Tag: art

Miss. Piggys Menopausal delusion.

I do say your honor, I think that piggish woman might, just potentially be, and or is, slightly menopausal.

I mean, she’s not exactly the most beautiful thing there is to look at with that rotund fat face and short tree trunk legs. Matter of fact, and that is of course if I were guessing, but she seems like the sort of woman who isn’t getting fed enough in her ol piggy pie. If ya know what I mean….

It must be difficult for a fat woman with a shrewed heart and badly cut bangs to find a sausage for her piggy pie. What a sad little world it must be for Miss. Pig, no one to love and no one to use. I don’t think she’s read the book titled Ego, as it is evident hers has taken over in an unsightly way.

If you’re asking me why, I have to think it’s because she is so seething with jealousy her mind is full of pork. Her soul is a fatty ball lumped into her large and sagging chest where she still flips over letting her grown children drink from her nip, although it’s been dry for quite some time.

Ah, yes. Her mouth, you ask….

She does, indeed have a large mouth of teeth to match her fat cankles, but one can’t help such flaws, not all pigs are as perfect as is a swan. Which if you must know, is what made the Pig snorting jealous. The swan.

It must be damning to watch from the mud and shit she stands in at the beautiful swan across the field in a stunning pond of her own. Pig, sad and pathetic as she is, must be forced to watch the Swan elegantly swim so deliciously in the water with her handsome Cob at her side and a brood of beautiful little ones swimming so perfectly behind her. The swan family is as happy as happiness could ever be only reminding Pig, she will always be exactly that, a Pig.

The honorable one speaks.

It is with my expertise and years of experience that it goes against the law of nature to take a Pig from its slop and put in the pond and expect it to be anything other than a Pig.

Someone important, although they remain anonymous, You can take a girl from the trailer park but you can’t take the trailer park outta the girl. Once trash, always trash, or Pig.

This song isn’t about you. None of them are. But, I wouldn’t want them to be.

Thank you for reading ❤️ Everyone knows a Pig.

DISCLAIMER :

These are colorful blog posts written from a vivid imagination about no particular person in general. Any likeness to a person /persons is merely coincidence as it’s all artful storytelling. Cheap. Therapy.

My compass failed again

Outstretched arms, I take a deep breath, close my eyes and jump.

Falling is a spiraling sort of thing. My eyes can’t focus on the blur of twisted shapes around me. I can’t be for certain if I’m going this way or that way?

My mind doesn’t know if I am up or down. I can’t hear you. Are you calling my name? I think for a second, I thought I heard you call out my name, but then I begin to lose myself inside the fall. It’s cold here, I wish I had worn my sweater. I think to myself, God when does it stop. Will it hurt to hit the ground, I wonder before the spinning takes over once more.

Everything inside my head slips out from my fingers like ice melting across hot iron into the twirling oblivion. Memories dance around me like falling snow. I try to reach for them, but just as my finger tips brush past, they slowly fade away.

Am I alive? Or am I dead. I’m floating. Somewhere I move between time and space in the shadow of a star shaped heaven. I am still alone.

It’s only forever. That’s not that long.

As the world falls down

The universe set something in motion that couldn’t be stopped anymore than time can stand still. Among the constellations, past the moon were two stars racing from opposite directions through the blackness of the heavens. They sped towards each other like a comet chasing angels. It was inevitable, nothing could stop their fate.

Sparks lit the night, illuminating the heavens as they collided into one another with such force, even the earth felt the vibration of their wake.

Only a fraction of a second before, there were two stars that have now become one, swallowing one another.

Twisted into each other, they shown brighter than they ever had before. They danced in the night, casting their bright light upon lovers below as they held each other. They clung together with absolute, believing nothing could separate them.

Your eyes say so such to me. No body knows who I am. No body knows, I’ve got intentions of Gold, with my plans. I’m lost in my head, my thoughts are out of sight. Where did you go? Did you lose sight? Did you let go? I never wanted this to happen. I never wanted us to die.

