*twc

lucky

*
attempts
oftimes feeble,
occasionally rewarding -
uplift, energize, reaffirm our
capacity to create & co-participate
with something deemed beautiful or
pleasing, fulfilling & just plain ’niiice…
the way we mean it when we experience
a true artist in process; the golden - not brass 
ring - the high bar to excellence, sought
each time we begin our attempts,
oftimes feeble, ocassionally
rewarding, personally
fulfilling & desired
to be endlessly
shared - if
we are
lucky.
*
11/17 - lebuc - lucky ( …attempts )

Soon to be

There’s this girl

With this love in her eyes

Although it might look happy. deep inside is pain

She’s been through a lot you see

And now everything for her is just blue black

She wishes for just one day

With orange and yellow

As she doesn’t believe that Day will come

Little does she know it very well might be soon

For all her life she’s been blue and black

Sure maybe some red and pink

Maybe a few days with violet

But she spends most of her days with this fake smile

And all her nights crying

For everyone who’s ever loved her has hurt her

And everyone she’s cared about hating her

She spends her very moments in solitude thinking

She thinks about what she could’ve done better

For she believes that could’ve done something

As everything’s her fault

While really

It’s nothing as her fault

For her next orange yellow day

She feels as though after the next

Everything will crumble

Little does she know the next one is what turns everything

Next week

Broken girl meets broken boy

For they both start out very awkward

But after little time they start talking

And every day that becomes more and more

Then one day it becomes more than just a friendship

They feel in love the moment they met

But they fault as though nothing was really right

For they felt like they would just end up hurting the other

But they give it a shot

As every day they spend their nights laughing and loving

And their days truly smiling and crying tears of happiness

From then on out they were happy

They fixed each other

And they used their broken parts to match up and fix the others

From then on out they were actually happy

Everything went from blue and black

To yellow and orange in just moments of meeting

And now

They spend their days laughing and smiling

And their nights loving

They learned to love

In part of loving themselves

He kissed her scars and she healed his

For they matched up perfectly

As he thought he walked a lonely road

And she thought she was walking an empty one

They found each other

And they made it.

An Angel Plume

My grandmother told me I had a quill growing inside me. I was seven when she noticed I could become invisible if I wanted to; and that when I thought no one was looking, I would eat words. It’s bound to happen, she told my parents. Someday, I will overflow language. 

Older, barely twelve, she thought it was time to tell me about Calaeriel.

Calaeriel’s story had been buried deep in the lore of angels, although Grams said he belonged more to the whispers of ancient myth. He was a massive entity, she said, and each of his wing had the span of an entire district. His plumes darkled in the sunlight and glistened under the moon. “Or whatever luminescence he wanted,” Grams said. “He was a bit of a show-off,” she chuckled. Many believed that his body could have the sheen of pearls, the obduracy of opaque, or the girth of an abyss. He blended with everything and caused stirs in the hearts of men wherever he went.

Angel, as most would describe him. But Calaeriel wasn’t in any bit angelic. He neither belonged to heaven nor hell. He belonged wherever air existed. He graced kingdoms but no kingdom owned him. Although he was beautiful, terror glimmered behind his eyes. As if at any moment he could decimate a continent if he were aptly goaded, but that he could also restore the land with a single healing breath. He was the quintessence of irony, of epics, of poetry. His voice was as gentle as it was daunting. His skin both granular and velvety. His hands were temperate and at the same time smoldering. His face, curved and gaunt.

“A curvaunt face,” I gibbered, making up the word. Grams had seemed pleased with my trick.

Calaeriel loved the early humans, back when they still didn’t have a linguistic grasp substantial enough to describe the world around them. He loved their innocence and their bright-eyed curiosity. He loved their desire to discover. As time passed and invention became Man’s mantle, there were those whom Calaeriel came to love and cherish more unreservedly than the rest. They were the ones who had carved sticks on clay to record events, those who learned to allocate verbal sounds to visual symbols, and those who eventually created ways to weave these together to express sentiment.

