We did not heed the warnings about the coming storm followed by drought. We did not hear the women or children cry for food. We did not see men tremble and fall against the hallowed broken hall.
This is my logo for this site and it is amazing and it was done by Sami Kiyono, who is an amazing artist. If you want to see more of her work and ask her to create something (almost) as amazing as my logo, you can contact her here: https://www.masamikiyono.com/
Tell her that I, the dragoness known as Rose Theresa, sent you. Also tell her that she is pretty and kind. Just generally compliment her.
I found this article here that is about them. Please remember them. Please think of them.
An old leather suitcase with scuff marks from planes, trains, automobiles A gradient of nurses' scrubs starting at white and ending in cartoon characters against pastel backgrounds Letters written in a language that tastes like sea salt and sounds like a storm after a drought Balikbayan boxes stuffed to the bursting with the spoils of the new world An ancient weight scale used to ensure the delivery man is being fair with his prices Yellow legal paper and cursive inked by an amateur's hand The form of a mother, just off from work, slumped over a table before the television, snoring The form of a child placing a blanket on her mother's shoulders Telephone calls then silence Silence then telephone calls Pancit on Styrofoam plates A broken lamp once wielded like a sword A plastic oar used to shoo away rats An expensive living room set turned into a bed for an overworked mother Discarded Newport cigarettes in the outside garbage bin A tear stained blanket A diploma wrapped up in plastic Muffled voices on landlines Muffled voices on cell phones The warmth of a hug The smell of a sister's hair The way she drove her car around Motown on the radio Burnt rice at the bottom of a sauce pot
Ang wikang lumalabas sa aking mga labi, sumusunod sa agos na hindi ko mahuhulaan. Ito ay bumubulusok nang malalim mula sa loob ng aking mga baga, nakakakuha sa mga baluktot na bangko ng mga salmo, winasak ang mga bundok ng pag-aalinlangan, habang nagpapakintab ng mga bato gamit ang bagong ritmo.
The language drifting from my lips
follows a current I can't predict.
It springs deep from within my lungs,
catches on the crooked banks of psalms,
erodes mountains of indecision,
while polishing rocks with new rhythm.
After Papa Roach Cut my womb into pieces! This is our last resort! Ovulation, I'm bleeding! Don't give a fuck if your shitty God's seething! This our last resort! Cut my womb into pieces! This is our last resort! Ovulation, I'm bleeding, don't give a fuck if your shitty God's seething! They don't even care if I die breeding! Everything's wrong. Nothing's right. Whose going to take my life tonight? Chances are the Senate might. Mutilation out of sight. They're contemplating matricide! 'Cause they're losing sight, they're losing cash, I wish the stock market would finally crash. Losing they're sight, Losing they're cash, I wish the stock market would finally crash. When will they realize that we're spread too thin? It's too late now, maggots crawl underneath my skin! Abandoning! Starving in silence among senseless violence. I hit rock bottom again and again. Where do I even begin? It all started when I lost my sisters stars snuff out at night hands covered in blisters. Understanding! Their pain is the same as mine, their blood is mine. Their flesh pulled from the wires. Their bodies slump over, set out to expire. 'Cause they're losing sight They're losing cash I wish the stock market would finally crash! Losing they're sight Losing they're cash Wish the stock market would fucking crash! Everything's wrong. Nothing's right. We're hiding, and dyin'. We're dyin', we're dyin', we're dyin', we're dyin'. I can go on this way! Cut my womb into pieces! This is our last resort! Ovulation, I'm bleeding, don't give a fuck if your shitty God's seething! Everything's wrong. Nothing's right. Whose going to take my life tonight? Chances are the Senate might. Mutilation out of sight. And they're contemplating matricide. 'Cause they're losing sight, they're losing cash, I wish the stock market would finally crash. Losing they're sight Losing they're cash I wish the stock market would fucking crash. Everything's wrong. Nothing's right. We're hiding, and dyin'. I can't go on this way! Can't go on this way! Nothing's right.
Somedays I wake up covered in the blackest ink. Viscous it clings to my skin, an oil stained second skin, dripping from a bleached bone white ceiling, slicking my hair down upon my tender-headed scalp. Somedays, it takes the effort of Idiyanale, of Oshun, of Jesus to pull me out of the pit of tar, as the substance drains me of breathe and water and light. Somedays, the ink seeps in so deep and fills me to bursting, to breaking, to shaking, and pours out of my eyes and mouth and onto the clean ground.
The coldest days you’ll ever see aren’t the winter daytime freeze. Sure they’ll have you blue as ice but honey that’s pleasure, that’s nice. No, the coldest days you’ll ever … Continue reading The Coldest Days
Wild poppies grow not in perfected gardens but in desturbed earth.