Welcome to our garden

I created a side blog called @aprilfoolreblogs. I'm growing it like another garden! This time, with the help of you all, by spreading your seeds, whatever they may be. Love, kindness, a better world, unconditional passion, or a wonderful work of fiction.

I think it has potential to grow into a wonderful thing. It is still under construction, but I wanted to officially get it started. It was heavily inspired by both @mikefrawley (dontcryitsonlyreblogs) and @takingstockofwhatmattersmost (recognizingthevoiceless).

They made me feel seen when I first started this blog. They still continue to do so, now with the help of all of you. I thought what they were doing was truly wonderful and wanted to give back to our community. Thank you both for inspiring me to do this and thank you for helping artists/poets feel seen. I will have some more art to share with you all soon.

Edit:

It seems as though I made the version of side blog that does not allow me to like posts/follow people separately from my original blog. So at least for now, it will only be reblogs!

Written by AprilFool 🐸

Rainy day fawn lily . . .

harsh emptiness

you or I:

unreachable moments

each permanence lays

no always fragments

even

no last and true stylus

the play/out of earth

I am not really here, and that's all right As long as I'm not actually trying to be. Maybe if I close my eyes I'll disappear; Nullified to a certain degree; dehusked, Or dehumaned; a myriad of posphenes, Traversing eigengrau. That could be me: Hankering reds and mystified blues and Emollient greens. That could be just me. Restless though, there still brims yellow, Ever longing to burst. Should I let it (go)?

In the distance,

is the sound of drumming.

Erratic and energetic.

A flash of lightening

as the guitar riff starts.

The bass thumps as thunder claps.

The wind picks up

to carry a melody.

It echos as leaves and twigs

are swept into the breeze

alongside small bits of dirt and stone.

The note is high; voice feminine.

The god begins to harmonize

with herself as the twigs

carry the tune into the wind.

If you look closely,

you can see her.

A perfectly crafted nose.

Eyes the color of honey.

Dark curly hair

that reaches her full bare breasts;

skin that shines gold in the sunlight.

Her voice is both haunting

and elegant.

The symbols smash

as tunder booms once more.

Her image dissipates

as she lets out another high note.

This one ending in a low growl,

taking on a more masculine sound.

The stones and dirt swirl in the air

as he lets out a scream.

The guitar goes wild.

View him strut along the clouds;

watching the raging storm intensely,

through piercing blue eyes.

Sweat beading down his flat chest.

Messy, curly hair

stopping where there would be breasts.

Baggy shorts hug his slender waist.

A large gash in the thigh of the fabric,

reveals milky colored skin.

He shimmers under the moonlight.

Her vocals mix with his

as the lightening flashes

and thunder roars.

The rock god takes on

any and all forms.

Those are his two favorite,

when he is not in the depths

of the wind.

Written by AprilFool 🐸

It’s all tumbling away

as memories turn to dust

in my aching hands.

I was away from myself for too long

and I don’t know the way back anymore.

Nicotine and caffeine

to wake my hazy head.

Sit for a while

get ready for the day,

as time marches on.

Ridiculous repeats of shows

that don’t deserve

their laugh track.

Third person mode activated

as life becomes a stage show.

I watch myself stumble and trip

my way through it all,

all the people

so many empty faces.

They talk amongst themselves

as I drink my beer alone,

spending the last of my money

on another drink.

Then home

with headphones,

music loud to drown

the noise in my head.

We’re past half three now

and sleep seems

very far away

so I’ll procrastinate some more,

until my heavy head

hits the pillow.

Tomorrow will be much the same

I’m sure,

when the veins are alive with the thunder of choked back syllables

to be inspired by mere thought

retracing your fingers over their words as if it will soothe your heart

to hold so close against the chest, you'd rather bleed biting your tongue, tasting the fear of losing what free words could destroy

you are the circles spinning around me

to the smell of soap and cigarettes

and an old country song

you’re humming against my hair.

you are a gutting smile

and eyes that notice everything;

you are the only person who

laughs as much as i do.

my neighbor hung flowers from his mailbox

and i don’t really know why i cried—

i only wish we had a mailbox or flowers

or that you couldn’t live without me.

day and night and day and night

i am haunted by a future

that may never exist.

