onism

backwards

i shall count

microcosms

fluttering under

unsuspecting

minds, impalpable

revolutions per

minute, or century

gravity holding

on for dear sanity

oxygenated sway

dizzy i’ll stay in

transience, back

to dirt and decay

avoiding all the

frowsy frowning

faces painted

in livid shades

wallowing in

fury and fears

and pantomiming

unreasonable

defiance for

an existence

that cares not for

their cold tears

caught up in

vitriol and mild

distractions and

wild destruction

failing to find

some evergreen

tearing throats

even their own

just to hear

someone scream

but i’ve got souls

who send me

letters plucked

from their ribcages

all the way from

the other side of

the planet’s sleeve

i’ve got paint to

splatter and words

to murmur and

resonant sonatas

left to achieve

i am obsessions

turned aspirations

and my family’s

gentlest appraise

i am rainfall beyond

november and a

coruscant trailblaze

for i am in a world

where all my

heartbeats only

govern a single

second of my entire life—

though none of

which i’m allowed

to share nor keep;

and i shall choose to

watch over it with

both eyes wide open

even when i am

fast asleep.

lollypop

sweet lipped

childish pucker

whine some more

for that lemon sucker

.

sour tripped

lamb demeanour

tantrums to conceal

a crybaby behaviour.

royal flights

my dear pretty starling

you’ll hold my fragile attention

for no more than perhaps a season

.

but i’ll still sit under your acacia branch

collecting iridescent feathers

as i listen to you beckon away the sun

.

and my dear pretty starling

soon you’ll migrate to warmer evergreen

so i wish your wispy heart farewell

.

for mine has rotted off like bad fruit

but i’ll still tuck away the seeds

for your curious beak to plant elsewhere.

somewhere in hiraeth’s diner (i’ve gone and saved a seat for you)

—

(Just some extra bits from my artwork. I wanted to play around with painting surreal, impressionistic backgrounds using gouache and using a vaporwave-esque colour scheme, so this is the end result of it along the write-up, which I wrote afterwards in a fit of possessed inspiration. I also threw in a little snippet of the wip lofi song I’ve been working on for a couple of days now in the video above, because I think it fits the overall ambiance of this entire project well and y’know, why not. I had honestly so much fun making this, and that final tape peeling??? ✨ S a t i s f y i n g ✨)

cottonmouth

she’s got cotton

fibers in her mouth

whenever she speaks

about herself, it tastes

.

of tastelessness and

dollar store handkerchiefs

and cardigan sweaters

left out in humid weather

.

she doesn’t mean to

sound so dry, but a sip of

water only makes it feel much

heavier—so instead she’ll

.

close her chapped lips and

breathe through her nose and

hope she doesn’t accidentally

swallow air and choke.

what’s up, my quinquennial microdrop of serotonin arrived at a rather strange time and i’m here to talk about it

3:35 AM. puny muscles insanely aching from a couple of recently-finished HIIT workouts, sipping my usual room temperature lemon and green tea paired with some hoarded soggy french toast (which my older brother whipped up for us earlier today and ngl he done good), trying to finish a really stupid self-indulgent watercolour fanart of some of my favourite vocalists from my favourite bands, and ending up procrastinating on the latter anyway as i try to catch up on watching fawlty towers (love me my hilarious classic british sitcoms + john cleese being absolutely iconic as usual) and (most importantly!!!) have a god damned hardcore banger of the best exhilarating dance party ever to be partied by a singular entity along to Big Time mcfucking Rush songs (yes, seriously, unironically, shamelessly and wholeheartedly, so go back to your joyless cavern and weep, haters); without any care in the world nor bedside consideration that artemis (the poor furbaby’s in heat again :<) is lowkey wailing for a frigging tomcat to do her in asap and my younger sister is literally just one wall over in the same room having a peaceful snoozefest—and i’m probably disturbing them both with my sudden outbursts of atonal singing and foolish laughter and constant earthquake-inducing jumping about + graceless limb flailing moves. yep. this is it. this is my cursed existence now. and i’m genuinely having the time of my cringey fucking life.

drumlins and storm surge

I still like to think
That there’s hope
Time just has its say
Strawberries left to decay…

~*~

unbound cliffs

resurgence

i see spindles

of thunder float

behind studded

eyelids

.

the day is only

young if i

ask it to; my spine is

cracked like an

unloved book, but

the writing has faded

.

into bloated gums

swelling with

indignation

swear on your god

knife to paper

ink to straw

.

touch the edge

of the cloud for another

story—lightning

strikes twelve

under turbid gazes,

placid

~*~

The hunter gets hunted
We all get confronted
Don’t just slip away
Voices that start to betray…

theistic rectification

my world is holding its breath for you;

you, full of fabulism and emptiness

and temporary cavalier youth—

carving a solitary numb that marks out each

forthwith day on the neverending calendar

because every time you part your lips to speak,

mine seems rendered incapable to draw

another lungful, another last word,

another reason why i shouldn’t be listening

every obsessive dose of inhaled plasticine laughter

and lunar eclipse silhouetting a never-ever-after

you; right hand of apollo, stringer of constellations

up on my bleak horizon, why ever should

i willingly choose to let my skies be dark?

you are a greater purpose to exist,

and though not mine to escape towards

in emergency signs and glowing exit halos, i shall

capture the hue of your calamities in winding

stanzas and hidden novels, instead. i should not

allow a glimpse of every thread and stitch of my skin

that lives in quiet fear of being cut loose—but just this time

i’ll leave a needle out for you, in the hopes that

perhaps your world will find it by its millionth spin,

or at the very least, you’ll prick a careless finger and bleed.

Callosamia Promethea

Has the moth in your flame

Finally begun to complain?

Weathered nerves, testimonies

Burns—felony—in third degree

.

When the pressure caved your ribs

And catgut spun from the ceiling

Drenched with red but never bleeds

Gums clenched from dissenting

.

But when the moth in your flame

Brings the fire back into your skin

Their sanctity becomes your agony

Pain—murder—in second degree

.

But ashes shall beget winter ashes

As dust conceals carrion under pasts

Maybe you deserved all their abuse

And maybe the flies deserve to watch.

aphelion

swift little adjectives

yawning blinds and furled sights

counting electric sheep

sun sinking behind zeppelin minds

downplumes of heaviness

feeding off our personal evensong

in starbloom and rainfall

rigmarole to stretch the afternoon long.