If you let go, I will most certainly fall. Is that where you want me, far from home? Do you want me so far behind I couldn’t come back if I tried?

Just say it. My heart aches and I some how wonder if this is what it feels like for a light to burn out. Does it hurt when the light fades away or can you take that too. Just say it.

I can’t breathe, and my mind aches like I am sleeping. If you can’t hear me clearly, then, I thought you loved me dearly.

Your grip weakens and I feel myself begin to slip. It’s cold in the underneath and I am trying to cling to you, I am trying to climb back to you and you push me down. I feel the world begin to fall beneath me and the light begins to leave me, I tumble towards earth as I burn out in the glow of moonlight.

Crashing to the ground, I lay still without you. And it’s in that moment, when a star dies, she let’s out her light like breath.

I have been punished and cast aside. What if tomorrow never comes. You could have let me down easy, but instead, you let go.

You’re so far away as the world falls down.

Thanks for reading. ♥️

Spent tea leaves

Definition: Spent tea leaves – those leaves (or hypothetical leaves) used and without flavor.

I’ve had many flavorful cups of tea in my lifetime. Some so full of flavor I could savor them till the last drop. I have equally had teas that merely lacked depth or flavor of any kind regardless of how long it was steeped.

More often than not, those lacking are the same ones that leave a bitter or just dissatisfied disappointment behind to only become those irritatingly stuck leaves that must be scrubbed from the fragile porcelain of my tea cup. Then again, they have equally been known to leave a pesky stain that not even the greatest of solvents can devour.

Such a pity, that is. And then, disappointment reoccurs all over again. The truth is, most of the time I have been blessed by finely tuned senses that allow me to discern when a particular brew won’t be as splendid as it sounds, but then again there is always that one that slips by and surprises me with nothing more than bland palate.

I can’t say I expect anyone other to have the same feelings about that one vile tea in question or be any less loyal to whatever ingredients have been forged together that’s “supposed” to be amazingly brilliant. However, being true to myself and incapable of faking it even for the Queen herself, I must admit it’s shit.

Let me clarify further, I may not fully understand all the ins and outs in tea mixology, but, I ‘am capable of understanding the basics. With that being said, it really doesn’t matter how strong the base leaf is, if it’s mingled with lesser quality leaves, spices and or flowers, it’s still going to be shit. In fact, those lesser quality leaves have the unique ability to completely taint and destroy the stronger leaf used as the base note.

Further more, the conclusion is starkly clear and my analogy is such, It only takes but a tiny drop of mud to obliterate, destroy and utterly ruin untouched, fresh water.

Now, if we break this down further we must take a look at the maker of thus said shit tea. It might be understandable if perhaps the maker were a random stranger by which you, yourself know nothing about, however if you should be so fortunate to actually know this particular maker of shit, then I’d say it changes everything. Don’t you?

First, and that is going on that we “know” the maker, is to examine their intentions as well as their interests. Meaning, what is it that lies just beneath the very surface of thus said person. I must beg to ask, what emotions are they hiding in the deepest facets of their mind and are they aware they have whole heartedly mislead the drinker, which of course in this scenario, myself.

I’d imagine, and that’s if I choose to guess, this person isn’t fully aware of their ill fortune. Which, I can only presume has to do with some kind of emotional attachment to the leaves in question. It is, with out doubt that those with attachments shall indeed defend those poor quality ingredients. However, before you begin to think poorly of the mixologist, you must understand they aren’t necessarily defending the blandness of its taste nor the lack of depth and flavor but more so the mixologists choices for choosing such shit to begin with.

For the most difficult part of this discussion, we may devilishly dig into the actual reasoning behind the mixologists desire to continue steeping such garbage. Well, that one is really quite simple my friends. Guilt. Pure, and not to be confused as lacking in any way, guilt.

