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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() Mother always picked the seeds left behind After The threshing to cook dinner. It was when the flail had snapped the grains Off the necks of sun-fried wheat That the cold cauldron was warmed. It is at that moment,
Two seconds after your mind forgets to think The thoughts of "things never getting better" will chime. When the rhythm fails to succumb to words You'll let them down in abstraction– Eyes blinking three times faster The folding of hands and pacing up and down As a punctured balloon Frail hands going up to shield the brittle skull From sounds of blasted silence thrown by gunshots. It's life, you say, There's imbalance in the way Life dies in death and vice versa Dusk cools the earth for ghosts to awaken Then dawn tells the stories of those lost on news headlines. Everything is pure-mixture A little distilled, two fractions of unweighted good and bad Like hands, We don't get to choose what turns left or twists right. I know Mother loves to cook. But not by the damned wet corner With soaked firewood and a gathering of white smoke. We fight cold wars with matchsticks Those flames, a snippet, a kindle to our desires Are wasted on eternal nights that forget to wash away. On good nights, Seal your lips with stitches of silence Let the mouth turn sour and the teeth stay shut Sit in the zephyr blowing Behind the shadow of the moon Strike a match and burn the chaff in a great blaze. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
October 2023
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