1. I Will See The World However I See Fit. I Will Grow Flowers Where They've Dropped Bombs And Deafened

Are you scared to death to live

Or are you scared to live

Because you know you will die?

If there was no one to observe the universe

Would it cease to exist as we know it?

If a tree falls in a forest but

No one is around to hear it scream,

It still thuds and the ground still rumbles,

It's just that no one feels it.

So perhaps you are so obsessed with

Letting people know you are here

Because you know you could die

And no one would see the stars of your life collapse,

Feel the rumble of your loss of life.

It is possible to go away, quietly,

Unnoticed, leave things unchanged-

No one to mourn your loss

or to question higher powers

Over the lack of your presence

Or to tell your stories.

How terrifying it is to think

The universe in my mind could go away with me.

I want to write a poem for you

so I did this thing awhile back and it’s been a hot minute, so I’m restarting it

Reblog this post and I will stalk your tumblr and write a poem based on your aesthetic

I wrote a poem

And you thought it was for you.

I wrote an eulogy

And you thought it was

For my funeral.

To be with someone

Who thinks of nothing

But the ending

When you both are still here

Is to say there already exist

Thousands of ends in their mind.

I just wish he has also imagined

One mellow future where

We're both here and we're both okay,

No one buries us and no one burns us.

sometimes i still think about not being here, see all the futures in which i have ceased to exist. then my brain goes into survival mode and tries to find me all the things i will definitely miss, things i will not be able to do if i am not here. and i find it really dumb. all the things i will not be able to do if i am not here? bitch try everything! if you are not here, you have ceased to exist, as in, the real world no longer contains you as a person who is real and living and breathing. you're just burnt ash or like on your way to become fossil fuel for the generations to come. but does that faze you, not being here at all? sometimes the answer is no. but then i find myself overtired, fresh out of a long shower standing in front of the mirror in my fluffy bathrobe midst a daydream, dancing shittily to silence while brushing my teeth thinking of not being here and then losing that train of thought to all of the ridiculous things i could do if whatever i am doing does not work out and i am kind of content.

You held me close before you stabbed me.

I guess there are people close by

Who keep you at a sword's length

So they get to use it.

Your kisses tasted an awful lot like war

And I will not be your white flag anymore.

Our fights felt like the earth shaking,

Felt like war cry;

The silence felt like an interstice between two tragedies.

Our kisses grew shorter

And interruptions became devastating

Until you finally struck and won the battle,

Won the war.

There's blood between us now

And one tragedy in all of this silence//

It has been a year since we last talked.

I think we're terrified of being forgotten. I think that as soon as an ounce of intelligence entered our being, our first instinct was to scratch walls and make art out of sharp sticks and stones; We wanted it to be known that we were here.

Perhaps when Adam ate the Apple he was more relieved at being able to die than he was afraid of God's anger, perhaps even the Gods hate all this immortality business.

We are here to die. And perhaps the only reason we aren't relieved at that is because we might just forget to do anything but continue dying, we might just forget to live.

So here we are: scratching walls or ourselves, trying to make it become something other than our own coffins at the end of this journey.

They are having a tickle war like they always do; his small body curled into itself, trying to tuck it within its own bounds, to not have to bear this joyful torture.

They are not people anymore, they are two shrieks of laughter. They are an odd sight to look at: a tall girl, almost a woman, and a toddler of six; an unlikely friendship that looks bizarre but radiates so much joy you cannot help but feel warm.

The girl turns into things she isn't; just for this boy, she turns into a sunny disposition, a pleasant version of herself and she has the gentlest voice. She has hands that do not hurt, she has eyes that smile and she is bubbles of laughter come to life.

The boy comes back year after year to meet his sister; they aren't really siblings, they are distant cousins but there is a lot of love here. And where there is so much love, you feel obliged to put a label. So they were brother and sister, and the oddest duo of the lot. As the years pass by, she sees her brother transform into things she resents; no longer a sweet child, he throws tantrums and uses his hands and fists like the men do. But he isn't a man yet, he is just a little boy.

He is nine and he already thinks it is okay to do things you do not like others doing; he thinks that it is okay to destroy what isn't yours because you could not have it or to scream and cry until you hand him what he asked for. These are trivial things, he is just a child after all.

She walks in on the boy destroying something that isn't his and he throws things at her, makes her mad. He takes pleasure in irritating her; she can tell; he takes her things and claims them as his and she lets him. She feels something come over her; makes her way towards him and traps him in her hold. She tickles his neck and she scratches him.

The boy is screaming and crying and she is devastated. She sees herself transform into things she thought she would never become. She sees an image of her lineage in her. Is this what we inherit?

Suddenly, she is small again. She is not herself, she is the little boy. She is nine, she is seven, she is five years old. She knows she is small so she bites the hands of those who reach out because her fists are still a little girl's fist, even though the size of the fight in her is quite big.

She doesn't recognize herself anymore.

Is this what we inherit?

No.

It runs in the family but this is where it stops.

Bless the hands that fed us, and may there be scars on those who harmed us. May we never become the things that hurt us.

She is twenty-five years old now. And there is an odd friendship in her life that no one understands, but there is a lot of love there. There is a little brother waiting for her.