Between Chunks of Reality
So I just finished my last statistics assignment of my degree. Huzzah! Death to the ANOVAs!
I wish I could burn my textbooks, but I still have an exam to look forward to. Oh, well. You can't have everything in life.
There's actually another essay due tomorrow, but I can't find the motivation to pick it up again. Which is why I'm here, procrastinating. I promise there will be some attempt at posting fics after the exams, but for now, have another poem:
I wrote this when I was seventeen, having just been disillusioned by the cumulated force of my parents' arguments and multiple crushes of my own that never worked out. By the time I arrived in England, it was like someone had snuck into my ribcage and pummeled my innards for several years. There wasn't an inch of my visecra that didn't hurt.
As they say, time heals all wounds. But reading this, I could easily transport myself back into that mental state. Kindly excuse the angst and naivety that shows through these words. I was young, then.
To You, dried roses
Of Black and Blue
A memento of secrets
We never knew
Steeped in gold
and smothered with kisses
Dead petals in the breeze huskily hisses
Glimpses of a shadow
that was you
Stolen seconds
but none too few
Lie crushed and broken
Those dried, dried roses of Black and Blue
To You, a burning halo
Of mercury and nightshade
A shining knight, a deadly foe
Worthy opponents we made
The arena empty and swept
Now on the dazzling snow, a fatal red
And the forgotten petals of Black and Blue.
I wish I could burn my textbooks, but I still have an exam to look forward to. Oh, well. You can't have everything in life.
There's actually another essay due tomorrow, but I can't find the motivation to pick it up again. Which is why I'm here, procrastinating. I promise there will be some attempt at posting fics after the exams, but for now, have another poem:
I wrote this when I was seventeen, having just been disillusioned by the cumulated force of my parents' arguments and multiple crushes of my own that never worked out. By the time I arrived in England, it was like someone had snuck into my ribcage and pummeled my innards for several years. There wasn't an inch of my visecra that didn't hurt.
As they say, time heals all wounds. But reading this, I could easily transport myself back into that mental state. Kindly excuse the angst and naivety that shows through these words. I was young, then.
To You, dried roses
Of Black and Blue
A memento of secrets
We never knew
Steeped in gold
and smothered with kisses
Dead petals in the breeze huskily hisses
Glimpses of a shadow
that was you
Stolen seconds
but none too few
Lie crushed and broken
Those dried, dried roses of Black and Blue
To You, a burning halo
Of mercury and nightshade
A shining knight, a deadly foe
Worthy opponents we made
The arena empty and swept
Now on the dazzling snow, a fatal red
And the forgotten petals of Black and Blue.