O̷n̷ t̷h̷e ̷j̷o̷u̷rn̷ey ̷t̷o ̷w̷h̷o̷l̷en̷e̷ss.̷

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  • in_fragments 2w

    A Fata Morgana is a type of mirage, one that is normally associated with the open ocean but can also be seen at times on land. It takes its name from Arthurian legend, named for the sorceress Morgan le Fay, who was said to use these images with her witchcraft to lure unwitting sailors into her traps. 
    This type of mirage is responsible for all kinds of unusual sightings, from mountains in the middle of the ocean to ships that appear to by flying, and it may even be the source of the legend of the Flying Dutchman.
    Usually, the image is based on a real object, such as a far-off ship, just distorted to appear surreal. People report seeing floating ships, ships that appear to be flying upside down, or even landmasses that aren’t really there. Interestingly, the farther away from a Fata Morgana you are, the taller the mirage appears to be.
    #pod #poem #thoughts #monsters #life #death #humans #mirage @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Fata Morgana Ignored

    The beach lay dormant, quiet and gray,
    on an off-season overcast morning-
    I passed other solemn souls
    in their puffy coats along cooled sand,
    I felt it bond and loosen against my feet,
    I meandered towards the pier, the wind
    nipping at my reddening toes
    nearing the edge of the water,
    when I saw it...

    The Fata Morgana
    made its memorable introduction to me.
    A thirty foot ship, mainsails billowing,
    gliding upside down amongst the fog,
    and a sixty foot wide island behind it,
    whose caps were so humongous
    they covered the skies
    and the heavens all around.
    I saw them, everyone I loved- everyone
    I had ever seen die, staring straight
    back at me with such light
    in their eyes, their arms outstretched
    past the limits of wooden railings
    like soldier's spouses beholding
    the end of the wars they did not survive.
    I watched as mirrors of ghosts
    reached for me over choppy ocean waves,
    inconsolable over the quiet exits
    of their bloodlines, and trying so hard
    to extend themselves towards the sun,
    never fated to have it, only forgetting
    how to feel it. I thought to myself,
    "Is anything worth anything?
    Are these rotting pieces of meat
    and threads of tired synapses we inhabit?
    Are we merely billions
    of men and women and children
    just waiting for our chance
    to dissolve into light tricks?"

    Then, all the people on the shore,
    aghast and stunned at what they
    were seeing, started swimming out,
    entering the water in plainclothes,
    as if entranced on that frigid
    wintry morning. I saw them diving,
    emerging and submerging
    like distorted dolphins, hypnotized
    by the faces of their loved ones,
    how close to the touch they seemed to be.
    They moved in droves out
    to that illusory ship, swimming towards
    jubilation, swimming towards love,
    swimming towards absolutely nothing.
    My own ghosts still beckoned,
    they stared and smiled and sang,
    but I turned around-
    facing all the humans
    running down the sand so happily,
    so excited, so ready to drown in a farce-
    with my head up and forward facing until
    the beach was out of sight completely.

    They were once here, and now they're not,
    and there is no other way
    to visit the dead
    without allowing them
    to take you back on their ship of ghosts.

    The only thing that's not nothing
    is this moment, right now.
    Tomorrow is a mirage, the sunrise is
    a Fata Morgana, but today
    doesn't have to be. Find something
    to hold on to, even if it's pain,
    even if it's dread and traumatic stress
    from being followed by mirages.
    It must come in waves
    to remind you that you're
    beautifully and entirely real,
    and so was everyone else you lost.
    Beautiful, and finite- gone,
    and the glittering mirage on the horizon
    is just that.
    You are not a mirage quite yet,
    still with so much more to do
    if the universe chooses to let you.
    Don't ever stop living
    because you feel Death spying,
    like a flying ship, following,
    waiting to take you in.
    The point of living is not to escape
    from timeworn truths into the traps
    of dangerous illusions-
    the point of it all
    is to live so well, and in the names
    of everyone you've ever loved,
    to find so much happiness
    that you won't be afraid to die
    when your ship finally arrives.
    Life is not to be spent looking for
    and expecting Death at any moment;
    life is to be spent in spite
    of all It's alluring illusions,
    glaring at them every day
    before you sleep
    and staying alive even as
    they rip you into pieces by sunset.

  • in_fragments 2w

    Alive in Ice

    With an ice cave for a body, I thrive
    inside my bones when they're covered in freeze.
    The other's think me cold, but I'm alive,
    truths etched in my veins on an embraced breeze,
    comfortable and safe, no need to share
    when icicles like stars threaten to drive
    themselves into faces and melt into hair,
    I walk alone, piercing and icy stride...