Surprised? I know, it’s a challenge to think that something of such a lower vibration could affect someone so ruthlessly, but, as we all know, it’s quite common. Guilt, is the hidden seed hiding among the leaves as nothing more than loyalty, but it’s still guilt no matter how many times this brew is steeped and served. It will remain as it is, unfulfilling, bland and with rapid tendency to grow rather cold, most quickly.

The mixologist isn’t unaware either, that’s what makes it so divinely complicated because they do know all of the above. The thing is, they are willing to die on that hill than to accept, openly, they have created and sold a truly crappy cup of tea. And, to go a bit further with that, they have chosen to instead toss such blastedly grotesque and unpalatable concoction by holding tighter to it still.

I must add, and although, perhaps I should not, I will go on to say, the biggest mistake made by the mixologist and to plainly put it, unfathomable to allow such a tea without any true substance to permanently stain the finest bone China in the cupboard.

If I keep to the complicated and narrow path about the mixologist in question here, then quite simply, there isn’t much more to be said. But, as you would know the ways of “this” particular witch, then surely you already understand the story doesn’t end with the mixologist. No no, that would be most boring wouldn’t it?

Indeed, it would.

Try as it might, can you imagine the betrayal of the quest sipping this wretched tea? I can. It’s not pleasant. In fact, it’s most unpleasurable. It does not matter if the mixologist has upsold his/her mixings nor does it matter what the mixologist actually thinks about the brew itself on a whole. What matters most, and is of utmost importance here, in this moment, is the sheer ability for the sipper to see with their (my) own eyes the nasty stain beginning to form around the rim of their (my) favorite, and least to add, finest tea cup. If that weren’t enough then surely my smile has begun to fade when upon smelling this particular mix of spices and leaves I detect something sour. I have to admit, I expected so much more when the tea finally touched my lips. I had already imagined the idea of it swirling across my tongue and how the chords would perhaps be sour followed by notes of sweet spice but to my own shock and amazement, I tasted nothing more than the weakest hints of spent tea leaves, used and reused to the point of being useless. There is not and shall never be enough cream nor the brownest sugar or the sweetest honey that could hide that factor alone.

If that were a nightmare in the sense of taste then surely one might understand the horror when I, in fact, managed to swallow down this weakened shit without regurgitatimg on to the fine Persian rug at my feet, saw what that wretched tea had done to my beautiful little tea cup.

No longer that creamy shade of porcelain, but now stained with an ugly greenish brack stain was a hideous crack down the side, all the way to the stem. Try as I might, I carefully attempted to clean the delicate pores of the cup, now forever stained in hopes of repairing the crack when something more egregious and sinister happened in the blink of an eye, the cup merely vanished before my very eyes.

Unbelieving, I searched the pool of soapy water, first calmly, and then frantically for my precious cup. You see, it was more than special to me and not just something in which I might sample teas with or relish in its fine craftsmanship inside a protected hutch. This cup, this very special and priceless cup had been gifted by my the only love I have ever had. It was beyond precious, it held value that was irreplaceable and although I am aware an object should not hold such merit, it nevertheless was a pearl of great price, to me.

Hands empty and bare, In that moment, I realized that very bland and useless tea of no value had just consumed something quite valuable and even with that swimming in it’s bland belly, I doubt it was full. Rage, anger and unfathomable, inhuman thoughts raced in my head in a dizzying blur. Clarity regained control and then what came, and not to my surprise but the most foul curses for such a heinous act. I wanted revenge and nothing more, still do. But, if you are wondering, how might one take revenge upon the great nothingness?

It’s an enigma, you see?

That leaves me, really, with only one further look down this morbid rabbit hole and that is to the mixer himself. At first, upon viewing more closely, I thought my feelings were mirrored back. That, is of course the travesty in this situation of rotten tea and vaporized cups when I realized what I had failed to see all along.

