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bringyourownbomb's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I'm just a person that tries too hard to write. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don't. Nothing I say really matters, but enjoy it anyway.


sometimes when i talk to you
my mouth is full of sand.
other days the words pour
like lakewater. i feel
i’ve drank too much
saltwater when i look at you.

i wish i was a breakwall
and could hold this all back.
Aurora smiles down as Boreas whips through
her hair and sweeps it across the sky, sparkling
shades of forest green and emerald. Dryads swing
from their branches until the treetops sway,
casting shadows against the mountain. Atop,
lights flicker where the Oreades dance and sing
beneath Gaia’s primordial Pontus. Below,
an expanse of ice breathes—nature’s lung.
There is life trapped beneath where the Limnades
slumber, waiting on the return of Persephone
to aide Demeter in the deliverance of spring.
Along the shoreline, a young woman walks.
Psamathe passes the winter nights sculpting beach
sand, frozen, into jagged formations. The girl climbs.
A song plays through her head, a humming.
Wish you were here.
Gods' Country

written for my mother as a birthday gift to her. living in the upper peninsula of Michigan is pretty amazing and very inspiring. 

They tore like the Oh-My-God particle
across the universe, like comets or neutron stars
blazing a trail. I wanted to get away.
I'd say, beam me up, Scotty-no,
a misquotation-they only said, beam us up
and beam them up, but who is us? Who's them,
and who would I take with me? No one-
I used to feel better off on my own.

Leaving the earth behind to fly with moons
and more had young children wanting
to become astrophysicists, almost.
Key word almost-not quite there, I write
poems about stellar black holes, constellations,
binary stars-the primary and their comes-instead.
I think that's just as well.

Nimoy was a poet too, took pictures-dancing
girls smiling for the camera, not the science officer
a child believed he was. He was no Vulcan,
no green-blood and incredible longevity.
Redshirts die too, flung into black holes
and warps of time, captains age, reborn
in alternate universes, souls the most human
pass on. Timeless, but mortal, final words:

A life is like a garden. Perfect moments
can be had, but not preserved, except in memory.

There must always be progress
-I think that's just as well.
Nimoy, Leonard (TheRealNimoy). “A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP” 23 Feb 2015, 2:36 a.m. Tweet.

we had to write an elegy for my poetry seminar last week, and this is what came to mind. it's awaiting workshopping at the moment, so it may be updated later. just couldn't resist posting it now. maybe I'll have a title afterwards as well. 
I never saw Grandpa Carte in a suit. Only in pictures, one
of him carrying me up the aisle, my mother and father’s wedding.
He was a man who cut the collars off his flannel shirts
so they didn’t bother him anymore. He tailored gloves  
to fit the remainder of the hand he lost working at the shop.
Grandpa worked around the house, often alone,
sometimes biting back when offered help.

I borrowed his Motor Trend and Automotive magazines
each month after he was done with them. I started
getting my own copies in the mail not long after. I was smaller
still when he taught me to drive the tractor, bigger again
when he took me out in the van and showed me how to drive.
Soon I was graduating, and he bought me a car. I remember
the disappointment when I ran it out of oil, failing
to check it how he had taught me. He fixed it,
like everything else, and I learned.

When I was a child, he built with me in the barn,
scraps of wood put together to make something new.
Slats of wood nailed, sloppy, made at the hands of a child.
Airplanes with pinwheels attached to the front—
colors spinning, a kaleidoscope. Hand-crafted homes
for birds, other odd-shaped contraptions.

Grandpa once cut me a y-shaped branch, sculpted the ends smooth,
threaded bike-tire inner tube through a piece of fabric,
stretched rubbery ends around the wood.  I launched rocks
into the tall grass out back for days after. I wanted,
I wanted, I wanted, and he gave. He asked no questions.
He filled the role an absent father left behind. I learned
how to ride  a bike. He watched as I climbed trees, higher
and higher, on our walks through the backwoods.
Grandpa mowed patterns in the golden, crested wheat grass,
and I ran through them, my make-shift corn maze to explore.

A phone call from my mom, day of his death,
and I learned those days were his favorite days.

Once, I drove Grandpa to the cancer doctor, braving
the snow and ice, driving him towards the unknown
answer to a difficult question. We were told, “come back
in six months.”  He said I was his good luck  charm—I hoped
it was true. Weeks later, I learned
my luck must have run out a long time ago.

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Scarlettletters Featured By Owner Mar 4, 2015  Professional Writer
Thanks very much for faving my work. I greatly appreciate it.
wannabeliterate Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave... but don't expect anything more comming along; I've been unable to write for half a year and counting --- this will change eventually, but this time I'm really not sure if it's going to be anytime soon.
bringyourownbomb Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2015  Student Writer
I'm sorry to hear that, it's not easy to get stuck unable to write, I recently went through the same thing. I hope you find your words again~
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Oct 24, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank ya much for da fave!! Have a great weekend!  :)
wannabeliterate Featured By Owner Oct 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the watch! I'm going to take some time soon to rifle through your work; but from what I've seen, you're gorgeous. =)
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