When his time came to expire from the earth, Calaeriel left the world an invaluable endowment. He shook his feathers free as his body diminished into the wind. The feathers spread to traverse the globe. These quills, unseen, settled on the souls of those who had the potential to bear the heritage of his ageless favorites.

“And one of those quills, my dear boy,” Grams tapped a spidery finger several times on my chest, “has found a home inside you.”

In due course, I grew up to become a young man, and a young writer, who understood my grandmother’s elaborate metaphor. The quill of an angel, an irreplaceable and inestimable relic was bequeathed to me. It only asks to have my soul to use as its ink. My experiences, the knowledge I acquire everyday, and my devotion to write about them strengthen the power of this quill, and in turn it strengthens me.

No emotion should be spared. Mirth or sorrow, peace or violence, pleasure or suffering, delight or disgust, triumph or failure, ecstasy or grief – all these things cultivate The Quill into any form I desire. I need to keeping using it to keep it in shape, because nothing is more incapacitating to the bearer as a shrunken plume. Nothing destroys the writer as devastatingly as the image of a threadbare feather, a withered barb.

There was a time when I nearly lost the will to write. I heard a voice speak from inside me. It doesn’t matter if I hallucinated it. Whatever it was, it came from somewhere deep.

“Never despair, my beloved. I will never extinguish. I am here for you to summon at any time you need. I may rot, but I will never die away.”

If you are one of those who write, you know this voice well. Listen to it when “defeat” rings. Because you know you can write no matter how impossible it may feel. The Quill is simply there. Sometimes it would feel like an unreliable filament, or water slipping from your grasp. But you know you are capable of wielding it, and even as water you can direct its flow with ease. If you let it, The Quill can take the formidable consistency of a diamond. It can assume the devastating beauty of flames, the restorative relief of tears, the drenching eminence of rain. Its aftereffects can inspire, shake beliefs, soften the most iron-skinned heart, bring an empire to supplication, waken giants from slumber, make Gorgons tremble at your feet.

Anything really, if you feel like it. See, you have a quill residing inside you. Mold it as you please.

I think one of the worst things in the world is realizing that you and your best friend are drifting apart. I think it’s even worse when they don’t realize it. There’s nothing you can do except for watch.
—  justslowlywritingitall

go.

leave everything shallow that has ever kept you from going.

you deserve depth.
you deserve an ocean

for there is wildness in you
that no calm water can contain.

so go, if you must.

you really must.

—  tanvi r
Today I am sad… in fact, I feel so sad that I want nothing more than to curl up in bed and cry. I won’t of course; there are too many things to be done… all those adult life responsibilities that never seem to stop no matter how tired I am of it all. But I would give anything to be held… to be treated like a child and be found when I am lost… to be gathered up in arms that feel big when I feel so very small and so very alone. I would give anything for a moment like that right now… just a little moment in a very long day.
I guess I’m just tired… and sad… and I wish you were here.
And on the one day I needed you, really needed you, you aren’t there. After days of complete torture and hurt, I expect to see you standing at my door, ready to make it better like you always do. But you weren’t. The blame can’t entirely be on you, though. I can’t say that. I surely had a lot more faith in you than I should have. So I will close the door and walk away, maybe we will meet again another day.
—  you weren’t there

things i know about nature:

i. the sun is the source of energy for us, but without love,
a strong man is a weak man.

ii. oceans are deep but do not ever underestimate the
depths of the human mind- oceans reflect the moon
but we? we land on it.

iii. from what i understand, trees are deeply ignored
when they should be regarded highly. trees are patience,
kindness and friendship.

iv. the thing about fires is that there are two types -
one, the orange flames and charcoal
two, the one you see in the eyes of people who’ve got
their hearts in their hands, begging the other to have them.
another thing about fires- both are equally terrifying.

—  Tanvi R