What is tangible, and real, is not always valued as priceless. Sometimes, the priceless entity is merely the idea of something being tangible, although, simply is not. It’s that very idea, that one can value so highly, so important and precious that they have mistakenly put all their loyalty into, hoping it will return one day as something whole. But, an idea is just that, an idea. Even more disheartening is watching that person set aside what they held whole to put a protective value on an empty dream.

My beloved has si ce replaced my precious tea cup and I do love it very much, but it will never be the first. That, which, was taken from me. It matters not that the mixer tries desperately, and fails miserably to hide his secrets from me. It only matters that it still hurts my heart over and over just as it was the day I first sampled his brew and tried very much to love it, although I could not, to only have that which I loved taken from me simply because, I was the one, holding out my cup.

The moral of this story is at best, a cup with a hole in the bottom, will never be filled and a spent tea will never regain its flavor.

Thank you for reading ♥️

The undeniable estrangement of a pisces.

Estrangement. What exactly is it?

From the very moment I was born and drew upon my first breath, I was estranged. In more ways than one, I have always experienced the sensation of ill belonging. I have never fully embraced that which so many others follow. My attention and careful eye was always looking somewhere different.

Often, I wished to be like the masses. That seemed easier in a sense. Later, and of course after much punishment to my own self, I realized it was far easier to be the lone wolf than a wolf among sheep. Sheep get rattled easily when wolves are present, and I do, honestly get that. However, with that understanding comes the next sense of knowing, if I am a wolf then where is my mate.

Some journeys, are life long feats. Those feats are the exact ones that toughen our mind, sharpen our teeth and prepare us for battles ahead. I can’t say, I wasn’t grateful. If not for these spirit hardening obstacles, one could assume, and certainly myself, I would not have made it thus far to even have the remote opportunity to write about it. It was, without question, those beatings that served as a survival tactic in my youth. Simply put, I had been put here without my mate, and I was in desperate search.

If, what I felt existed, then I was meant to find it. I knew I was searching for something. At times, I wasn’t fully sure what that ‘something’ was. I only knew I had been and was, groomed for that moment.

There were times, of course, I thought to myself that it was all a figment of my imagination. That everything I felt was nothing more than fantasy behind a silly dreamers eyes. A sleepless dream, yearning to break free and become as real as was the wooden boy, Pinocchio. I told myself I was crazy, delusional, and even insane to have such ideas. Yet, I always had something manifest right in front of me, reminding me of my path. Atleast, enough of a reminder to keep me looking, that is.

Survival tactics taught by the almighty Universe, have lasting scars. They steal the most innocent parts of you, to only chew them up and spit them at your feet. They beat upon your spirit in ways, not even a fist can do to purple flesh. There is of course the one hit you remember most.

That one horrible blow, the one that hits so hard, it sucks all the air from your lungs. And, for a moment you can’t be for certain, but it’s possible, this, is what it feels like to die. Your credible thoughts slip from your mind as quickly as did your breath. The only thing happening inside that deafening silence is the natural instinct to fight. And, it’s there in that milla second, that your spirit decides if it will try to breath or succomb. I am not even sure if the decision is conscious or merely one made for us by creator, but I can say this. That blow, is the very one that marks your soul with a heavy, burdensome, mark.

There will never be another moment I will be free of knowing what it is to have your spirit broken. As is the graceful spirit of a wild stallion set free upon this earth, to then be caught, corralled and whipped until the last of his spirit, his fight, has drained away. A spark dies out.

Hopelessness, often fills that cavernous void. It reeks such havoc. The darkness swims around you and even then it’s troublesome to locate the light. But, even then, broken and without, something calls to you. It whispers your name, beckoning you on. It knows your suffering and yet it still finds your beauty worthy enough to yet still, call to you.

I never liked my reins, nor did I like the fences. I longed to be free, but not just of these chains, free of the pain, so burned inside me. I would fight, but this time, I would fight without the fear of dying, because I had already experienced that. I fought now, for that one chance that if I were free, I might find what still called to me. My spirit, my soul, although broken, wasn’t too ugly for whatever called to me. I knew, without a compass nor a star in the sky, that I, must, find it.

