to be young and in love... by gracelette, literature
Literature
to be young and in love...
i lie in a state of catatonia
as thoughts of you linger in my mind:
i did not permit them to be there.
in my dreams your hands
are interwoven with mine,
while we lie in the grass and watch
as stars gently rake the night sky.
i fit gently into the curve of your chest:
you breathe in with me (within me)
and each of your fingers fits perfectly
bet
i.
there are days where i dont feel real:
days like those are like being
in a different reality.
maybe i live in a world of plasticine,
and my day is an entire stop motion
film. but maybe i'm the one in plasticine,
and people skirt looks out of the corner
of their eyes, too inhibited
to point out this fact to me.
iii.
orion leads a waterfall of stars into twilight
and while sitting on the ground my mind
is truly tempted to depart, and
ride along to sirius, for i was once told
that our souls came from the stars.
iv.
mars was bright last night.
bringers of war always leave traces:
when i awoke, i was greeted
by clouds of s
people used to think that i talked too much,
so one day i just decided to stop,
and then the walls caved in, from lack
of wind to hold them up.
then, they tried to make me angry: attempts
were made to spurn me into fits of rage.
it almost worked.
well, no. all that happened was instead of going out,
i went in, and within. they can't find me anymore.
i am my own master, i am my own slave.
i bite my tongue now, purely out of habit:
there are no words left to say.
misleading mistakes and shortcomings
make for wanderers-turned-nomads, searching,
seeking and yet, not finding on solid land.
i know it's true... but do they?
i wonder if their search is in vain.
(shi shang zhi you ma ma hao)
'ni shi i ge xiao mei mei' --
wo bu shi i ge... see, how
may might turn to june and still, and still
the lights turn on but off again.
and it's like a morse code
message over the hill
but can anyone see it, yet?
yet still, it's quiet, now.
(mei ma de hai zi xiang ge cao)
a breath of wind, and each footstep
is another fight against an unseen foe.
have you spotted it, yet?
time washes grittily like how
'i'm inside a hollow...' by gracelette, literature
Literature
'i'm inside a hollow...'
i'm inside a hollow of a hollow
and every ghost of a whisper and shadow
is ten times louder but fainter in here.
pin drops become kettle drums beating,
and beating again.
(am i inspiring you, yet? because i can't inspire me. and no matter how many times i breathe in and out again i don't make any more sense within misery.)
whispers give way to less quiet sound --
or rather, to a slightly un-quiet ebb and flow
of waves running in and out and in again.
and a want to be inspired
seems an inadequate excuse for hiding away,
but yet hiding away is all i want to do.
no, i cannot be happy as you, for you.
i don't want to live a
this is a requiem in b(urned bridge)
flat, tunnelling out towards the sea
from a land of bitterness and acridity.
many a time you have sunk a tune
to davy jones and his locker mates
(the tune never reached,
but it never came back)
and so you went humming, in it's wake.
the seas swell high, then ebb and flow --
the moon is calling softly to
waters inside the cove that breathe
(with me) in and out with the seasoned
shouts of a sailor who lived off
salted air and blacks.
but sharp is his call, over the sea
(white frothy foam and mahogany wings)
and over rattling, cackling ivories
that grip onto bottles of whisky and rum
i.
tonight i am in gumboots and
a summer night dress chasing dreams.
it's almost surreal -- i hear cock-crow
and lamb bleat, mingled
with earthly angel voices and i think:
'why am i here, in this place
that's in between awake and asleep?'
ii.
darling, i know i'm not all there in the head (you're not even here at all but through your letters, poems and wisps and remnants of memory) but we're both plagued with our own miseries. cancer did well to choose me. but why should you care?
tonight i lie in bed and write this in tribute of you, hoping, if there is a heaven, that you can read this.
iii.
and while i lie curled all cat-lik
i.
i get inspired by broken dreams
(see? i'm not quite as bereft of hope as others think) --
its a compulsion that i have. but admitting it
makes me blush not crimson but magenta
(my most hated colour), and certainly
it comes with a certain amount of elegence --
or is it eloquence -- to be able
to say this and still sound intelligent.
in a way, sophistication comes with having hopes
and dreams, even if they're impossible:
it is with ideas like these that the world will grow.
those of you who still dream, unmarred
by expectations, with feet and toes nestled in the mud
and a head that breathes fresh mountain air will
come
to be young and in love... by gracelette, literature
Literature
to be young and in love...
i lie in a state of catatonia
as thoughts of you linger in my mind:
i did not permit them to be there.
in my dreams your hands
are interwoven with mine,
while we lie in the grass and watch
as stars gently rake the night sky.
i fit gently into the curve of your chest:
you breathe in with me (within me)
and each of your fingers fits perfectly
bet
i.
there are days where i dont feel real:
days like those are like being
in a different reality.
maybe i live in a world of plasticine,
and my day is an entire stop motion
film. but maybe i'm the one in plasticine,
and people skirt looks out of the corner
of their eyes, too inhibited
to point out this fact to me.
iii.
orion leads a waterfall of stars into twilight
and while sitting on the ground my mind
is truly tempted to depart, and
ride along to sirius, for i was once told
that our souls came from the stars.
iv.
mars was bright last night.
bringers of war always leave traces:
when i awoke, i was greeted
by clouds of s
people used to think that i talked too much,
so one day i just decided to stop,
and then the walls caved in, from lack
of wind to hold them up.
then, they tried to make me angry: attempts
were made to spurn me into fits of rage.
it almost worked.
well, no. all that happened was instead of going out,
i went in, and within. they can't find me anymore.
i am my own master, i am my own slave.
i bite my tongue now, purely out of habit:
there are no words left to say.
misleading mistakes and shortcomings
make for wanderers-turned-nomads, searching,
seeking and yet, not finding on solid land.
i know it's true... but do they?
i wonder if their search is in vain.
