A Substitute for Time Travel by DSteffi, literature
Literature
A Substitute for Time Travel
It’s been nagging at me for months now,
like a shadow to my shadow;
incessant in its presence.
And now that I don’t have
papers and books
to rush reading,
it’s been tugging on my sleeves
more than usual;
a storm cloud in an otherwise
pristine blue sky.
And for that length of time
I remembered one of the core reasons
I started writing:
You immortalize people
when you write them.
Names and lives you’ve never heard of
live on in paper as poems and sonnets
and stories.
The lovers without happy endings
are engraved in the letters
they sent each other,
that were never read.
Someone who has dreamed
on the stars ce
One Way Ticket to La La Land by DSteffi, literature
Literature
One Way Ticket to La La Land
Every book about biology would tell me my chest
is made of a ribcage, my bones strong
but capable of breaking.
I know that my lungs are what allow me to breathe,
and my feet that make me turn.
But no page from the memory of history would ever tell me
that music is what’ll truly make me hear
and soar
to places even my imagination could never think of.
No classroom would ever teach me
that the scent of rain would take you back
to the life of a person you could have had,
nor will a high score on a test
ever make me see the blood and the sweat
on every brushstroke of a painting.
My lungs would never run out of steam
without lov
I wonder what happened today on the other side of the world
or even a hundred kilometres from here
as I woke to the sound of an alarm
and an almost fully risen sun.
What thoughts did they first have
or were they still asleep—
perhaps they didn’t doze at all.
Was there a book beside their bed
about a hundred-and-fifty pages to the end
or was their lover’s arm wrapped around them instead?
What stories could be told or could have been
in the times I stared off into the wall
making out minutes that was better
than what I had.
Does the person with my name
in another timezone
think about these possibilities
as they w
We like to think we’re thousands of miles above the core of the earth,
but some days, when we can taste rain on our tongues
and it doesn’t pour, we can feel the distance
between the tips of our fingers and the clouds;
the air in our lungs a tease.
And I remember now, that I’ve never stood in a downpour
or much less danced in one; petrichor soaking my feet.
I was always either afraid of catching a cold
or looking dumb:
a girl with bare legs
catching a portion
of the seas.
But maybe that’s why I mumble words
when you look at me, why I’m reluctant to believe
I’ve found home in a warmth that isn’t
When you’re standing in the balance
between two breaths and euphoria,
the faintest sounds dangling by your ear,
you could feel the ground shift
just the tiniest bit,
but enough,
enough to make you fall in an abyss
lighter than the clouds you’ve never touched,
fingers saturated with wanderlust
you couldn’t begin to imagine.
The smallest hummingbird and the largest whale
long for this quickly dissipating dream
more than you and me combined,
and we dream of it too often.
It isn’t something we remember
when all the thoughts we think have gone away,
rather, it is a gust of wind against our skin
on a cold, crisp mor
I think about all the wishes I made on every birthday cake,
on every coin I tossed in a wishing well,
on every random star I picked
whether it was shooting
or not.
How they’ve gathered through the years,
dusty with all my metaphors
and forgetfulness,
a centimetre away from completely fading.
They were like roses in full bloom—
heavy with distant breaths
and light as they scattered through the air.
But these days my wishes are simple,
thrown to clouds and flowers
that are not daffodils:
to be able to sleep without dreaming
and to wake without wanting to go back
to sleep.
The stars don’t stare at me the same way they
You can’t measure the sadness in poems
the way you can’t measure love;
there is no distance between lines
that could ever justify a tear
that’s been shed out in the open
without anyone ever seeing it.
They don’t tell us anymore
that the most fragile part of us
cannot be seen, a soul running rampant
when you drink a cup of euphoria
but remains bound to your bones
as you fracture from every punch
that doesn’t touch your skin.
There are ghosts in each of us
haunting the shadows of our steps,
trapped in our skeletons,
cracking as we count the minutes
to the next time we let it loose,
or fill to the brim.
Whe
Did you ever wonder how many pieces of me
you could catch in one hand?
How many regrets
and crumpled lines of poetry
I never even knew I had?
