RIDEnvelope within this thinning air;RID by MIZZTOLLY
Allow breathing in ease.
Dont keep the atmosphere heavy
They are heaving,
Tip toeing on the ground ridden with desease where footsteps are misplaced.
Transfuse with the surrounding light and mirror or even Take up Translucency.
Dont let being block anything beyond it.
They are squinting,
Many eyes burning.
Create illusions of the eye
Let voice ring within white noise
The static will cleanse all impurities
Their ears still bleeding
muscles fitfully twitching.
|i am aiming to buy prints of my wishlist^^ donate if you want to ^^|
oh and if you donate i'll take commissions even though my work is crap (send a note)
(thakyouu so much to those that have helped and supported!) ;A; i never would have thought id have to push my goal higher X3
the jury uses erasable pens, i've never triedon trial for manslaughter of the mind and murder of hope
i was convicted of being a guilty nutcase with a pen
my sentence just a little longer in a room i can't see the corners of
there's no way out but i've still got a pen
completely unbothered by it all i'll draw my plans along the wall
and i'm back in the courtroom again
they converse in skateparks
and rub rubbers
behind bike sheds.
clip and staccato
in stilettos in the office
as workers file in
the undeveloped shoe voices
as sole meets corridor
skidding into class.
Another day begins,
with the news of the night before
scuffed into the pavement
as shoes chatter.
my father lived in Indiamy father is a man of many colors.
on the nights when the moon stays asleep,
he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice.
the sugared blood pools in the creases of his
skin and stains it India’s red.
sometimes, my father scrubs his hands until
they are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds.
when he was younger - all skinned knees and pocket
knives - he must've slipped on a thousand marbles.
my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spun
steel into tiny spheres.
when he died, my father’s hands became blue and
free of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bag of
my grandfather’s marbles on our mantle.
from time to time, he shakes the cool metal into
his hands and waterfalls it back and forth.
if marbles were pomegranates, my father
would be the most diligent juicer.
this is the problem with blue hands:
they never let go of the things that scar them.
they try so hard to be red again.
my father doesn't like whistling because
an old woman in India told him it