Sta.sh
Theme
.
Total prizes reach 1000 
But of course there are always the rules......
Please please please fave the journal!
Make another journal about this giveaway and provide a link of that journal in the comments (this will help spread the word about this giveaway)
this journal 
oints:
Rules
Should be about School Times!
, comment and watch!
:thumb163780188: :thumb199842239: 
--
Americans With Disabilites ActAffirmative action
In the army
Is a bad idea
Trust me,
I'm differently abled.
I set records
Inspired millions
Was featured at the end of 60 Minutes
Andy Rooney rambled about me
I was the U.S. Military's first
Blind bomb defuser
If I opened my eyes,
They'd be the dark blue of Gypsies
I have a psychic power
Known as synaesthesia
To me wires can feel green,
Red,
Or brown, the base
What Andy Rooney doesn't tell you
Is the wires you can cut to disarm a bomb
Are never handicap accessible
He never mentioned that before,
I had two legs.
Now I stand on red, white, and blue
Painted prosthetics
I become more of a miracle every d
Poetic piece 4She dances on solitude lilies, bending words to her will like intricate runes and hieroglyphics on sandstone walls. Phrases expand and explore, like falling seeds of growing and dying trees.
Herself represents not crystals, but the nature themselves, onyx torque on anvils, shaping the way, learning and teaching which one observes but the other never sees.
Through the minds matter, words fall to the abyss upon descibing the unique. The form is never final, and the words spoken stem brilliance.
Absent greetings can always surprise the mind, feelings, growth, the simpliest glint can spark the unknowing. Even so far away the distance spans.
T
TransientThe once sanguine walls—
broken and collapsed into wings
—have become grey, pinned still, within a desolate birdcage.
Migratory birdsong hatched from our birth place, from
scuff marks and peeled paint, where cross-legged lovers once sat,
where lips fed souls, and fingers clasped time tightly.
Time escaped on the winds we breathed;
its cold chill upon our cheeks,
our eyes closed to the changing seasons.
But lights shine through to eyes pressed closed,
and hearts know what we wish they didn't.
I carved your name along my rib, an epitaph,
and whispered safe journeys to you, weeping
your departure from winter gr
miniature pine treethe pageant of the mind must rest
without its winner;
this mortar thrown at rust and space
to keep the organ in suspense
and waiting to be made
while behind a knob, the onion wilds
through
dock leaves
red ants
black medic
and other beings the sun believes in.
i’ve lived you long enough
to end.
thanks for the advice.
la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho-
-somatic, dear;
the ocean has swallowed
me whole.
hay una guitarra bajo
mi almohada, y
sueño de música cuando
estoy solo.
you came here with
city smoke in your lungs,
and i
forgot to breathe.
Drowning ourselves in DahliasAnd God bless the Gunslinger,
The eastward prophets, holding the tide,
Drowning ourselves in Dahlias,
The milk and blue flying so high.
Your skin'll lay in sun, until grim pastures,
Flowing freely through your hair,
Winds flying overly warm and wet,
Beautiful things you'll soon forget.
Your touch still alludes me,
Cascading through a different defeat,
Leaves will fall inside the hollow trees,
And you'll always find tears when the bodies meet.
And God bless the gun holder,
Eastward prophets that'll drown at the tide,
Missouri dusks getting colder,
The Milk and Blue flying up so high.
StrataEstranged siblings, parent-child relationships, separable friends—
Dry feet
In frosted dirt
Pause, sink
Forward;
Wry smiles
On dehydrated faces
Calculating,
Calcifying
Into memories
And onto Polaroid's—
Bunk beds, three-legged races, Chinese finger traps.
Hands entwining in the
Opposite hand,
Emotions entangling themselves.
A man says hello;
The monster.
Conversation is engaged,
Depressed voices
Gathering like dust collecting.
An aphorism of here and thereMy contradictions and I built a house. Our house was home to fine porcelain. The porcelain souls of many weightless spirits found a home in our house. One night the draft brought in a woman of the forest. She had long coarse hair the color of stormclouds and strewn with sticks. We had been hosting a gathering for the equinox. The vernal synapses and the alcohol had us pins and laughter. But she spoke to us with the sonorous voice of the mountains.
You love your madness; you care for it with perfumed hands,
and it plucks flowers from every corner of your body.
You love your madness because it is a release, but what
could be a greater rel
Everybody Learns From DisasterDear stentorian solar-eclipse,
I melted my hands trying to
protect my eyes from what they were too
selfish to see and too afraid to miss.
I dreamt
that the boy mouth-breathing
into my pillow had lost his wrists
somewhere, and so they took mine
as payment for the blood that was
to be shed.
Dear moonlight sonata,
I kept his sunglasses in my back
pocket so they would never give up
reaching for a reason: gripping,
fumbling, grappling and grabbing
my crooks: my elbows;
my muñecas
twisting off like
water faucets.
Once, I found a thought to suckle on
and it tore a hole in my stockings
because I stumbled.
I stumbled a
HyperboreanThe world we live in is a distorted projection,
And this moment, naught but a polaroid dream:
Fires dancing at the edges and ink collapsing upon itself.
These streets have melted into bad acid lust visions,
Abandoned shopping cart homes, deep inner-city arm infections,
And other various tripping hazards.
Resolved, we residentially meander along,
Keep our heads firmly fixed to glass floors shattering florescent and
The crunching of our boots gracing the bent forms of those beneath,
Finger-pain
My Romantic Bones Are Dancinglove is...
i.
the ability to face torment
from a thousand needles
drilling a million holes each
into the same square of skin -
the gouge is a constellation
accompanying an epic tale
that's every brand
of truth.
ii.
the knowledge we are broken
by familiar hands
and restored by
familiar arms & lips
& voice-patterns.
iii.
a metaphor for the inexpressible
god in each of us;
humanity's greatness
manifested in a flame, licking
hollow spaces in our yawning caverns.
iv.
one soul seeking the fingertips
of another soul seeking the fingertips
of another soul seeking
reparations for its mundane sins.
v.
the first breath, th
where am i, because i am not heredear Sun,
things are getting closer to You
and i am glad.
i can feel
my skin melting down
and wonder why it even bothers
to heal up and grow back again.
why can i not be naked, bare-boned,
burned down to an ashy skeleton.
my skin will never turn to armor,
i will always be broken
but not blessed with burns—cauterized.
i think i'd like to be bathed in flames,
so i stand upright my raggedy bones
and face You, Sun.
You meet me with no mercy
and i welcome it
with open arms.
if You would allow me
i would like to take Your flame
and swallow it,
feel it rattling along my ribcage
and searing my heart.
i need You
to rise an
straight couple who asked what being gay was likeIt's like spinning and falling:thumb298108604: :thumb299967554:
and the heavy taste of desire,
moving and singing
and kissing your best friend.
It's falling to sleep next to someone
you want to wake up with
forever,
losing yourself
and watching them get lost too.
It's finally finding
what you'd always been missing.
It's knowing they love pistachio ice cream
with all the nuts picked out
and not minding,
why you can sleep through all their
dream mumbles -
except the scared ones.
It's arguing over music and art and poetry
and what movie to rent
on Friday night.
It's like love.