I trace the map my body makes —

soft hills, wide rivers, rolling lakes.

No sharp-edged lines, no ruler's decree,

just generous shapes that speak of me.

These hips? They held the world one day,

they sway like music, lead the way.

This stomach — witness to late-night fries,

to laughter, holidays, and birthday pies.

It folds when I sit, it rounds with breath —

proof I am living, not a sketch.

My thighs touch like old friends do,

a secret handshake just for two.

They carry me up every stair,

strong columns dressed in tender care.

And this skin — it stretches, blooms,

makes room for joy, makes room for wounds.

I spent years shrinking, folding in,

apologizing for the space I'm in.

But bodies aren't math to subtract —

they're stories, feasts, a warm habitat.

So let me be ample. Let me be wide.

Let me take up the whole seaside.

The mirror and I, we finally agree:

these curves aren't flaws —

they're poetry.

And I am the poet,

and I am the page,

loving this body

Like the legs of the wine

Lingering on the glass

As ours intertwine

Like those summers

We kissed through the phases

Of the sun and the moon

Awkwardly forgetting

How to hold onto

Each others hand

Kiss me

As if you remember

When the sun only shone

For just the two of us

Foreshadowing

All of the love we made

After midnight

Just kiss me as if to remember

i’m sorry you wasted your life on me,

but I didn’t want you to.

you didn’t have to.

so why are you blaming me?

this is what you chose!

i didn’t ask to be born.

in fact,

if I could go back and change anything,

i’d probably choose not to be.

just stop lying to me!

i don’t want to hear

another mumbled “I love you too”

that we both know you don’t mean.

i don’t want to see

your eyes

downcast

because you can’t handle looking at me.

look at me!

tell me you hate me!

it would be less painful for everyone.

please.

i’m sorry you wasted your life on me,

but i’m more sorry I wasted mine

on trying to get you to love me.

My girlfriend looks like a snack today

That's a lie

She's the whole meal folks

Unfortunately we have things to do

But she glows in that dress

And is sweet as candy

I can't wait to have a taste

When we don't have things to do

when I have you.

One glance is all it takes

to get my heart pounding.

Your blue eyes fixated on me

as I throw on the first dress I see.

As your hair gets longer,

it curls more in the back.

I like it;

I could sit and play with it all day,

if we didn't have things to do.

The day is busy,

yet just started.

I want to take a moment

to drink you in.

I can't wait to have a taste

when we don't have things to do.

You are invasive,

like night-blooming jasmine.

You’ve wrapped yourself around my thoughts,

fast-growing in your tenderness,

and I feel myself letting you.

I wait for you to open,

knowing there’s something sweet inside.

Queen of the night, they say.

I would let you rule me endlessly,

intoxicated by your floral fragrance,

imagining the taste must be just as sweet.

I want to protect you

and watch you grow

the way I wish I had long ago—

to be the sunshine

you always say that I am.

I’m your warmth in the day,

and you’re my seduction in the night—

a cycle

before midnight's entrance

in the hopes

of convincing the curtains

to blanket over a lingering daydream

so that love

can fill the fissures

A flicker in the quiet dark,

the silent architect of worlds not yet built.

It begins as a tremor,

a soft pulse of electricity

weaving through the synapses like light through water.

Consider the reach of a single idea:

it possesses the weight to move mountains

or the grace to dismantle a long-held fear.

It is the unseen brush

painting the trajectory of a lifetime,

the invisible blueprint

for stone and steel,

for the songs that linger in the air long after

the voice has faded.

Thoughts do not ask for permission.

They bloom in the barren spaces of the mind,

untethered by the constraints of gravity or time.

They are the architects of reality,

the quiet command that shapes the chaos

into meaning.

To hold a thought is to hold a seed—

small, contained, seemingly weightless—

yet capable of rooting deep into the earth,

cracking the pavement,

and demanding that the world grow

Cool red