    Do not thaw me to put yourself at ease;
    cold and noble, you want a warm coward,
    I'll hold your hands in negative degrees
    and watch them glaciate, blue all over-
    you can't take it, and I can weaponize
    myself, fingers like ice picks in your eyes
    as I scoop them and twist, they pop and rise
    out of hot sockets- to their sharp demise...

    Easily forgotten, stronger than flame-
    not beautiful, I'm durable, seizing
    blood and ice to obliterate your shame;
    while you die, your sightless red lies ceasing,
    expiring from the heat of your own blame,
    my soul rests, vindicated and freezing...

  • in_fragments 2w

    Yay for lifelong medical battles... cancer... autoimmune diseases... bloodwork and hospital appointments since childhood... at least I'm turning it all into something creative that feels worth something now. I'm not just a guinea pig anymore.
    #pod #poem #blood #work #medical #trauma #thoughts #mentalhealth #mentalillness #selfcare #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Blood Work

    A tourniquet, tied tightly
    around my arm once again
    as I squeeze my fist
    to find the perfect vein-
    tap it, watch it rise
    to the surface of my skin like a wire;
    clean the spot with alcohol,
    look away and prepare
    for the thousandth little pinch
    of the familiar and stoic needle...

    Blood pulls away from me
    into the doctor's long glass tubes-
    their syringe fills up with vibrant,
    vermillion liquid, sloshing up fast.
    I feel it pushing out of me,
    red soda sucked through a straw
    between two thirsty lips;
    after so many decades,
    the flow is recognizably rhythmic
    and draws the sanguine fluid out
    on beat; a little heart force,
    a pulsating sensation
    in the soft side of my right elbow-
    a little bit of draining, all up my arm;
    a piece of life being tugged away
    from me, later be used to create me.

    Switch out another cylinder,
    until I watch them fill up three-
    cover the spot with a cotton pad,
    with the needle still inside,
    then taken quickly out
    just as easily as it came in.
    There is an art to drawing blood,
    and every three months
    I am required to collaborate
    to create my own clean
    hemoglobin masterpieces-
    for under microscopes
    and through test tubes,
    you can measure every chemical
    and mutation inside, monitor
    the uncontrolled cells that make up
    your own personal madness.

    From now on, the needle is my pen,
    turning chronic illness into creativity,
    another long and deep well
    to draw from.

    My dried life force lies
    in between pages and poems,
    betwixt the tiles of childhood bathrooms,
    stained on old long sleeves.
    Emotions linger like dust
    in the silent spaces
    between language and thought.
    I am not gone. I have been in
    and out of test tubes for decades,
    in biohazard bins all across the coast,
    seen only by a privileged few
    who were smart enough to handle me.

    My artwork is the real blood work,
    the pen can suck me through it
    like a tiny medical needle
    and I spill my truths all over the canvas.
    You need blood to create art,
    so for the rest of my life,
    as I give myself continuously to tubes,
    and machines and medications
    and disorders- a lifelong battle,
    I've accepted my fate;
    the art is the only channel
    I have ever had for all that blood.
    A pen is a needle, gliding across
    white paper like skin,
    pushing words in with sharp tips
    that protrude from the page like veins.

    For my sanity, it's all the same to me.

  • in_fragments 5w

    Happy not-even-a-solid-month-until Halloween everybody! ������ Here's a horror story for you anyway ����‍♀️
    #pod #poem #halloween #zombie #horror #trauma #story @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    (Bite) A Zombie Left Behind

