"You can't pour from an empty cup." |big fan of anything dramatic, tragic, or revolutionary|

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  • bushbaby 1w


    She sits here beside me
    in her torn dress, wearing leaves and dirt,
    humming an old tune- faintly, under her breath;
    she sits here and strokes my hair
    in the dead of night,
    when my watch tower has fallen to its death,
    and I grimace as I unwittingly recollect
    the song that she sings without rest.

    She skips ahead of me on the path
    running to meet a forgotten house in a forgotten place
    that knows her better than I, and remembers her name,
    and welcomes her with goosebumps tickling my arms;
    she laughs at the crayon scribbles on the walls
    and that familiar, odd crack on the kitchen windows,
    but she quiets down at the stillness of her home
    and she asks me, "where have they all gone?"

    She sits beside me at my family dinners,
    smiling sadly at the flip of our worn picture books,
    singing loud, our song,
    in her frail, hoarse, old-time cry,
    bringing tears to the stubborn edges of my eyes.
    She stands, ghostly, beside me when I stare
    at reflections of myself, naked and bare,
    but she flickers, and she flickers, and she fades
    with every trembling step that I dare to take
    towards a future built solidly
    upon the restful silence of her grave.


  • bushbaby 2w


    On the bottom floor of this three-storeyed home
    sits a comfortably-cushioned chair
    dented with the heaviness of a moment
    that’d dragged its crippled legs through the front door you’d left open
    last Saturday morn, when you first saw me,
    as I truly am.

    The tea cup had shivered in the cold of my hands
    as though, for only a cryptic moment,
    I’d been no warmer than dead,
    as I sat upon that cushioned chair whilst you spat on me, words coated in red,
    hungry to blot out the gold of my skin
    that'd stubbornly refused to dim.

    The moment had snored and snoozed all the alarms
    and I’d sat with it in amicable companionship,
    even as a trusty map unfurled on my palms;
    even as my limbs tensed to outrun defeat,
    even as you seethed, panted and snapped at my air with a demon’s teeth
    I still sat, collared - for but a moment, of sheer uncertainty.

    You see, Hopelessness, it seeps in slow,
    like a warm bath inviting in the cold,
    and Denial may be an untamed horse,
    but its reins remain still in your hold;
    Uncertainty, however, is a thief parading around as close kin,
    who waits for your sleep to rob you pure of inborn will.
    Alas, a moment tied to a moment tied to a moment is a lifetime that goes,
    and such is the loss tied to an uncertain soul.


  • bushbaby 6w

    Manifestation of Hope

    What is the manifestation of hope?
    I followed whispers of its elusive trail,
    faded scratch marks on my wooden doors, to find:
    Hope is a dainty porcelain teacup
    sitting in timely wait on the tabletop
    with its cocoa-coloured rims recalling
    hands savouring the fiery burn of a moment,
    as it sits and waits, comfortable in the assurance
    that life will warmly kiss its brims once more.
    Hope is paint on barren walls;
    its colour a hanging mirror
    forgotten by a person, and people,
    its frames the pattern of eager await
    of untold stories of unnumbered birthing days.

    Hope is a clock set to ring
    at exactly six every arriving morning,
    unburdened by worries of absences or delays
    as it sings with the confidence that ears will hear;
    ears that cling to murmurs of a hundred hidden dreams rooted in the garden of Time,
    set to bloom at the set of his eyes
    secretively, upon them.

    Hope is a number clutched to a chest,
    tied to a name and a face and words unsaid
    but tucked safely in a bed of anticipatory rest
    with the scented tranquillity
    of a bouquet of a thousand somedays,
    an unwrapped present left by the bed.
    Hope is a list with the boxes unchecked,
    with the paper uncreased
    and pinned to display at a desk,
    its contents adopted by diaries and wallets,
    and a heart yearning for some piece of solace.

    Hope is a worn basket, obese with stained clothes,
    leaving through a doorway,
    returning slim and transformed,
    as Future looms over unsuspecting heads,
    filling them with clouds of smoky dread
    that fogs and obscures and drains them
    of kind words and warm greetings,
    as they forget that not all houses fall on her map,
    and some gates are offered only a fleeting glance,
    as Future passes by.

    Hope is a front door left unlocked
    with the certitude of the return of a dearly beloved
    far from home but not from thought,
    and no one sends a map or points to signs on the road,
    for it is hoped that they will remember
    and find their way back home.
    Hope is a word and a thought and a feeling,
    a breath in a corpse and the spine of tides ever changing, and wheels,
    of the steadfast carriage ridden by Love.


