(Banksy)
bluebird
++ My name is Michelle. I live on the east coast but Florida sunshine is in my blood. These are things that inspire me, and some of my poetry, music, and art.
contact info: michelleaves@gmail.com
(letters to my inner child)
I am sitting here writing notes to my future self—
“This is what I’ve learned” and “If you simply do this,
then everything will be okay.”
But I am actually writing letters with a running ink
pen, stuffed in envelopes mailed across 1995 that say:
I’m growing up, it’s all new when I turn myself inside
out. I still love you and know you’re there, hidden
underneath all this freshness that I can’t relearn.
Metamorphosis cannot circumvent a certain sense
of death and I am so sorry.
“ Don’t use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry. ”
sunlight steals through leaves / like dreams pinned in sleeves
Explosions in the Sky: Postcard from 1952
(Source: revealedinthethaw)
lucidity
you say,
I’ve been trying to find you in my dreams
darling,
I’m hidden somewhere between changing scenes
a spinning magnet like you told me
when we were just seventeen, high on the beach
wandering sky-inverted oceans, I’m caught
underneath currents and coral reefs
clenching immortality in my sandstone teeth
losing sight of the tide
for infinity in sealed shells and kinetic lullabies
and I hear you sweeping through quiet seas
constructing cities and foreign geographies
to close the space between our drifting bodies
(but I no longer feel
your metronome heartbeat)
so I say,
I am following the wills of my dreams
and they thread through reality
“ that might have been where it went astray
because they never told us what we needed
them to say: that nothing is impossible
because we are possible ”
because they never told us what we needed
them to say: that nothing is impossible
because we are possible ”
The days that I miss.
I always feel more alive in places that remind me how anonymous I am. It’s only when I’m on a train, in an airport, lost in a city— in transit and suspended, that I feel truly free. I’m in a perpetual state of disappearing because I’m endlessly looking for things that will make me feel real, feel anything at all. Most of these things are broken, because broken things make sense, like the feeling that has been blooming and dying inside of me for years. They’re beautiful because they flow with time, not against it. I want things that are perfect— torn, jagged, burned, worn down: things that promise me that life will go on and on and on.