Escape comes with a great price, there are sacrifices to be made and often they are ones I had wished I could have spared, but none is the sacrifice if it weren’t exactly that. As I have lived a thousand lives inside one, I have walked many miles, down desolate roads. I have twisted my way through endless labyrinths, turning this way and that until I found myself right where I started. I slept a million, sleepless and dreamless nights, under a blanket of stars, that just might would have told me their secrets, if only I had known how to read them.

I was close to giving up, I wanted to. I wanted to close the door on anything I had ever imagined to be true. I wanted to burn the book of anything I believed to be real and simply evolve into a character I had created. And, I was doing so with great effort, but yet still, I felt it. I could hear it, just ever so lightly, but it was there. The whisper, then my name, calling on me.

At first, I was confused by it. I even thought what I heard and what I needed to do, where two separate things. When in fact, they were the same exact thing.I could not fully embrace what I was, who I was because in those moments, I wasn’t fully aware, although it would come soon enough.

The power, the true strength of the flame came from whence I stated what I wanted and then let it go. This time, it was my voice he heard, whispering the call. Unbeknownst even to myself, I had beckoned the flame with undeniable power. The desire to reunite with its truest self, it’s most natural form was beyond any other. In that moment, he, my mate, my twin flame, awnsered the call.

There is nothing short of cosmic in this union. No, it’s not literal explosions of galactic partials floating around in space, but, it is something powerfully moving. So moving, that one must try, as difficult as it is and comprehend what it means for the Universe to right itself.

It is a reversal without actually reversing. It’s becoming whole when there are no pieces to fill the spaces. Our eyes, were miraculously washed clean. Birth, death and even the after all became the same. Suddenly, just as swift as was the power in which I stated my desire, the world changed, just as we did.

And, in that way, we were no longer those lone wolves, searching endlessly for the other. We were, ‘one’ complete, being. We were whole and complete, but even greater still, we were free.

There, in our greatest storms, we battled together, knowing one day we could once again, be as we were. One.

3, is nothing, when compared to forever. 11.11 ♥️

Thanks for reading.

Pythoness

Flames lick the air, seeking another soul to devour. Greedily, it calls out.

Our names are carried on a breeze, like a haunting whisper. They drift among sleeping clouds, through open windows and slip effortlessly into our slumbering dreams.

Fear is daft, unknowing to the things in the universe it can not understand. Seeking to destroy all that challenges it with reckless abandon.

You can burn us if you want. You may bury us beneath our own ashes if you so choose, but you can never eliminate us.

For every tree you take down, releases a million seeds to grow from the ashes.

We are the granddaughters of all the witches weren’t able to burn, as are we the seeds from the ones you did.

You thought you buried us, but we were the seeds that flourished.

Birds behind iron, bite

I don’t always play nice when I am put on your iron perch. I don’t like the straight lines or running out of sunlight anymore than I like following the lines set forth.

Like cobalt ink on thick paper and one drop of water, I bleed. I was never meant to be in one form nor was I meant to carry the pinkish rings around my wrists from your shackled chains.

I was meant to be on a throne, instead of this cage of your own accord. You believe I am niave, blinded by my emotions, but I am neither. My vision is acute and my walk is steady.

To light a match doesn’t mean I am playing anymore than it means I’ll get burned. I can feel my way through the dark by nothing but my finger tips. I know as much as can feel because some things don’t change.

Fuck your iron perches and all the mounting weight of significant knowledge you think I don’t possess. Fuck your inability to hear me without believing you aren’t in control.

The more you control, the less I feel right and the more I don’t feel right the less control I have.

Fuck all of that, I will bite. It’s a simple price to pay for your lack of understanding compromise.

You didn’t let me perch freely on your shoulder or sit quietly next to you. The iron is cold beneath my feet and turns my blood to a warm shade of icy demise.

