I'd walk on broken glass around you, if you'd look at me sometimes.
My throat scratches like a needle on old vinyl, skipping three words, and I'm left with:
- ---- --- too.
Why I take photosWhy I take photosWhy I take photos by SabbathLiterature
My mother used to say to me, "Every time you take a photo, make sure there's a person in it, so you can remember."
At the time I thought it was just one of many sayings that she would repeat to me ad infinitum, repeating over and over like a mantra until they lost all meaning.
Years later, as a young man, her words came back to me and I realized how wise they truly were. I lost a very close friend suddenly and after the initial shock and mourning, I discovered that I couldn't find any photos of him. There was literally no record of the time we spent together, the nights that we stayed awake talking, the idealistic veneer of youth ripped away by harsh winds.
He was gone and he was not coming back. Soon enough his face started to fade from my memory and his voice could no longer be recalled.
There are photos littered down the pathway of my childhood. My first bath, learning to walk and playing with the chickens in my backyard, photos of a young boy, face bright, eyes tw
Where are you nowSomething does not stop existing simply because you stop thinking about it.Where are you now by SabbathLiterature
But in spite of this I have worked hard at putting him far from my mind.
It was Summer then and his hair was still growing long,
I was still young in a way that exceeded my years,
And he was only just on the edge of innocence.
He used to smile at me like a child,
And I was just learning to crawl.
It was dark then, we used to shut out the stars,
And wrap the night around us like a sheet,
The bustling world shut out and forgotten.
He would bring his lips to brush against mine,
As we fell into small deaths.
It was Winter then and the cold gripped me,
Chill creeping up my white fingers to my chest.
And though he still held me even then,
His touch could not warm me anymore,
I shivered and turned away.
It was past long ago but I still wonder,
If you're making your way in the world alone,
Or if there is another hand on your back,
Another pair of boots by your bed,
And another head on your chest.
Sometimes when I am al
Child of StarsThe way you look at me now is like I am something mythic,Child of Stars by SabbathLiterature
A newly-fallen child of stars.
You slide your hand under my shirt and feel my heartbeat,
I lift your chin and your lips to mine,
As my leave I take.
This is what poets wrote of long ago,
And astronomers saw in maps in the sky.
The day and night are poised in harmony tonight,
The children, Apollo and Artemis, holding hands,
Still asleep in their mother's womb.
The Summer is gone and the Winter is still waiting,
The year has not yet started to walk.
How did I find you then, in a crashing sea of buildings?
In a night that was lit up like a hilltop at solstice.
When I turned I saw you standing,
An outline impressed on a wide, clear horizon.
A black shape against a lavender screen of sky.
Even now you are still moving,
Looking for a sound never heard before.
You wear the plain clothes of an orphan,
A streetpunk raised on tea and Dickens.
But I see you as Pan, one happy thought from flying away.
Second star on the right, then straight
.and suddenly. by sadlittlejasmine
i realized that my world
does not, after all,
revolve around you;
your voice, to me, is
nothing more than
pointless white noise.
Untitledhave you everUntitled by sadlittlejasmine
asked yourself if
a daisy ever wonders
why it can't be a
young man loitering behind a doorkeep forgetting about weaknessyoung man loitering behind a door by ghostinafog
as if it never shackled you in cotton candy,
as if the air was glass, as if you had a saint's feet
and all you needed was to take her hand and roam the level sands till Mecca;
well, the tide is a good teacher,
delusions will run dry,
drybones beach, retching,
drowner tied by insecurities;
yes, the ebb tide will come and
pull away the blankets,
salt will wash you clean or
blind or cover you
one can wait for the tide's
but won't; you will stumble
blindly through the dessicate valley
stretching on forever, moaning
help us... help us.
to find a mound, netted by
salt, pillar of
to touch its crumbling hair - it is
to learn to wait;
keep forgetting h