• he helps me bleed
    as we stand face to face
    across mountains
    through lightning and wind
    we fight over the hours
    over the water

    your eyes seethe of the fire you stole
    from your brother,
    the raven,
    and i wonder how the joy bled out of them.

  • anothershadowbox commented on the post, ghosts 5 months ago

    i pity you
    and the dead worlds you spiral in,
    like a quiet maelstrom.
    i have visited that place
    once myself.
    i died,
    like you did.
    i wept,
    like you did.
    _______________________
    if only i could lose my flesh
    and drift away
    on a silver
    wind

  • you sprinkle the stars on your porcelain face
    and spin the earth until it weeps
    faces flicker in and out with a
    vengeance, taking all that you may know
    and bending it, unmending it

    reality is a toy

  • i’m just another boy for you to unravel
    a shred of ecstasy to cast aside when i become a husk
    our togetherness is something without a heart–
    empty.

  • there is steel.
    the hum of metal shut in shackles.
    you’ve given up screaming long ago,
    as you have given up the sun.
    whispers here,
    the rats in the distance leer
    through ink.

  • everything is a metaphor.
    depths upon writhing depths of things that are
    real and not real,
    everything
    is a bottomless abyss
    of meaning

  • 1. The steam from the cup curled around her face, as if it were searching for something.
    2. He had succeeded in doing a lot more than just drowning his sorrows.

  • i like to think i’m wider than i am.
    i like to hope that i will become wider than i am.
    yet there’s so much to do
    when you’re only so young.
    so to make myself greater, i try breaking myself
    into ruby shards.
    i’m sure you can guess at how well that’s going for me.

  • paths were meant to be broken, correct?
    lines were meant to be bent.
    in boxes, you cannot grasp the stars.
    with laws, you cannot be free.

    roads were meant to be swerved off of.
    shattered shackles line the halls of kings.

  • tracing themselves around the earth’s fingers.
    creeping up the stones trapped in the boundaries of this ancient building.
    green and waiting to die.

  • Seeing the world from glass lens that should have been destroyed a long time ago isn’t healthy for you or the people you interact with. You need to know the limitations of your perception– when it is dust, and when it is not.

  • anothershadowbox commented on the post, recording 6 months ago

    your voice
    crackling, flickering
    dying in turning circles
    has found a home here
    when no one else would accept it
    except your grave

  • anothershadowbox commented on the post, laughing 6 months ago

    it runs through the cracks in the night like ichor.
    setting bones on fire
    and eyes aflame.
    you will remember this night
    and all nights before and after it
    as having a sun in them. such is the power of joy.

  • anothershadowbox commented on the post, glow 6 months ago

    falling into the stars and the leaves
    and the dust particles, sparked with
    new
    light echoes down our ribcages.
    our wings are light.

  • every day,
    we wish for you to leave
    depart across the asphalt that’s as
    gray and flat as your soul

    we wish for you to move
    on your straight trajectory
    like you want us to
    and leave us for shaded hours
    in peace

    even though we call you
    “father”

  • you were bright
    when the stars were too cold to hold our hopes
    you were there
    when the trees twisted into screams
    when the sun fell from the sky
    you were there
    blinking back and forth with wings stitched from our hopes.

  • anothershadowbox commented on the post, jump 6 months, 1 week ago

    we’ve all gone through the same
    leaps of faith, the defiance of the
    chasm and of gravity.
    yet we fail so often.
    fall so much.
    why weren’t we born with wings?

  • i am you i am you
    i am all who you will ever aspire to be

    it rests
    on the top of steeples,
    leering at the gas station,
    conclusions leave it
    and dubious truths fill its followers

    while there are many its,
    the only problem is choosing which it
    to give your hands to.

  • the screen glows of wisdom.
    a start of a start.
    knowledge extends its hands.
    waiting for you to begin
    and to fall in.

  • there was a pebble,
    glass, as green as hope,
    embedded in the asphalt

    the sun loved it,
    this little thing in a sea of
    stone, slate, grey.

    humans may tread on it daily,
    as they do all things.
    creaking on with lives that go down
    grey roads to grey places.

    as a function of this,
    they never know what ‘special’ means.
    nothing is…[Read more]