why rail against standardized answers…

Etches of Ink and Light

Until we challenge, verify, re-appropriate, critically analyse propositions, invent an inter-personal way to explain, discover something left unspoken in the silence of words, create a possibility where there was none, we can only be convinced that we have the appearance of knowledge.

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Mister Misery

teddylee's blog

It wasn’t all bad all the time growing up with these men, there were moments with them that meant everything to me… the moments where certain things are said or certain things are done that had appeared to be genuine confused me because prior to that they couldn’t stop being violent or cutting us children down..

The moments were the talking is rational and their behavior is normal had me wondering if this is who they really are and if it was why would they try so hard to hide this person… but i also wondered if how they were acting was even real and how hard they had to pretend to be that nice… i couldn’t tell… because for so long prior to those moments they were mean, violent and couldn’t get enough of degrading our mother to us… maybe they thought that a rarely given moment like that…

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open wounds


there seems to be a censorship of the heart
where empathy is forbidden to swoon
but pity and misery are in activity
there are no tags on them
free agents apple of the wormed eye

touching your cheek you gasp
forbidden; for friends must keep
private fences and frost for warmth
is only on an Icarus setting
punched by a hole on knob

walking on the other line
trying to act selfishly to the core
hurting because I was cataloging the grievances
while they must been cataloging weaknesses and self benefits.▬

wrong bodies


the way you curve into a sign
your breasts the non-lactate male
and the aureoles; not fattening but toned
allures me and I find female breasts too out there
comparatively to yours

it’s not because I am female I see your calves and I think
no woman can beat that; your beating heart clasped in my sphere of acknowledgement
but you are flawlessly flawed
your hair too long
lips non=full
scrappy cuts and tresses
and you are muscular but semi-thin
at times your belly fattens and your shoulders droop

you feel bored; look bored and I approach hoping to catch your eye
but I am this odd girl; overweight and clumsy
non-makeuped, non-upgraded
I dont keep perfect posture

we look; I sigh
your girlfriend comes around in an appropriate body
but you look at me
we then disengage

we are criminals for looking at post surfaces and surface unsmooth.▬

confuse crowd


feeling the hardening tableau of disappointment
of annoyance — failure — rejection — that a cocktail
of curiosity and kindness produces; in the spine of intimacy
sinovial fluid tripped on some disks and blurted out buttery
mucousum ad nauseam and the heady feeling of a wrong
plastered on fingertips and fingerprints of a conversation;
analog or digital — doesn’t matter if it is mixed medium…

your friendship — the eagerness of it betrays you
the advent of your earnestness dampened by other life mysteries and mysteriously you are ignored but included; ambivalent shock
you are collective but not good to be close; my lips won’t address you much some sort of deal

loneliness and ignorance can surely go sided
my love sliced down
in an abattoir of social etiquettes.▬

A student, on discovering a drawing on the white board, raises the eraser with one hand…

My friend captured a very important part of this person’s life and I am thankful to God I got to read it. It’s very important to realize that even if society injures the soul inside preserves it…

Etches of Ink and Light

A student, on discovering a drawing on the white board, raises the eraser with one hand to erase the colours out of existence, this drawing of a butterfly, with wings teeming with inscriptions, perched on a twirling leaf.

He looks at me, “I will erase this,” and brings the eraser closer to the drawing.

“You can,” I reply, “It’s only ink on white board.”

He stops midway—“No, this is beautiful,” and leaves the spot without erasing the artwork.

What happened to this child who has often torn papers, ruined artworks in the face of rules and behaviour management techniques? What happened?

Could it be that on facing the enormous potential of his action and the transience of the world around him, this confluence of action-that-enacts-responsibility and perception-that-defies-permanence roused in him the sublime passing of beauty?

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You Don’t Have To Be Pretty – On YA Fiction And Beauty As A Priority

In a culture that expects men and women to be exceedingly beautiful or sexy its refreshing to see a writer write on how beautiful the character is internally as in ‘“Fine. You’re not pretty. So?” He kisses my cheek. “I like how you look. You’re deadly smart. You’re brave…’ that is important. I am saying that beauty is more or less subjective so making a standard is pretty silly many a times

The Belle Jar

“I’m not trying to be self-deprecating,” I say, “I just don’t get it. I’m younger. I’m not pretty. I –”

He laughs, a deep laugh that sounds like it came from deep inside him, and touches his lips to my temple.

“Don’t pretend,” I say breathily. “You know I’m not. I’m not ugly, but I am certainly not pretty.”

“Fine. You’re not pretty. So?” He kisses my cheek. “I like how you look. You’re deadly smart. You’re brave. And even though you found out about Marcus …” His voice softens. “You aren’t giving me that look. Like I’m a kicked puppy or something.”

“Well,” I say. “You’re not.”

Veronica Roth, Divergent

These might be some of the most revolutionary sentences ever to be written in a young adult novel. In fact, they’re pretty incredible no matter what the genre. These words may not look like much, but trust…

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i am the story

girl in the hat

dirty hands

In the flapping of Borges’ pigeon wings, lodged in Gregor Samsa’s gizzard, in the cello

played during commercials for luxury sedans and the crow

clinging to the top of the telephone pole, behind a mountain’s profile,

at the bottom of my glass, wadded

in the pocket of my jeans

I am the story I am seeking.

In every face, every poem, even yours.


Yesterday, with my knees aching on the cement floor,  I moved my ouiji hands

over the shelf until they snagged on a poet named Ruefle

which felt right since it was my last day at the bookstore and I was looking

for words to explain. I found

“Everything that ever happened to me
is just hanging — crushed
and sparkling — in the air,
waiting to happen to you.
Everything that ever happened to me
happened to somebody else first.
I would give you an example
but they…

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