepractice)

a fair maiden’s hand in winter
is the warmth that beckons spring
along snowy roads and the chilling breeze
the sweet scent of plum blossoms bring.

I yearn to hold the maiden’s hand
for her warmth is what I seek
no summer heat nor spring day
will warm my heart as she.

trail of dirt and sand
was evergreen grass before;
trample on, deviant.

they sit behind a panel
above everyone
and believe they are
better

waving their gavel
smashing the block
they judge my sin
but they’re the same

you see
they don’t see
the blindfold hides
their own convictions

but I’m the only one sentenced.

damn my feet;
they walk in other’s shoes.
damn my eyes;
they see two sides of a coin.
damn my hands;
they hold me back.
damn my tongue;
it hides behind my teeth.
damn my heart;
it is mere flesh.

damn my mind;
it is not sharp.

damn it;
damn me.

Even a parasol would suffice,
whereas I -
having neither shelter
nor shield
but a second skin
of fabric that clothes my own
and bony fingers
that only sieve out the leaves -
run helpless in the rain.

the more we suffer the bigger we expect our reward to be, and that brings us more suffering.

a trident, a pitchfork, to the chest.
his heart he offered on silver platter.
a twist, a stab, she will not let rest.

the armour he wore she put to test,
like porcelain the shell but feeble cover,
a trident, a pitchfork, to the chest.

how he had intended the best,
crushed and crumpled poetic letter,
a twist, a stab, she will not let rest.

he loved her smiles and her dress,
she was a girl unlike the other.
a trident, a pitchfork, to the chest.

hoping and pining for some progress,
anything at all he would so barter,
a twist, a stab, she will not let rest.

deadpan face and soul depressed,
drag of feet as six feet under,
a trident, a pitchfork, to the chest,
a twist, a stab, she will not let rest.

We’ve all built ships, and at the moment of christening hoped that they would last for as long as we could commandeer it. We would be adventurous; the more we cruised the more we would feel invincible. Chartered waters soon fail to quench our thirst; the smell of familiar air too stale for our palates. We know these waters like the back of our hand; we throw our maps like caution to the wind.

As though we needed them.

We would be so sure where the ship will take us: a mystery of adventure. We could picture it, frame it, even make a diorama of it. But the waters get too rough; the air a stab to the lungs with every breath. We could not stay as we are; raising anchors we sail away.

It’s not the miles of ocean
nor the expanse of sky,
neither is it these
tangled telephone lines.

It’s the space between
your heart


and mine.