I Choose To Believe That Simon Is Doing Something Similar Back For Baz But Like.. Kinda Unintentionally?

I don't think I need a life that's loud. I often need something quiet, peaceful, and uniquely mine.

I want a life like a southern woman humming on her porch swing. She has watered down iced tea in hand, just admiring the way the wind caresses the trees. Her melody is found about as soon as the tune itself ends. The moment is as fleeting and insignifcant as the fly buzzing past. But it's her home, her yard, her swing, her watered down tea, her melody- and for that fleeting moment, she shared it with all that surrounded her. Hell, the fly buzzing by thought it was quite lovely.

"what's your artistic process?"

pile o' post its

may the best post it win

my soul wants to write more things like this. I love this thing so much I'm just bringing it back for myself

The taste of cold fries and sweet ketchup reminds me fondly of my grandma. A McDonald's stop on the way to her house. A seat at the Little Tike's plastic table. The smell of cigarettes.

Distant conversation hums from my mom to her, and her to my mom. A sweet tune from a carpet cleaning commercial plays on the TV. A fudge ice cream bar is waiting for me in the freezer. The porch swing outside will accompany us as we're completing a midwesten goodbye.

I was fourteen when my grandma passed away. She never knew much about me, and truthfully, neither did I about her. But this feeling- a day at grandma's- lives in solidarity within me. And sometimes when my fries get dipped in ketchup, or when I pass by a lighted cigarette, a hint of warm nostalgia passes me through.

Do you think Simon's toothbrush looks like this?

the proposal

Saturday morning daydreams

Of hands around my waist

It was never his, eventually hers

Interlaced

And I used to long to be

The man behind the ring

Told myself "another lifetime"

..yet another thing

The subtleties will get you

Dangerous darkened yearning

A "crush" on him, but really her

The cause of passion burning

And though your attempts are many

It will all be in vain-

You'll find hiding entirely unfruitful

Become tired of the game

Knowing one day eighty candles will be blown

Looking back on your life

With no desire to conceal

The angel you call your wife

hello my loves 🤍

about time I make a pinned post! this account will be entirely used for all my poetry and art stuff from here on out! if you have any interest in my day-to-day ramblings (occasionally intelligent), I've made a spam type account:

@mads-mishmashes-her-keyboard

I also have an account for light nsfw posting but I'd rather you message me separately if you want that for now ♡

I hope you enjoy my creations!!! 🤍

i have drawn the lint.. beast.. for reference :)

Do you think Simon's toothbrush looks like this?

how about a spritz of queer religious trauma induced lyrical analysis for your day ?!?!??!

you down? GREAT read on 🌼

*NOTE - this is not the interpretation anybody probably intended from this song, this is just my own personal joy found in it*

here are some lyrics from the song hallelujah, specifically the jeff buckley cover (not that it matters but.. it does):

I am a queer woman who was raised in the church and now has an ambiguous relationship with religion as a whole. And man, these LYRICS!! They fill my soul.

"Baby, I've been here before / I've seen this room and I've walked this floor"

I see this partially as a call to younger queer people, as an "it gets better, ive been there". But I also see this as a message towards those who are currently religious. I was deeply pious at one point in my life (before a lot of thinking and feeling went down). I know how.. everything works. I was you. I understand your church more than you know. Don't exclude me or cast my feelings to the side because I am not involved in it anymore.

"You know, I used to live alone before I knew you"

My journey through religion (and out of it) was a very, very introspective and intense one. Walking out on that felt like living alone. Learning independence and identity was a grueling, but beautiful thing (and heck, I still am).

"And I've seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not a victory march.

I've been to a few pride parades and love them- this is not a dig at pride for me. It's a recognition that everything is... so much deeper than pride. Pride is what happens when you are alone at night and telling yourself that you are, truly, okay for being queer. Pride is what happens when you hold your partners hand in public despite being scared. Pride is wearing what you want because it makes you feel good. It's little. Not explosive. (Most of the time).

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.

Pride is to be found in exhales of air, sweat, blood, and tears. It is filled with hardship- with the screams of protests that have gone on longer than we've been alive. The most human hallelujah is not a sweet one. It's the sigh of relief when you come out to somebody and they dont.. leave your life forever. It's the trauma that comes from years, and years, and years of hiding and fear and hatred. And the realization that you have survived and you stand here still today to continue fighting. THAT is hallelujah. And some may never understand. But you do.

The taste of cold fries and sweet ketchup reminds me fondly of my grandma. A McDonald's stop on the way to her house. A seat at the Little Tike's plastic table. The smell of cigarettes.

Distant conversation hums from my mom to her, and her to my mom. A sweet tune from a carpet cleaning commercial plays on the TV. A fudge ice cream bar is waiting for me in the freezer. The porch swing outside will accompany us as we're completing a midwesten goodbye.

I was fourteen when my grandma passed away. She never knew much about me, and truthfully, neither did I about her. But this feeling- a day at grandma's- lives in solidarity within me. And sometimes when my fries get dipped in ketchup, or when I pass by a lighted cigarette, a hint of warm nostalgia passes me through.