#89

*takes your face gently in my hands and looks sincerely into your eyes* listen. your home does not need to look like a showroom. homes are meant to be lived in, and that means a certain amount of mess. it's okay if there is clutter on your desk or if you don't remember the last time you cleaned your oven. mess is morally neutral. but at the same time, you deserve to live in an environment that is safe and comfortable, and that means someone has to clean sometimes. things like mold, spoiled food, and dirty litter boxes are genuine health hazards and need to be dealt with before they make someone sick. think of cleaning less as "my home needs to be completely spotless" and more as "I am an animal and I need a habitat that is free of hazardous material." it's okay. *kisses you on the forehead and tucks you into a blanket*

(and of course it is always acceptable and even good for you to ask someone else to help you with cleaning if it's physically or mentally difficult for you. even if you're paying them to do it.)

Bottlecap Press

It's Always This Beautiful, I Just Can't Always See It, by Codi Barbini

Prose poetry, chapbook, 36 pages, from Bottlecap Features. In It’s Always This Beautiful, I Just Can’t Always See It, gratitude becomes a me

From Codi Barbini's chapbook, It's Always This Beautiful, I Just Can't Always See It, available from Bottlecap Press!

thesaurus.com save me

Closing shifts.

I want to write you an escape.

A pocket of happy time and space.

Where you're okay.

In the mountains, in a tree, in a nothing of muted pastels.

Just somewhere where you can sing,

and your fingers don't sting from strumming.

And our lungs can go on for forever.

I can write up that sort of escape with ink and paper and imagination.

The clouds would be puffy, and grass would be wet beneath our bare feet.

The longing and worry and confusion of yesterday would slip through our fingers.

We’d watch the drops puddle and tumble and fall through the cracks out of existence.

We would stay and it falls away.

And the rain blows and the wind smiles and the leaves sing.

Nothing makes any sense, but we are safe.

Yet that place, it's not...real.

The world collapses around us and I am left with ink on paper that I can't see clearly.

Your eyes are downcast and clouded.

You can’t see my words.

I don’t know how to cocoon you in that existence.

But then you take my hand and we run away.

And we make our own escape of flesh and blood and brick.

We joke in puddles of blankets and you play your ukulele.

And yet we have to leave for the bathroom.

The conversation is jolted and a little awkward at times.

Your fingers grow tired, and strings get off key, but we are here.

We made it.

And it's just the sort of escape we needed.

a collection of motivational insights regarding content creation and creative hobbies

and of course the classic

Poetry? More like CROWETRY!

Read Crow Time // Read Namesake // Patreon // Store

Crow Time Plush is now up for sale!

The most sure sign that someone doesn’t know much about poetry is when they insist that poetry has to rhyme.

And the most sure sign that someone is a little too pretentious about poetry is when they say that they hate rhyming poetry.

ive retired this zine from print but you can still look at it here - take care of yourself idiot <3

I make more stuff go look at it.

https://instagram.com/cytoplasm.kd

#192

It's just one of those days

All things look the same

But nothing feels quite safe.

I'm scrounging for a sense of security.

So I'll wear a friends old t-shirt

And strum until my fingers hurt

And wash until my brain just works.

Little things are the start to stability.