Btlk-like

Bless the hands that fed us, and may there be scars on those who harmed us. May we never become the things that hurt us. -Anika

We kissed and fought wars

With our tongues,

You seemed to taste an awful lot

Like the lull after a bomb;

The quiet after the storm

When there is nothing more left

To break apart, nothing more left

To get undone.

We tore limbs and rearranged parts

Of our own selves-

Like the Jenga tiles

We never seemed

To arrange right.

We crumbled there on your bed,

And never could hold each other again,

Could never hold our own selves again.

Please don't let the government or anyone erase any more of history. It is on you. You have a responsibility.

EDUCATE YOURSELF.

Be neutral for long enough to realise that perhaps you are in the wrong.

Form educated opinions which are backed up by facts.

Try reliable sources and if reliable sources fail you, try to gain perspective from different ones.

If you don't know enough to have an opinion, SAY SO. Don't just sprout some bullshit to sound intelligent, you don't. You sound ignorant and hateful. When did it become wrong to just admit that you don't have enough information to form a well educated opinion?

When in doubt, always take the stance which doesn't undermine a person's life or belief or belittle them or discriminate against them.

Red is angry and loud,

Red is a rebel teenager

Who wears eyeliner

On the wrong lid

And has too many piercings.

Inevitable

We were a prolonged sunset,

Something beautiful

That we knew 

Would end in darkness anyways.

We were a mouthful of words

The tongue couldn't help but mess up.

We were a tiny cat

Who climbed the big tree

And forgot it had yet to learn 

How to come back down.

We went skydiving,

Up, up, up 

And the earth pulled us back down;

We free fell into our own demise

And made a mess,

We left chaos behind.

They are having a tickle war like they always do; his small body curled into itself, trying to tuck it within its own bounds, to not have to bear this joyful torture.

They are not people anymore, they are two shrieks of laughter. They are an odd sight to look at: a tall girl, almost a woman, and a toddler of six; an unlikely friendship that looks bizarre but radiates so much joy you cannot help but feel warm.

The girl turns into things she isn't; just for this boy, she turns into a sunny disposition, a pleasant version of herself and she has the gentlest voice. She has hands that do not hurt, she has eyes that smile and she is bubbles of laughter come to life.

The boy comes back year after year to meet his sister; they aren't really siblings, they are distant cousins but there is a lot of love here. And where there is so much love, you feel obliged to put a label. So they were brother and sister, and the oddest duo of the lot. As the years pass by, she sees her brother transform into things she resents; no longer a sweet child, he throws tantrums and uses his hands and fists like the men do. But he isn't a man yet, he is just a little boy.

He is nine and he already thinks it is okay to do things you do not like others doing; he thinks that it is okay to destroy what isn't yours because you could not have it or to scream and cry until you hand him what he asked for. These are trivial things, he is just a child after all.

She walks in on the boy destroying something that isn't his and he throws things at her, makes her mad. He takes pleasure in irritating her; she can tell; he takes her things and claims them as his and she lets him. She feels something come over her; makes her way towards him and traps him in her hold. She tickles his neck and she scratches him.

The boy is screaming and crying and she is devastated. She sees herself transform into things she thought she would never become. She sees an image of her lineage in her. Is this what we inherit?

Suddenly, she is small again. She is not herself, she is the little boy. She is nine, she is seven, she is five years old. She knows she is small so she bites the hands of those who reach out because her fists are still a little girl's fist, even though the size of the fight in her is quite big.

She doesn't recognize herself anymore.

Is this what we inherit?

No.

It runs in the family but this is where it stops.

Bless the hands that fed us, and may there be scars on those who harmed us. May we never become the things that hurt us.

She is twenty-five years old now. And there is an odd friendship in her life that no one understands, but there is a lot of love there. There is a little brother waiting for her.

Fell in love with a stranger for a few moments today.

Occam’s Razor:

Suggests that the simplest explanation,

Is the most plausible one.

Which means, to put it simply, I love you.

But how do I contain the multitude of all that I feel

Within so little?

How do I tell you,

I see the stars in you;

All my poems from here on until eternity

Will be about you;

“I love you” doesn’t do justice to the fact that

I swear I was a Universe unlike any other,

But I found you and we were always whole;

But somehow, with you next to me, we feel complete.

In my next life time, I swear I will find Occam; tell him

That there are some entities which need to be multiplied;

Not out of necessity,

But out of love.

by Anika

One life people. Only one. Fucking run for it! Learn that goddamn language, read that book, draw shittily, sing off key and break some goddamn glasses. Fuck this illusion of perfection. We are here to goddamn live. Every art becomes less shitty as you work on it. Same with your life, it's all art babies. Work and get it y'all! Okay bye.