    Overcome with a harrowing
    and unearthly childhood affliction-
    as a young girl, she had something taken
    from her heart; a bite that caught the meat
    between sharp and slimy teeth-
    a piece of her eaten
    by a monstrous predator. Now,
    an adult, with a man who loves her,
    she cannot kiss him
    without her lips going cold;
    she cannot express her affection
    without thrusting her life into limbo;
    she cannot make physical love
    without her body turning gray,
    her skin peeling off her hands and face,
    her insides rotting and falling out
    of the hollow hole between her legs.
    A zombie, dropping chunks
    of skin and sex organs
    onto the floor as she runs,
    bloodying the wood with her footprints-
    naked in the autumn soaked forest,
    she loses a piece of a finger,
    a knee, a small intestine winds itself
    into the hands of tree branches.
    She quickly snaps it off of her body
    like a strand of loose thread
    and continues to race, to kill
    the feeling of dread spreading
    between and up her hips,
    the memories causing her body
    to destroy itself like a disease.
    She lays what's left
    of her languid tendons down
    into a pile of damp
    and freshly fallen leaves,
    and wept as she fell into
    a fetal position, the detached limbs
    like ghosts she could still feel
    pressed against her chest and stomach.
    The stars shone bright above her
    as her heart began to bleed,
    and she knew it would be over soon.
    She then stopped crying
    and listened to the world of the night;
    listened as her skin fell to the ground,
    her blood drained away
    like a hose against the grass,
    her heart as it finally plopped
    loudly, heavily, out of her cracked ribcage.
    She released one more
    distraught exhalation
    before her mind and soul expired,
    her eyes closed into sweet death,
    leaving a trail of body parts behind.
    Her lover follows, but never finds her...

    And when he returns, she is home-
    bones reattached and cheeks as red
    as a freshly picked apple,
    as alive as she was the morning before...

    Sobbing together, he kisses
    her warm forehead
    and apologizes again and again
    for the curse her body was under
    before he could ever help her.
    She drifts off to sleep in clean sheets,
    while her heart beats and remembers,
    holding on to the infernal bite
    her mind is not ready to find; only then
    will this miserable transformation,
    this routine of torment and ritual
    of violation end. Until then,
    she moves through making love
    as an archaic zombie girl-
    confused, anguished,
    and haunted by the life
    that was snatched away from her
    too fast.

  • in_fragments 5w

    I was super high when I got this idea �� I truly started hearing everything ten times louder and more colorful �� Makes no sense, but it totally did, and it felt amazing! My aim is to be able to achieve this state through meditation, and some day not have to get so high anymore.
    #pod #poem #nature #universe #life #love @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Kaleidoscope of Sounds

    Sitting on the back porch,
    let's listen as the wind whisks away
    our every thought and worry...
    Feel our senses become isolated
    and enhanced, as our ears ripen into
    kaleidoscopes of sound;
    hearing the quavering chirps
    of every ephemeral bird,
    the guitar strumming slowly
    as the sun sets behind us
    into its golden goodnight-
    the trees swaying to their own rhythm,
    squirrels puttering by and cars
    zooming past; each tone reverberates
    within its own finite fractal,
    but is still absolutely heard
    as parts of the perfect whole-
    thousands of tiny melodies
    in a long prevailing symphony-
    and we are given a glimpse
    into the inner workings
    of their ancient, cosmic composition,
    where each piece contributes
    to the entirety of the delicate
    and psychedelic beauty of nature.
    The universe observes like a glass eye;
    it contracts and amplifies
    in an eternal connection
    to each birth and death- every howl
    of suffering, every moan of ecstasy,
    every sustained scream of madness-
    each galvanization and infliction
    of every flora and fauna.

    We exist in mere fractions of this life,
    for exposure to the complete cantata
    would be too vast for any human mind
    to comprehend,
    so I sit on the back porch
    and meditate, falling in love with
    the harmonies moving all around us,
    knowing that they are the closest to God
    we will ever come to on this earth,
    and the most we will ever percieve
    of the true concinnity of consciousness.

  • in_fragments 5w

    Here's a small part of my hair story, inspired by @murryben telling hers ����
    #pod #poem #childhood #hair @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Atrocious Beauty

    A growing little girl,
    and an ailing immune system-
    while they were sucking the blood
    from my untrained veins, every week
    a new medical tube to fill
    with strange illness,
    my soft blonde hair
    came falling out in strands.
    Health ramifications
    keeping tresses brittle and thin-
    a growing little girl forming bald patches,
    wishing for nothing more
    than the long, flowing locks
    her peers wore. She thought
    the odd spots of fallen pieces
    made her head seem ugly
    and impossible to care for,
    unable to hold a beautiful curl
    or caress without losing fringes
    between unsure fingers.

    On one of my birthdays
    a brush got stuck in my hair,
    and I was horrified
    when they had to cut it in a heap
    to pull the round monster out.
    One minute, a happy child celebrating,
    the next, a small girl crying
    as if her mother
    had cut away parts of her brain.
    An unexpected accident
    became a profound mental scar
    atop a head so young, behind a mind
    becoming so taciturn already.

