An intern physician, working in a haunted hospital in an empty city, in Pakistan. Interests include mathematics, photography, late night television and post-rock.
Favourite genre of music: Progressive Metal, Post-rock, Trip-hop
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
WhenWhen by Jade-Pandora
When time was young and fish were wise
a little boy would guard the boats
his people used for gathering food while
their gods watched over them from skies
that used to lie closer to the water and the earth,
for this was the place where the wind came to rest
and the sea would caress the edge of the world,
and bless those who trusted in the rhythm
of life until the cycle of death would
come and set them free, to watch over
a little boy who guarded the boats
when time was young and fish were wise.
terra aqueaon the far side of the river
where it curves
pushes farther onto the land
it to mud
I write your name into it
with my foot
limping in half steps
the way wounded animals move
feeling your name
harden in my throat
I gouge the shape of it
into the squelching earth
over and over
until your facelessness
first with my heel
then with a broken stick
and finally on my knees
I draw each syllable
with my fingers,
touching them to my lips