Yard-work
The Lily fears the sun,
it fears the light will reveal
that crooked stamen,
that discolored petal,
that knot in its stem.
It dreams drinking in warmth
and being kissed by the honey bees,
but it simply isn’t ready today.
One morning, a gardener comes ‘round,
pries the clasped petals apart
and demands the Lily soak
in the hot blistering rays.
It’ll get your chlorophyll pumping!
chuckles the gardener with a proud grin.
As the day passes, the Lily dries.
The teasing breeze mimics a gale,
whipping at the bloom’s petals.
Its roots, fears the Lily, tangle
with the neighbors, fighting
for ground water, while phantom
aphids suck its leaves dry.
And the Lily fears it’s losing.
What a selfish flower you were,
tuts the gardener the next day,
as he leers down at the bare
broken stem, pooled by waifish
withered petals, Not only have I lost
you, now I must clean up your mess.
I vote that a group trolls the WBC. Use the First Amendment in your favor: Preach outside the church using Bible verses about tolerance and love; Heck! Preach from other religions as well!; throw some evolution and science in there; answer questions in calm and mature ways.
And if the WBC tries to silence you? Sue them. They’re trying to violate YOUR First Amendment rights!
Yes, yes, I know. “Just ignore them.” But, frankly, they will always find some way to push buttons and incite anger; they strike at emotional times, after all, so you can’t blame someone, or a group of someones, for retaliating. The Media will feed into WBC and WBC will continue.
Maybe I just don’t enjoy the passive approach, the “adult” approach, when I feel like there is something dynamic and active that could be done.
Valentines bring so many people together,
love blossoms fits of passionate reds
and blushing pinks, in flowers and sugar.
Yet I wonder, how many wilting
roses and expired candies does it take
for the shoddy couples to realize
the magic isn’t simply “gone”.
It was never there to begin with.
If the issues of the name ‘Derpy’ is so minor, then why are you getting so butthurt about it? Seriously, so what if they change the character’s name as long as she still acts the same way? It’s the same character, right? Personally, I think bronies are getting up in arms over the issue, because it’s the “fan-made” character getting tweaked. Get over it, you didn’t make her just because the show decided to adopt the fan-name for her.
HOWEVER, I totally vote for the show to make a Herpy (or Herpda, since Herpy is very…STDelightful). That way Herpda and Derpy can magically combine to make TROLL HOOVES…or whatever you’d call a character addressing all the troll-worthiness of the fandom. I dunno, I’m imagining a pony with the troll face mask on it.
That would make a great episode.
I wasted time with him,
spoke of inane things while
our limbs tangled into knots.
I leeched warm fuzzies
from his belly, sucked
them from his mouth.
Our skin fizzled and fused,
a sweet-sour-salty scent
steamed into the air and
the knots tightened.
It became too painful
to pull away.
So we simply stayed,
and spoke of inane things,
until someone could tear
- us apart.
The needle sinks in and suddenly
you’re leering at me with the button gaze
I chose just for you. My breath
catches and your grin - that twisted
gnarled thing that I find
so damn appealing - twitches.
You pounce, the bed squeaks,
and I’m pinned down. Frayed
lips tickle my flesh, needles
lost during your creation prick
my neck. I whimper and squirm,
feeling as if my veins have turned
to threads of thick, fuzzy yarn.
But you find the scissors.
Snip snip
and your stuffed body takes over
the job of keeping my momentary
modesty intact.
Those threads distract me as they tease
my throat, my breasts, my sides, my thighs.
My fingers fumble against your stitch work,
enamored with your rough texture.
Then you press against my seam
and -
My nails are scraping over
your patchwork back,
leaving little trails
of red lace in their wake.
And you plunge onward,
inward, forward, further.
Gasps and tears and moans
muffled by the staccato
of headboard against wall,
mimicking our motions,
reminiscent of that sewing
machine tattoo.
You slam in one last stitch,
sequins sprout across my skin
as we burst into polyester fluff
and glitter and ribbons.
As we become such a goddamn
beautiful, beautiful mess.
I believe in a world that doesn’t believe in me. I collect its teeth and weather its bites. I give it gifts when it deserves coal. I sputter an arch of color, support the heavens with words and sounds and feelings. Then I sit down beside my pot of gold, my little mound of worth, and toe the dirt with my bare feet and wait. Though this world dismisses me as a worthless miserable mirage, I’ll grit out a grin and grudgingly continue to believe it will recognize my myth.