    I was never in charge of my own hair,
    the most important part of a woman
    in a shallow, sickly society.
    I hid away the memories
    like I did with all other memories;
    bottled them up when no one could help,
    threw them behind mental barriers
    as a child so I could still survive,
    my days I spent hiding
    from such gruesome dispositions,
    afraid of hearing the clipping of blades
    in my daydreams.

    Now that I am older,
    and my hair is finally healthy,
    for the first time I am safely reflecting
    on the hair trauma
    that has affected my behavior
    and state of mind subconsciously
    for the past three agonizing decades.
    I was stuck in a constant
    loop of loss and grief,
    yearning over something
    I was losing more control of every day.
    Even now, in my worst,
    most self destructive moments,
    I fantasize about ripping it all out,
    cutting it all off
    with the sharpest scissors
    I can imagine, shaving it away
    from crown to brow, and nape to top-
    because I am bound to lose it
    all again anyway.

    Beauty is fleeting, and beauty is atrocious.

    Beauty is a delusion,
    and the world has made me sick of it-
    sick for it- my entire life.

    I take care of what I have now,
    while I have it, needing nothing more
    and trying to find ways
    to put this old suffering to rest.
    I brush my hair
    and am grateful every day
    I still feel it on my head-
    grateful and terrified;
    waiting for that inevitable day,
    that innocuous process, the moment
    where it all begins
    to fall out for good.

  • in_fragments 6w

    #poem #pod #candy #life #death @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Pure Sugar Souls

    Life passes through us like
    a piece of candy, souls pumping
    pure sugar. Delicious, addictive dreams
    beginning like diluted, debonair
    jovialities, trivialities turn quickly
    into sickly, rotten realities-
    culminate into ailing blood,
    strained veins, diseased minds,
    and dust covered

  • in_fragments 6w

    Summer's Subtle Surrender (Tautogram)

    Sunlight, skies, spirit's sensations
    signal summer's subtle surrender-
    seasons symbiotically settled,
    soared, spun, sunk, swallowed, so
    spheres start stirring, shifting, sharing
    spurring, swirling seas, spying
    stretching sands sleeping,
    sensing sacred, streaming
    snow spells soon.

  • in_fragments 6w

    Dance of Seasons

    Autumn touches down
    in her dress of swirling leaves,
    twists into the night-
    dancing off summer's frenzy
    before winter's listless freeze.

  • in_fragments 8w

    Brain, Walking Away

    Sometimes I walk out of my own mind
    the way I watch somebody else
    walk out of the room.

    I'm off doing other things,
    and staying put, idly-

    I am still there, somewhere,
    but some force pulls my thoughts
    back and away, replaces them
    with someone else's,
    someone assertive or emotional,
    in another form,
    with their own walled-off memories
    from another ancient,
    hidden fractal in my head,
    taking their chance to speak...

    What started off as thick layers
    of multiple streams of thought,
    buzzing independently deep
    beneath my consciousness,
    soon gained the strength
    of silver bullets,
    entities activated and splintering
    their perceptions right through my own,
    and I have no control
    over when they arrive,
    what they will say, when they will go,
    how long they will stay away.

    My cognizance gets muffled
    and sometimes, goes blank entirely-
    blank and deeply dark, before
    suddenly snapping back into the light.
    In the middle of simple,
    everyday things,
    my body becomes a rag doll;
    triggered identities
    pass through me all the time-
    meanwhile, I can only
    stare out into nothing,
    my body heavy and my eyes,
    just as empty as my mind-
    taken over temporarily,
    for reasons kept concealed from me.

    At the edge of the emptiness,
    like a decrepit desert formed
    on my cortex long ago,
    I've been crawling my way forward
    for such a long time.
    But I cannot accept the others
    who are here, I shake them
    and smack them out of my head
    like logged water;
    so I always fall back out, run away,
    fight to bloody pulps for a life
    that is no longer only mine.

    I am tired of being
    pushed away, and pulling
    the others back like taffy
    because I don't want to hear them
    and I just want to be me-
    like a large, divided,
    dysfunctional family,
    alive in one brain, but they're all me.
    How can I be tired of being pushed away,
    when they're all me, and they're
    only trying to live as well?

    I used to think they were
    the villains, selfish
    for being there at all after decades
    of staying so silent,
    but am I the villain now? Selfish,
    because I want my body back
    to myself? Am I the evil one,
    keeping them dormant and suffering,
    buried by my fear
    of the other parts of me?

    Sometimes I walk out of my own mind,
    and I am never sure
    when I will return again.
    How can I reconcile sharing myself
    with myself, when it feels like
    I might never
    be myself again?