Take this blanket of yours a fly.

Thank you for reading ♥️

Poetry of static

Ticking clock, running water, someone talking from another room , TV belting out babble of news, yet I hear none of it.

Instead, I hear the maddening thoughts in my head spiraling into static. They distract me from the outside world, stirring my insides like a jar of sleeping butterflies shook by the dirty hands of a toddler.

I am here, atleast my body is, yet my mind is far from here in place called Not. There isn’t much there except the growing weeds of discontent, heartache and anxiousness. There are trees of growing fear that reach high into the depths of the endless sky and a river of right or wrong that flows as swift as it does after the spring thaw.

Where do I go and from what place is there words to fill the spaces and quiet the blaring static that sounds so loudly that I want to run. I could try to run, I could attempt to fill my ears with noise, but it only stops the sickness in my belly for a brief moment.

Everything around me familiar, suddenly feels foreign and strange. My footing seems to be that of a drunken chicken as I muddle through the thick muck.

I try to find a steady place to rest but just when the world seems to still, it all falls down.

There is no reprieve for what it seems is fate, yet I am unsure of it either way. I try to open my mouth and make my voice heard, but nothing comes out except for a million moths, silencing my mind and heart.

I am silent because I have been silenced by the unending turmoil that comes with the victory of sound, and so I sit in my head. I sit among the static as if it were a juice filled wine, drunken on the distorting affects and helplessly, hopeless.

Broken tea cups and loose leaf pekoe

Staring into the deeply etched porcelain crack of a dainty little tea cup, I carefully follow the zig zagging line to the invasive chip perched just so perfectly on its edge.

I ponder if I might still drink from the cup, and I could, just so as I don’t forget the break and cut my mouth in the worst formidable way.

I examined the little tea cup, it was one of my favorites, and I loved it so with its warming colors. Once there had even been a void in the cupboard, but this little cup had filled the void in just the way that the emptiness before, wasn’t so painfully obvious.

It’s true, this one little cup wasn’t a part of a set, nor did it have the same likeness as all the others, but nevertheless, I believed it was stronger than it was. I even thought it would last for a very long time, if not possibly forever.

I realize now, I misjudged this little cup. I mistook it for fine China, whereas it was merely cheap porcelain, and, although it’s monetary value doesn’t change the fact that I loved it so, it simply is the product of its making.

I could most certainly glue the little fragmented piece of cup into the chipped break of the porcelain, but the break would always be there, reminding me that it wasn’t quite the cup I thought it to be.

I could equally push the little cup to the back of the cabinet, but what would that do for me, I have to wonder. I ask myself if it would only keep the space or would it find its way back to the front, being that it has none of the same elements as its cabinet mates?

I suppose stranger things are fiction and I have never doubted the power of the little train that could, but it must first want to be as the others before it can ever try to be. I think if it is without cause or desire then the little cup is nothing more than wasted space and although it fills a physical void, it can not change that the void still exists rather it sits in its space or not.

Perhaps greif is the best way to fill an empty space than to replace it with something of an imposter, faking it’s way into my mind, daring me to think it was just as grand as the Prince Albert’s it resides next to. Perhaps, I should have accepted the empty space, and then, maybe.. Just maybe, it would bring the one that had been stolen back to it’s place.

However, it is also fair to understand that the stolen cup, long gone now, shall never return as it was just as the chipped cup will never be as it was either.

I don’t think I have the heart to toss the little cup just yet, it is true that I love it, but I don’t think I’ll mend it either. Instead, I will wait.

If it so chooses to wish hard upon a star, then it might find out what wish was granted to a little wooden boy who wished to be real. Perhaps the little cup will wish for the same thing, but I know that it mostly will think a star is too far to wish on.

It is with great sadness as I return the little cup to its place on the shelf, but even with that sadness I will give it the chance to prove its worth, because even broken things can be fixed with desirable worth if they want to be.

Thank you for reading ♥️