Because some days, holding myself together
feels like I’m under the ocean
with my mouth wide open,
gasping for air.
And I know there’s a sky above me,
just as blue and just as endless
that it seems near impossible for me
not to see it, but that’s what happens.
That’s what happens on the days
I can’t look you in the eye
to tell you what’s wrong,
so you find me behind the words you read
all bent and distorted,
so abstract they’re almost poetic.
You can
We’ve become dreamers with too much
storms on our hands and too little
space between our fingers
to let them breathe—
so much so, that the stars
we used to wish on
have moved on to better dreams,
better dreamers.
Sometimes I want my feelings to have temporary amnesia—
for me to forget, on a small plea from the clock,
that they’re tangible, real,
and intertwined into my senses.
I want to be innocent and ignorant of my life for a while,
to be another person in the same body
but not trapped, not bound by the strings
in my bones I forgot I put there.
I want to be free in the sense I make of the word;
utterly adrift in the embrace of the wind
like tinder kissed by fire, made strong
by every breath.
I want these things,
want and want and want them
for the days I feel like climbing on a cloud
and disappearing, to travel the world
and the gal
A Substitute for Time Travel by DSteffi, literature
Literature
A Substitute for Time Travel
It’s been nagging at me for months now,
like a shadow to my shadow;
incessant in its presence.
And now that I don’t have
papers and books
to rush reading,
it’s been tugging on my sleeves
more than usual;
a storm cloud in an otherwise
pristine blue sky.
And for that length of time
I remembered one of the core reasons
I started writing:
You immortalize people
when you write them.
Names and lives you’ve never heard of
live on in paper as poems and sonnets
and stories.
The lovers without happy endings
are engraved in the letters
they sent each other,
that were never read.
Someone who has dreamed
on the stars ce
One Way Ticket to La La Land by DSteffi, literature
Literature
One Way Ticket to La La Land
Every book about biology would tell me my chest
is made of a ribcage, my bones strong
but capable of breaking.
I know that my lungs are what allow me to breathe,
and my feet that make me turn.
But no page from the memory of history would ever tell me
that music is what’ll truly make me hear
and soar
to places even my imagination could never think of.
No classroom would ever teach me
that the scent of rain would take you back
to the life of a person you could have had,
nor will a high score on a test
ever make me see the blood and the sweat
on every brushstroke of a painting.
My lungs would never run out of steam
without lov
I wonder what happened today on the other side of the world
or even a hundred kilometres from here
as I woke to the sound of an alarm
and an almost fully risen sun.
What thoughts did they first have
or were they still asleep—
perhaps they didn’t doze at all.
Was there a book beside their bed
about a hundred-and-fifty pages to the end
or was their lover’s arm wrapped around them instead?
What stories could be told or could have been
in the times I stared off into the wall
making out minutes that was better
than what I had.
Does the person with my name
in another timezone
think about these possibilities
as they w
We like to think we’re thousands of miles above the core of the earth,
but some days, when we can taste rain on our tongues
and it doesn’t pour, we can feel the distance
between the tips of our fingers and the clouds;
the air in our lungs a tease.
And I remember now, that I’ve never stood in a downpour
or much less danced in one; petrichor soaking my feet.
I was always either afraid of catching a cold
or looking dumb:
a girl with bare legs
catching a portion
of the seas.
But maybe that’s why I mumble words
when you look at me, why I’m reluctant to believe
I’ve found home in a warmth that isn’t
When you’re standing in the balance
between two breaths and euphoria,
the faintest sounds dangling by your ear,
you could feel the ground shift
just the tiniest bit,
but enough,
enough to make you fall in an abyss
lighter than the clouds you’ve never touched,
fingers saturated with wanderlust
you couldn’t begin to imagine.
The smallest hummingbird and the largest whale
long for this quickly dissipating dream
more than you and me combined,
and we dream of it too often.
It isn’t something we remember
when all the thoughts we think have gone away,
rather, it is a gust of wind against our skin
on a cold, crisp mor
I think about all the wishes I made on every birthday cake,
on every coin I tossed in a wishing well,
on every random star I picked
whether it was shooting
or not.
