Ascended, 2He was being carried. Marlon loved the feeling, half-awake, half-asleep, safe in the arms of his father. He was being carried to his bed, to the Transformer sheets and the soft, fluffy warmth of his Thundercats comforter. The long car rides were his favorite way to fall asleep, the hours of road stretching out smooth, mesmerizing behind the glass of the window, his mother and father talking in calm, comforting tones to one another. His brother, Jarvis, older and more inured to the lulling effect would be absorbed by the latest band he'd been taken by, staring into the darkness, living the words of his favorite artists through his headphones. But Marlon, Marlon would drift off almost intentionally, the rhythm of the blacktop droning and soothing him into unconsciousness. His father was so strong, and Marlon delighted in the press of his face against the smooth fabric of his father's crisp, pressed shirt.Ascended, 2 by Nawasa
He opened his eyes, the light of early afternoon flooding his vision, chasing away
The Hollow MoonThe moon makes cold marble of the concrete.The Hollow Moon by Nawasa
My hands are empty,
All the little birds have left the nest
They had called home,
In the bitter spaces of my chest.
I'm drawn homeward
To the dark and damp
Of the soil,
To rest, to return to dust
And the silence from which I came.
Pauper PrinceI wish I could send a flutter of butterflies to drink your tears,Pauper Prince by Nawasa
The ones you cry, lonely, into an all too familiar pillow.
I wish I could send flights of nightingales to you,
To sing sweet songs into your dreams,
Stitching them tightly with woven melodies,
Embroidered through with lilting happiness.
I wish I could throw stardust into your emptiness,
Creating a new universe to fill the void inside of you,
Spanning the chasm of your solitude,
With glittering starburst galaxies.
You, prince of the Heavens,
But pauper on Earth,
Deserve such riches as this world has never seen.
HomeMy house, my house,Home by Nawasa
My crumbling home.
How could a prince,
Born into a palace,
Understand the love I have
For softly settling timbers
Raised with my own two hands?
And how could kings,
Born under the gilded gazes of martyrs
Find the divine in
The gentle rainwater melt of glass in the windows?
How could such soft hands
Understand the love that was crafted
By those so weathered and worn?
Baby GirlYou've taken your ears and gone,Baby Girl by stopdropandroll
like a fog into the sea
that I would sink just to follow,
just to see
where beauty sleeps.
Sometimes I wonder
if you read my poems anymore,
if you remember that man in Berkely
who touched your breast
and the beast that howled your name
and clubbed him to the dirt.
I wonder if you remember
the moonlight shattering the windshield
and the stolen sandwiches,
drinking Yager on jacaranda petals
and the immigrants watching us by the gazebo
sweatier and hungrier and more worried
than we knew how to be.
I wonder if you know
that every love after you
will be very poor cheating
because I've already had a perfect hand.
I saw an old friend and his girl yeserday,
outside a grocery and they asked how you were.
I told them we'd split, and the girl said you were ugly.
She said it slowly
like a foreigner, or a retard,
or someone looking for the right word,
" She was soo----- ugly."
I hated her,
wanted to spit in her face and
rub it on the asphalt till it wept blood
But those steady lights will flicker,
In the cold wind of harsh truths,
And in the shadows on the wall we can trace the dark curling,
Of their doubts.
The flutters make long the pockets of dark,
And the shadows dance and play,
But in the end these quiet little lights,
Keep all the world's darkness at bay.
Current Residence: Colorado|
Favourite genre of music: Progressive, Psychedelic, Post-Rock, Dubstep
Favourite style of art: Poetry, Music
Favourite cartoon character: Freakazoid, Fluttershy
I was born in Louisiana with Hot Sauce in my blood.
Saving the world, one day at a time.