(shi shang zhi you ma ma hao)
'ni shi i ge xiao mei mei' --
wo bu shi i ge... see, how
may might turn to june and still, and still
the lights turn on but off again.
and it's like a morse code
message over the hill
but can anyone see it, yet?
yet still, it's quiet, now.
(mei ma de hai zi xiang ge cao)
a breath of wind, and each footstep
is another fight against an unseen foe.
have you spotted it, yet?
time washes grittily like how
'i'm inside a hollow...' by gracelette, literature
Literature
'i'm inside a hollow...'
i'm inside a hollow of a hollow
and every ghost of a whisper and shadow
is ten times louder but fainter in here.
pin drops become kettle drums beating,
and beating again.
(am i inspiring you, yet? because i can't inspire me. and no matter how many times i breathe in and out again i don't make any more sense within misery.)
whispers give way to less quiet sound --
or rather, to a slightly un-quiet ebb and flow
of waves running in and out and in again.
and a want to be inspired
seems an inadequate excuse for hiding away,
but yet hiding away is all i want to do.
no, i cannot be happy as you, for you.
i don't want to live a
this is a requiem in b(urned bridge)
flat, tunnelling out towards the sea
from a land of bitterness and acridity.
many a time you have sunk a tune
to davy jones and his locker mates
(the tune never reached,
but it never came back)
and so you went humming, in it's wake.
the seas swell high, then ebb and flow --
the moon is calling softly to
waters inside the cove that breathe
(with me) in and out with the seasoned
shouts of a sailor who lived off
salted air and blacks.
but sharp is his call, over the sea
(white frothy foam and mahogany wings)
and over rattling, cackling ivories
that grip onto bottles of whisky and rum
i.
tonight i am in gumboots and
a summer night dress chasing dreams.
it's almost surreal -- i hear cock-crow
and lamb bleat, mingled
with earthly angel voices and i think:
'why am i here, in this place
that's in between awake and asleep?'
ii.
darling, i know i'm not all there in the head (you're not even here at all but through your letters, poems and wisps and remnants of memory) but we're both plagued with our own miseries. cancer did well to choose me. but why should you care?
tonight i lie in bed and write this in tribute of you, hoping, if there is a heaven, that you can read this.
iii.
and while i lie curled all cat-lik
i.
i get inspired by broken dreams
(see? i'm not quite as bereft of hope as others think) --
its a compulsion that i have. but admitting it
makes me blush not crimson but magenta
(my most hated colour), and certainly
it comes with a certain amount of elegence --
or is it eloquence -- to be able
to say this and still sound intelligent.
in a way, sophistication comes with having hopes
and dreams, even if they're impossible:
it is with ideas like these that the world will grow.
those of you who still dream, unmarred
by expectations, with feet and toes nestled in the mud
and a head that breathes fresh mountain air will
come
i've forgotten how to write by gracelette, literature
Literature
i've forgotten how to write
i've forgotten how to write:
a pencil feels foreign, like using
a hand made of thumbs
that's unsteadily forming not
words, but squiggles and
curves and lines.
i used to be full of words --
they lived in my bones,
i hoarded them and ate them
for breakfast, binged on them,
purged on them.
peek inside -- the words i buried
are rotted away, and
turned into compost.
look past the sunken cheeks and
jutting, angular bones to pry
my jaws apart and you won't
hear a peep -- glance/yell/whisper
down and you'll echo and bounce
inside cavities of hollow, skeletal ribs
(bird-bones on top of a building
that could fly in reverse, perhaps
i can haz a soundcloud account. if you have soundcloud too, follow me and i will be eternally grateful =D
http://soundcloud.com/gracelette
basically im finding i have less time to write if it isnt in the holidays BUT music is spontaneously (relatively) effortless and so no matter if im insanely busy i can still do a quick improv. hehe...
promise to write more as soon as i have time. i've missed it.
that the piece that gets the most attention on here is not actually any of my writing, but a 100x100 px gif image that consists of -- get ready for it -- TWO frames. count them! one, two.
lol...
if anyone is wondering what i'm talking about, here: http://gracelette.deviantart.com/art/writer-s-block-126939309
~~~
in other random news i am bouncing off of the walls and cannot WAIT to go back to uni!!
uni has got to be the craziest juggling act ever. as in EVER. and i refuse to believe the ppl that tell me its a bludge. its not. but then again maybe the 2 1/2 hours of travelling a day, plus part time job have something to do with it.
i really have a tendancy to make myself overly busy and to cram in as much stuff as i can.
but i'm loving every minute of it. =)
that is all.