  • bushbaby 6w


    I am often brushed by a passing vision,
    a vision where I bite the hand that feeds me;
    it was not as they said,
    I did not wear gluttony's crown upon my head,
    nor did I chew off a five-star future in a blind, possessing rage;
    no, I did not, soon after, lick the blood trail off my lips,
    nor did I whine
    and tuck my fickle-minded tail between my limbs;
    but, I confess, I was entirely bewitched
    by a distinct, resounding ringing,
    as my bark rattled the steel of my ornamental chains
    and left them at my feet, bowing.
    If only for that fleeting moment of profundity,
    I stood supported by my own, inborn spine
    clothed by the embrace of a stolen birthright,
    even the quiver of my newborn totter
    could be called entirely mine.
    It did not matter to me then,
    if I'd soon be lured to sleep or shot to my death-
    no matter the number branding my footstep,
    none could scrub off the unapologetic indent
    of my rusted, resilient stride;
    the brazen stroll of independence
    imprinted on the elusive sands of time.


  • bushbaby 7w

    I saw my broken legs
    when the lights tried to shield your eyes
    but you flared up, unaware,
    that you'd let me mould your pulsing hand
    into a cane for a blind man;
    but you and I were not to be thus fated,
    trapped in an aging existence
    where spirited nudges crack the other's ribs
    and bitter wounds ooze from sharp tips
    of stitching needles, too vain
    to remain for long
    within the sterile walls of a first aid kit;
    yet, too rusted to nurse a wound
    and leave it unscathed;
    so we puncture holes into each other's skins,
    tangled and unable
    to tell apart our battle scars
    from the froth brimming our mouths
    as open vials of poison ricochet
    and leave two dead, while enemy lands
    lie awake, stealing marches upon our grave.


    About a codependent relationship.
    #toxicrelationship #writersnetwork #miraquill

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    Two Hooked Prey


  • bushbaby 9w

    "But the thing that scared me most
    was when my enemy came close
    And I saw that his face looked just like mine.”

    ~ Bob Dylan,
    "John Brown"

  • bushbaby 9w

    A Vision

    The blur of her tears
    could not blind her from
    beholding her ambition
    and resurrecting her vision
    even as her breath
    clung loyal to time.


  • bushbaby 10w

    Peace is a foreign land
    I've yet to navigate
    my way through.

  • bushbaby 10w

    You once told me
    to never trust another soul;
    a stillness would possess you
    as you spoke,
    like vengeance carved
    in solid stone.

    You once taught me
    how to shake a hand,
    and how to wear
    sincerity in a smile;
    then I'd watch the doors
    close behind us
    and a stranger would smugly
    recline in your place,
    with the skin of a cactus
    paranoid of fate.

    You once swore to me
    everyone hides daggers
    in their clothes;
    I still remember the list
    you disclosed to me
    of all the names in red
    you'd crossed off.

    You once smiled with pride
    when I shyly confided
    that Fear
    was the only friend I'd ever known;
    you shook your head
    and emboldened me,
    promising that Fear
    was the street name for Safety.

    But now you're gone
    and I'm still here,
    counting my steps
    past my comfort shell;
    I recall your words
    as I hug a friend
    and wish you were here so I could have said
    that you were wrong:

    not every monster shakes your hand,
    some hide in the claws you learn to command,
    and fear just as deeply pierces a heart
    as the sharpest venomous dagger can.

    #once #wod @writersnetwork @miraquill

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    Of Monsters And Bad Advice

    Not every monster shakes your hand
    Some hide in the claws you learn to command


  • bushbaby 10w

    I never thought I'd envy
    Mere words on sunlight-tinted sheets
    But Jealousy is a messy toddler
    Sparing none within vicinity
    Not even pretty, pearly letters
    Stringed into shimmering necklaces
    Sold with a book of handwritten tears
    That would flow over a coffee cup
    But drown in a puddle of mud;
    Jealousy is a guarded gate
    That limps and pants and relocates
    Building sand walls around petty names
    Promising their burial when it bows to fate;
    Jealousy tastes like bitter syrup on my tongue
    I grimace as I mouth
    masterpieces dearly beloved
    My imperfections scream and recoil in distaste
    Wondering why they're to be
    beautified for public's sake
    Words stare back from supposed blank sheets,
    Yet I suspect a strong hand of deceit
    For even words meant to comfort and ease
    come shrouded in pretentious-coloured veiling

    Thank you for EC❤️
    #enso @writersnetwork @miraquill

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    Jealousy is a messy toddler
    Sparing none within vicinity