not really a full poem

time for a tangent. i think one of the most appealing parts of ammy’s character is her sentimentality. for as much joy there will always be sadness, i would like to call it a balance of sorts but that would be the wrong word to describe it. she is ridiculously intune with the world as she is a part of the world due to her being a kami, with this, she is almost always in a constant state of mourning. a gentle sadness (  see: mono no aware, melancholia, etc  )

for as much beauty there is to be seen there will always be that lingering feeling that it will not last, nothing does & nothing shouldn’t. that is how life must be, how it’s always been. she knows this for kami can live & die as well, although as the sun, ammy has existed for billions of years, ultimately she too will fade. but she does not mourn for herself (  not even when she suffered as shiranui which is another thing i want to talk about at a later date : reincarnation cycles  )  but she does mourn for those around her. 

she mourns for the dying flowers, the bare trees & the slow decay of time. she knows that there is beauty to be seen in just how fleeting life is but honestly for her, beauty & sadness are one in the same sometimes. 

i’ve always thought that thanks to her divinity she cannot feel certain emotions, or understand certain emotions. maybe she cannot feel sorrow like everyone else, maybe it’s completely different to how humans feel it. for her, this has been going on since the very beginning as the universe is built upon an almost endless cycle of life & death. 

THE WORLD ENDS IN FIRE.
THE WORLD IS SAVED.

no. that isn’t right.

THEN THE WORLD ENDS IN ICE
AND IT IS SAVED.

still no good.

AND YOU COULD DO BETTER?

the world does not end.
it is still saved.

the world rebuilds its defences,
with fragile hands that shake against the ocean tide,
the world mends its broken bones and kisses its own bruises.
the world does not burn or freeze, crumble or flood.
there is time. there is time.
there is still time.

l.s. | STOP PLANNING A FUNERAL FOR A WORLD STILL BRIGHT WITH LIFE © 2016

Wrote a full poem this morning, got really stoned to reread it from a different perspective 6 hours later, TOO stoned probably and honestly shook myself reading it over like damn who wrote this??? Oh, it me 😏

I watched my classmates learn today
The lesson was current events
Our assignment
was to study Isis
by looking up passages in the Quran
that justified jihad
I listened in horror
as they read of beheadings
and stonings
and removing fingers
with a certain relish
that comes from superiority
and as the teacher agreed
and explained how ISIS is using
those passages
to justify extremism
I saw them learning
hate

Not deep
all-consuming hate
but the subtle hate
the kind that whispers
“you are better than
Them
these strange aliens
see, how they are barbarians
compared to you
see, you are not the same”
the seductive kind
that settles
and gives false promises
of knowledge
and understanding
I saw them settle in their seats
Smug
and satisfied
with the course of their day
believing that now, of course
they understood everything

I wanted to stand up
and shriek that
NO
YOU UNDERSTAND NOTHING
I wanted to tell the boy
with a cross hanging around his neck
who spoke in a kind of wonder
at his newfound epiphany of
“No wonder they’re like that,
if this is the kind of thing they read,”
that he has no ground to stand on
I wanted to shove a Bible at him
and demand that he highlight
every
single
instance
of murder
and rape
and betrayal
before he stand there and condemn
an entire holy script
for passages that are no worse
than the ones he learned in Sunday school

I wanted to share the story
of the kindest girl I knew
at elementary school
who always made time to walk
with the loneliest kid on the playground
so I wouldn’t have to feel so abandoned
who stayed out of the cafeteria
for a month every year
who wore a snow-white hijab
and carried herself
with a possessed, quiet air
radiating serenity
from long, flowing clothing

I wanted to tell them about my uncle
And his copy of the Quran that my father still has on his shelves
I wanted to read them some of the verses underlined with pencil
that speak of peace
and community
and faithfulness
to try and make them listen
before condensing all they have learned
into simply
“Terrorists”

I wanted to stand on my chair and scream
because how DARE they condemn
how DARE they learn of the five sacred pillars
right next to ISIS
and think them the same
how dare the teacher forever associate those two things in their minds
how dare these same students who stand
and recite the words they were brainwashed into learning every morning
before they even learned what they meant
and so never question them now
still exclaim with outrage
over young children learning prayers

I wanted to demand, more than anything else
How dare you think yourselves different?
How dare you restrict your worldview?
How dare you take these stories
and half-tell and forget them?
I wanted to ask the teacher
How dare you spend fifteen minutes
giving us the basics of faith
on a five-year-old worksheet
and three hours
expounding on the hatred of extremists
detailing how they are ruthless
and cunning
and out to kill all who don’t share their faith?

I wanted to object to this entire exercise
I wanted to walk out of the room
I wanted to yell at everyone
Until they opened their eyes
beyond their new
narrowed
worldview
and tried to learn the full story
without having it spoonfed to them
but in the end
I simply sat
staring at my hands
while my classmates learned hate
and dismissal
of issues a world away from them
with careless laughter.

— 

March 20

or

“What my classmates learned today.”

Boy, we both know you did not grow up
in an easy home–
that your mother was a freight train
of Christian gospel, that your father
took his fists and laid tracks in your skin.
We know how you tried to be good for them:
good little Catholic boy–sits himself in confession
two times a week, telling god about the men
who made you weak in the knees, telling god
you were sorry
when you weren’t.
And you shouldn’t have had to be.
Catholic boy in a home like hot stove:
your mother’s love, a cast iron skillet–
too heavy for a boy your age to carry,
left burns like stigmata on your fingers.
Mama called them recompense.
Your mother’s love was big enough
for an abusive husband, but still too small
for a gay son.
How many times were you put on your knees
in the church of a god you didn’t believe in
and told to beg a ghost for forgiveness?
Boy, what they did to you was not salvation.
It was betrayal.
—  excerpt from MAMA’S WHIPPING POST by Ashe Vernon