Tomorrow Comes Yesterday.

something i have always found really weird is when english texts italicize words from other languages.

i remember reading a book as a kid and the author continually italicizing the word tamales

you think you are something less real than you are by Wendy Xu

No song nor poetry can convey tragedy like a cat who wants through a door

me. me when a poem says something ive felt before

You are. My friend

Today you found out that I can write poetry AND that I study English. A little Macbeth-themed thingy inspired by @two-bees-poetry

Fan fact: because English is not my native language I had to write both columns in the same time, otherwise I won't be able to stick my grammar together.

Hang in there, Gemini!

# 31

My chest feels like a big red balloon.

Switching between over-swelled, Bulging, Tight.

To deflated and limp.

Again and again and again.

In. Out. In. Out.

The breaths come faster.

The balloons limitations heighten, only so much air can pass through at a time.

I grasp at the stings that dangle from my shirt. Who is sending all this so fast?

They need to slow down.

But I don't hate it and I can't stop it.

In. Out. In. Out.

The strings are wrapped three times around my wrists.

When did I do that?

In out. In out. In out.

The air is whooshing over and over.

I can’t-

Inoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutin

I force myself to focus on the softness of my sweater buttoned around my taut chest.

I fold my hands and feel the roughness of my palms, the smoothness of my nails, the surety of my string around my finger.

I focus on the lights above me and count the tiles on the ceiling.

The balloon miraculous slows a bit and I can feel my head again.

In out. In out. In out.

It didn't float away.

I didn't fly away on an overwhelming air currant.

I am still here.

I plant my feet in the ground and feel fresh roots make a home below me, anchoring me to reality, to the world.

The air gets slower and slower until I feel flowers bloom between my toes.

Until I feel the strength return me to a slow and steady flow of air in and out of my lungs.

In. Out. In. Out.

via yumi sakugawa

writers and artists will go "this isn't good enough." my brother in christ, you're creating something new out of nothing and expressing yourself creatively. your productivity and unrealistic standards of perfection do not define you or the worth of your art. you're doing great.

#100

It was a wondrous day with splendid company.

Old friends but fresh rushes of feelings, turns of conversation,

And the laughter?

Hers.

Rich, bubbling, pure.

Like mustard meadowlarks singing for mountains streams.

His.

Grounded, unexpected, revitalizing.

The rough stream of sounds a lake makes under the watch of a persistent moon.

And of course, mine.

Not much of note, but if I were to speculate,

A little kitten leaping up the scales of an out of tune piano.

we had harmonized together.

Every hour was full of sweet humor and compassions.

When I had slipped into something less than,

His hand was at my slumped shoulder, thin fingers spinning shapes into my sleeve.

When it happened again and I felt at a loss,

She hurried beside me to help roll up my sleeves.

I'd like to believe I had been there for them in the smallest of ways.

There was surprise hugs from behind and comments of sentiment,

Shared sandwiches and the sweetest of silences.

A trio like us made me think of

Mundane mornings, nights out and exploring, of-

I pulled away.

It's a wondrous friendship we shared.

In a way, their company was wondrous and fearful tucked in a bundle.

I had hoped to keep relishing in their laughter for a long time.

I’ve had other wonderful days,

And yet