Why Do You Like to Read? by Dani-the-Naiad, literature
Literature
Why Do You Like to Read?
Why do you like to read?
He asked me that one day.
Because he didn't much like to read,
and he wished I'd rather play.
I didn't know the answer then
and couldn't quite explain
that I used those books,
my very best friends,
to escape my day to day.
I loved to step away from life and into Anne Shirley's world
where I could walk to school each day and catch Gilbert's handsome eye.
I loved to cross into the magic lands holding Lucy's hand
and sit to tea with a fawn and his flute, eating sweet mince pie.
Because if I was there with them I wasn't home anymore.
I didn't have to think about life or see my latest score.
A book was an escape I craved
The Color of Peppermint by Dani-the-Naiad, literature
Literature
The Color of Peppermint
What is the color of peppermint?
Like his breath in the morning after a shower,
an invisible must grazing, cooling your cheeks
Is it red and white stripes on a stick
where the red rubs off to color pink tongues a shade darker
the white is left feeling naked and thin
Perhaps white, then,
Fresh clean snow wafered in dark chocolate
-the kind that breaks softly between teeth like a lisp-
But then when melting, it drops translucent
pure essence of crisp exhilaration for the senses.
Clear, clean liquid of angels
Or is it green? Like the leaves of its mother
releasing the scent whenever someone comes too close
Blue- like the toothpaste carelessly
It's hard to want
to keep trying
when I can't get my feet to tread
and each step slips back
through the mud
back to where I started from
so why not just sit
in the pit
will no one throw a rope?
It's hard to do those things
I used to love to do
But the food doesn't taste as good
and the music seems to play without passion
and the words don't flow
or won't
so why not just sit
in the pit
will no one throw a rope?
I once heard it said
that to lose oneself in ones work
is the highest form of passion
it's dedication at its finest
and brings the most fulfillment
But if I lose myself
What's left?
so
why not just sit?
moments and memories are petals on that baby boy flower in my hand
shades of water and sea
wrapped up in each other tightly
seemingly inseparable
bleeding into each other
until they open,
come apart,
expose the most precious parts
a flash of sun and l e t t i n g g o
tiny damp papers
b l o w a w a y in the wind,
blend in with the sky
and they are gone
I used to be angry at time.
I wanted to close it up in a box to keep it at bay.
Then I wanted to close it up in a box to throw it away.
But time cannot be kept.
Nothing good can stay.
And time cannot be lost
when you will it away.
Time flows like a sieve,
but those big things
take much longer to pass.
And some,
without the choosing,
will last and last.