happy new year, everybody!
(enjoy the fireworks!)
before i diei want a song to make me cry.before i die by birdlu
i want to fall asleep next to my most favorite person in the world.
i want to meet someone who understands and accepts every one of their flaws.
i want to appreciate the value of each moment.
i want to be able to say that I’ve laughed more than I’ve cried.
i want to share something with the world.
i want to wake up with a smile on my face.
i want to tell people how much they mean to me.
i want to experience one of humanity’s proudest moments and truly feel the weight of it.
i want to remember every smile.
i want to realize how good life has been.
serbian mermaid.in five years i want to move to georgiaserbian mermaid. by estallidos
or serbia or atlantis and start a family,
name my children after odd numbers
and teach them russian lullabies and
the art of manipulating those you love.
in five years i want to marry you, but
i don't know if you like odd numbers,
or even if you like me all that much.
maybe you'd like me if i tell you
that i'm a mermaid, but i'm not
and you can always tell when i am lying.
in five years i want to be seventeen,
but wishes don't work like that.
in five years i want to be on a plane
and i want the plane to crash
into the ocean and i want everyone
to be okay except me, but if i were
a mermaid i would be okay too.
i could just swim away.
in five years i want out of this bed.
in five years i want to be crowned
queen of lowercase letters.
in five years i want you to say,
"you are the best thing that has
ever happened to me," and mean it.
in five years i want to either be dead or a poet,
but i really mustn't get my hopes up.
The Thing About ClichesI.The Thing About Cliches by summernightangel
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. Well throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys, and drugs.
Wed find footprints in the sand and read angels into them. Wed collect rejected roses, tarnished rings, and hopeful held breaths where the tides washed them up, tie them up with ribbon, and cork it all away for someone else to worry about.
This is not a romance either.
So instead I baked coffee cake while it rained, and picked the wee