How they’ve gathered through the years,
dusty with all my metaphors
and forgetfulness,
a centimetre away from completely fading.
They were like roses in full bloom—
heavy with distant breaths
and light as they scattered through the air.
But these days my wishes are simple,
thrown to clouds and flowers
that are not daffodils:
to be able to sleep without dreaming
and to wake without wanting to go back
to sleep.
The stars don’t stare at me the same way they
You can’t measure the sadness in poems
the way you can’t measure love;
there is no distance between lines
that could ever justify a tear
that’s been shed out in the open
without anyone ever seeing it.
They don’t tell us anymore
that the most fragile part of us
cannot be seen, a soul running rampant
when you drink a cup of euphoria
but remains bound to your bones
as you fracture from every punch
that doesn’t touch your skin.
There are ghosts in each of us
haunting the shadows of our steps,
trapped in our skeletons,
cracking as we count the minutes
to the next time we let it loose,
or fill to the brim.
Whe
Did you ever wonder how many pieces of me
you could catch in one hand?
How many regrets
and crumpled lines of poetry
I never even knew I had?
Because some days, holding myself together
feels like I’m under the ocean
with my mouth wide open,
gasping for air.
And I know there’s a sky above me,
just as blue and just as endless
that it seems near impossible for me
not to see it, but that’s what happens.
That’s what happens on the days
I can’t look you in the eye
to tell you what’s wrong,
so you find me behind the words you read
all bent and distorted,
so abstract they’re almost poetic.
You can
We’ve become dreamers with too much
storms on our hands and too little
space between our fingers
to let them breathe—
so much so, that the stars
we used to wish on
have moved on to better dreams,
better dreamers.
Sometimes I want my feelings to have temporary amnesia—
for me to forget, on a small plea from the clock,
that they’re tangible, real,
and intertwined into my senses.
I want to be innocent and ignorant of my life for a while,
to be another person in the same body
but not trapped, not bound by the strings
in my bones I forgot I put there.
I want to be free in the sense I make of the word;
utterly adrift in the embrace of the wind
like tinder kissed by fire, made strong
by every breath.
I want these things,
want and want and want them
for the days I feel like climbing on a cloud
and disappearing, to travel the world
and the gal
A Substitute for Time Travel by DSteffi, literature
Literature
A Substitute for Time Travel
It’s been nagging at me for months now,
like a shadow to my shadow;
incessant in its presence.
And now that I don’t have
papers and books
to rush reading,
it’s been tugging on my sleeves
more than usual;
a storm cloud in an otherwise
pristine blue sky.
And for that length of time
I remembered one of the core reasons
I started writing:
You immortalize people
when you write them.
Names and lives you’ve never heard of
live on in paper as poems and sonnets
and stories.
The lovers without happy endings
are engraved in the letters
they sent each other,
that were never read.
Someone who has dreamed
on the stars ce
Five Things the Wolf Told the Moon by Seilf, literature
Literature
Five Things the Wolf Told the Moon
I still think about you,
maybe the way an asteroid
remembers the planets
it used to revolve around but
we are
different now.
Every good thing dies,
and I’m sorry I was the one
to fall out of love
but I won’t pretend that
I thought we’d last forever--
my mind was restless fingers
fraying the seams of what
we wove together but
I hope you’re happy
the way the tides are
when they touch the shore;
I pray that the ocean reminds you
that it’s okay to let go
of what you hold dear
because
we were good together
and now we’re somewhere new.
It's been a tough few weeks. I've been dealing with my mental issues and it's not been easy. Reactions from my loved ones and closest friends have been varied. It's all been overwhelming. But surely and slowly, I'm getting better.
You guys know I don't usually post journals or updates, so this is pretty kind of new-ish.
But there are better news. I have submitted 6 of my poems to Aleola Journal of Poetry and Art and am currently awaiting for their response. I may get rejected, but it was worth a try. To other poets or writers out there who would want to submit their work as well, here is the link: http://aleolajournal.weebly.com.
For those
Just wanted to voice my appreciation for your works in a general sense. I find myself sucked into the imagery of the metaphors yet the meassages are conveyed very tactfully. I look forward to reading more.