Moloccan Electus Is One Of My Favourite Red Parrots š¤ It's Like You Read My Mind! I Love The Red Against
Moloccan Electus is one of my favourite red parrots š¤ it's like you read my mind! I love the red against the greenā ā¤š©
a moluccan eclectus for @hanamal1k !!
More Posts from Hanamal1k and Others
Nature within her Palms
"This one's for the leaves." She says, while squeezing out a warm orange on her thumb.
As she's scraping the dry colour off and onto the canvas, I notice her reach for the trembling, paper thin tube- The lukewarm Green. This paint- no, nature on her hands: it's blooming.
"Weird way to paint, no?" she chuckles.
This barren colour grow's ever so full of life on her tan hands, it could call it home.
She's speaking but god, how I can only stare.
I hope someday, I can, too.
-hanaš
Kaveh Akbar,Ā from āPersonal Inventory: Fearless (Temporis Fila)ā,Ā Calling a Wolf a WolfĀ
I've lived and felt for 30 years but she just smiled at me and I'm discovering emotions for the first time
Old poetry is such an unexpected GEM
Darling, how I wish I could tell your gentle soul how light flickers atleast twice before it is eternal.
For the most virulent of snakes would spit off their venom to kiss your name, when it is but etched on a rock;- how when timid dark ravens will curl themselves in vines that reach from behind your tomb, would then flaunt their wings spreading life around like scattered glitter.
And the rain would skip you when souls begin to raise their cupped hands crying for water,
For your stubborn petals bloom with tears that are only now salty in your mouth."
Now someone tell me what was going through my mind at 12 years old because clearly there is plot behind this.
"I want to rip my skin open and say, "See? I bleed, but I do not bleed red. Is this black you're seeing not enough? Do I have to rip a little more? Just so you believe when I say I'm not doing well?"
This so mean why my trauma isn't cool af ugh
How the fuck do writers do what they do?
Slipping time is looking down at you. Its favourite incarnation, and it's thinking: has it forgotten us? Has it, forgotten itself?
Time is worried, how the little incarnation with such fascinating drive is no longer moving. You are still as if time is still
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