saxtorwritessometimes

[saxtorwritessometimes]

There is a garden in my heart where you can sleep safely.

[saxtorwritessometimes]

Wait, can we just stop for a second and admire this...

I think I'll have a poem for this later...

In 1918, coal miners were astonished to uncover a petrified tree stump entombed within a coal seam.

[saxtorwritessometimes]

the lesson of the moth

by Don Marquis

i was talking to a moth the other evening he was trying to break into an electric light bulb and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows pull this stunt i asked him because it is the conventional thing for moths or why if that had been an uncovered candle instead of an electric light bulb you would now be a small unsightly cinder have you no sense

plenty of it he answered but at times we get tired of using it we get bored with the routine and crave beauty and excitement fire is beautiful and we know that if we get too close it will kill us but what does that matter it is better to be happy for a moment and be burned up with beauty than to live a long time and be bored all the while so we wad all our life up into one little roll and then we shoot the roll that is what life is for it is better to be a part of beauty for one instant and then cease to exist than to exist forever and never be a part of beauty our attitude toward life is come easy go easy we are like human beings used to be before they became too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him out of his philosophy he went and immolated himself on a patent cigar lighter i do not agree with him myself i would rather have half the happiness and twice the longevity

but at the same time i wish there was something i wanted as badly as he wanted to fry himself

[saxtorwritessometimes]

Icicle Teeth

I feel summers choking grasp start to slip. My breath is shaky at first and through the tears I glimpse her sultry smile. A sliver of shining silver teeth in a face of storms and snow. I will gladly trade my sweat stained sheets for rain soaked streets. Trade flaking burns and bugs that fight for shaking hands and frosts cold bite. I will peel myself from summers sickly sweltering embrace only to fall blissly into winters biting jaws. Swallowed by her storms like the only music I've ever known. I am ready to be lost in the oppressive quiet of a winter storm, in the blinding void of her holy fury. Ready to lie beneath her suffocating blanket, calmly growing cold. Give me not the hand that feeds. Give me no horn of plenty, no bountiful harvest. Give me gnashing teeth, Give me the hand which beats, Give me a cold and cruel god, And will kneel in the blood, With broken bones. And I will ask for more.

[saxtorwritessometimes]

Searing Sunrise

The suns draws metallic hues across the darkling sky.

Clouds trail a reddish pink like cotton candy embers and whispy crimson smoke.

The sky has changed to searing orange, glowing nearly gold, ready and waiting for hepheastus' hammer blow.

Slowly, yet surely, the sun rises, dripping golden rays unto the yellow, molten dawn.

[saxtorwritessometimes]

— anonymous

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lately, i have considered myself as one of a florist, in a garden of flowery words and metaphors i plant seeds of poetry to every person, whom i love, consider them as my favorite flowering shrubs, that needs much taking care of.

i am but a gardener in this garden of poetry, i harvest and plant every seedlings that's metaphorically a music to lend the ears thee, and fertilize it with my unwavering, rain-like love, in form of poetry.

i am a florist, and a gardener, and a poet, and my poems are my garden, my flowers are of sure a sight to see, and my words are those of metaphors of beauty.

- poetry.of.the.rain

https://www.instagram.com/poetry.of.the.rain?igsh=ZXF3OTd6cnR3aXRy

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I was never goth really, but this sings to me, sings into my soul like searing sunrise. Please for the love of whatever you believe in keep writing, you are an inspiration.

"Goth kids circa 2008"

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Wait hold on, this one is amazing. It's short and simple. Super impactful as a scavenger myself, especially the emphasis on potential lethality associated with bone hunting.

trigger warning: bones and remains

.

.

.

when i am bent over

fluorescent, my orange regalia

they scream across the way

bone collector, don’t crouch

so close to the curb

lest you seek to unite

with the marrow

you garner

[saxtorwritessometimes]

Neuroplastic

cannot conclude if it’s all the drugs we did that weekend, but a part of me wants them to be the catalyst for these incessant emotions of yearning to be with you, to spill my longing in timid truths. uncertainty banes my brain if it’s medicinally rewired, desynchronized but now drenched or dendritically dense with definitive desire, and I’m torn if these scribbled secrets are just enough to barricade it up until the dam breaches and bursts into feeble remnants allowing the flow of overwhelming and unprecedented confession.

[saxtorwritessometimes]

They Lied to Us

By Saxon Parkin

Mother, Mother do you see?

See the angels burning bright?

Not glinting gold, not glinting gold like lanterns light.

Look, look there, do you see?

See their wings?

See them wave and flutter, wave and flutter in whispered winds.

But No! Not wings at all!

For wings would wave and flutter and wave again with feathers thousand fold!

And look!

Look close and worry not the salt on your tongue.

Look and see not feathers white as pearl!

But needles small and green and verdant and ALIVE!

Now, mother, mother don't you see?

Priest and Prophet, Parish preacher, liars all!

They have not stared the angel down, they have not felt dread and awe mix cocktails in the blood!

They have not felt the terrible transmutation, they have not wept blood as flesh turns to salt!

They have not seen their thousand staring studded eyes!

Not felt its judging gaze upon thy very soul!

And thus, dear Mother, oh Mother, they know not the angels truest colour.

They assume a glamourous gilded gold!

One of pious greed and holy filth!

They cry of wings and halos and shining things!

But Mother, oh, Mother, they could not be more fallaciously false!

They did not perceive the ancient green, the prolific splendor, older, grander, greater than any *'godly'* gold.

Beautiful and clean and sterile shining gold, they think, must be the messengers of their god.

But there were terrific times we knew nothing of gold and greed, instead only the great and green Gaia!

The Earth, Mother, oh grandest Mother!

The mountains and rivers and lakes and woods and plains and all the world green and grand and teeming!

So it only makes sense that angels MUST be GREEN!

They must merge and melt with land and scape!

Whisper terrible truths to shaman prophet and sensual sybarite!

They must flow through wooded wombs as a hand through lovers hair.

Caress our thoughts gentle as sun upon the humble leaf.

They must be invisible to all but the mad and dead.

They must inspire awe not fear.

Never have they spoke the words "Be Not Afraid!"

[saxtorwritessometimes]

#let me disappear into the woods and haunt local children

Nature

If I were to choose how I am

If I were on the outside how I am inside

I’d be something feral

I’d be something beautiful.

I’d be something unrecognisable

And I’d be something new.

I’d be sharp and I’d be deadly

I’d be a rose made only of thorns.

If I could be something natural

I would be something feral

I’d be something beautiful

I’d rip myself apart and build myself back up.

I’d be something painful 

I’d be something to be feared.

If I were a mirror of how I feel

I’d become something new

Something natural

Something feral

I’d be a river that nobody crosses.

I’d be dangerous and I’d be violent

I’d be myself and no one else.

[saxtorwritessometimes]

Slaughter Anew

By Saxon Parkin

I wake.

Slumber twas brief, but a moment.

Yet the pain it burns, crazed and potent.

Tried to breath bloodied air through broken lungs.

Tried to swing broken blades with humbled hands.

Tried to lift a shattered shield by shredded straps.

Tried to see, yet nought but blackened blood.

Through the pain slumber slinks, the fetid serpent sleep awash in dreaded dreams delirium.

I dream the radiant rage of waging war.

The battle beast I was before.

My sword was swift as dancing flame.

My shield stood strong as oldest oak.

I wake.

My slumber felt as brief once more.

But things are changed, not as before.

My blood burns bold as coursed with forging flames.

My lungs are hard and cool as any brandished blade.

My skin is iron, stronger still than shining shield.

My eyes, now new and numbered, fierce as any falcons finest.

My hands now work as cleavers cruel, rending fearful foes to mewling gruel.

My rage burns brighter now, a suns sliver sustained a steeled soul.

Now I dream awake.

I dream of maddened death, of crimson floods.

I dream of skulls beneath my iron boots.

I dream a sanguine slaughter.

[saxtorwritessometimes]

"Do not think that I do not love you

if I scream

while I die.

Antler and thin black hoof

smashed against dark rock--

the struggle is the ritual

shining teeth tangled in

sinew and flesh.

You see,

I will go with you,

Because you call softly

because you are my brother

and my sister

Because the mountain is

our mother.

I will go with you

because you love me

while I die."

Excerpt from Deer Song, Leslie Marmon Silko

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Beyond the Glass:

By Saxon Parkin

Rending teeth and knashing claws.

I give things, beyond the mirror pause.

Caked in mud and ash and grime.

The Glasses light lays the lines.

In blackened hands I wield the lungs of stone.

I chase, I chase, the stalking dark, the wolven bones.

They laugh and laugh in light that blinds.

Slowly, surely, they will remind,

me of pastures green and warming flame.

The Pilgrims come with torches flared,

upon their lips my name is bared.

[saxtorwritessometimes]

Reclamation Proclamation

By Saxon Parkin and Wheelygat

Long hours, set the pace.

Scour the sigils, make old iron a new face.

Heat it, beat it, quench it, then dance with it again, giving that old iron a brand new name.

Raise the hollow hammer high, hear the cooling iron sigh.

Down it goes and down again, the hammers kiss of iron mends.

Strike it hard and strike it true, work it till its lost its molten hue.

Old iron, now made anew, a face that shines as few others do.

Wear it proud as yours alone, and know its shine marks your home, as all the world is yours to roam.