#spilled ideas

If you want to talk to him: go ahead
Dial his number and press call
But when he feeds you the same lines again be careful not to fall.

Life’s too short to worry.
Does he miss me?
Or did he move on?
But if you find out he does miss you, be careful not to fawn

If you’re still in love with him; that’s okay.
Just protect yourself from the games he plays.

Don’t let yourself break
Don’t let yourself fall.

But by golly if you want to see him, Just call.

r.t.

One of the important steps in our evolution will be to let go of our clinging to the economy. Or at least the economy as it exists today.

In the economy as it exists today, we have incentive to monetize everything… and this has slowly crept into our relationships, our food, our health, our willingness to offer our own gifts to the world, even our access to nature.

I’m not saying money is bad and we should avoid it. Money is inherently neutral. Some of the beliefs we attach to money can be harmful - that we aren’t safe without it, that life can’t be full and rich and beautiful without it, that it factors in to our worthiness in any way.

Economics measures how much money is getting passed around. When we walk our own dogs instead of hiring a dog walker, we are “not contributing” to the economy. When we watch each other’s kids for free, we are “not contributing” to the economy. So don’t worry if the economy is contracting a little or a lot. Maybe we are just sharing more, being more self-sufficient, or realizing that we don’t need more items.

Wishing you all feel safe in a time of “economic uncertainty” and also wishing you financial evolution to go with your spiritual evolution, whatever that may mean to you. xoxo Nikki

Myneed to break free

From the clutches of rebirth and decay,

Dyed my fabric with broken paints

Of ‘I want to run, run away’.

‘I have tried my hardest today—

and perhaps my hardest is not my best,

but on that, what else can I say?’

'today, tomorrow,’ - Megan’s Poetry #

‘Inside I am all hollow, winding—

how I imagine a turned-out seashell—

and in the very centre there lives a china woman,

gathering water from my inner well.’

'break,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1280

‘guilt is a flower; it takes root, tangling

down the spine and round the lungs—

it waits, snake-like, for its chance to blossom;

today, it is done.’

'guilt,’- Megan’s Poetry #1279

‘I was born into a thorn-bush;

now, as if I were the one to fall,

I must find the thorns lodged in my breast

and remove them, one and all.’

'the thorn-bush,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1278

‘strip the fruit, but do not tear the branches;

leave me my roots—

I will flower again.’

'in time,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1277

‘replace the puppet strings with ribbons,

tie them in a little bow—

now you can yank as you like

and she will never know!’

'puppetry,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1276

‘I ​see her in my mind’s eye, that sweat-soft starlet. ringlets clinging to her swan neck,

dark hair bleached gold

beneath the soft glow of the morning Sun—

lips stained purple, dress bruised red.’

'life of the party,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1275

‘is love winged bliss, or steady ground?—

maybe not;

but, I know, it is not so

an unstable path as this.’

'falling,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1274

‘I am proud to have practiced loving;

I am proud to know you to your bones—

I am proud to know which tendons to pull

and which to leave alone.’

'to be known,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1273

‘I know not; I kneel still;

surely there is direction

in a pleading posture’s lines?’

'ayin,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1272

‘I am pursued by a formless being:

it gives constant chase, so I live fleeing—

first plucking the Sun, as I might fruit to eat,

it strides across the sky with a hunter’s feet;

its Brobdingnagian limbs now cross the land,

where it catches the moon in one clawed hand—’

'time,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1271

‘I cry the tears you claw from me now

with knowledge that they are my pre-emptive mourning;

my eyes, you say, cannot see—

but at least I am not blind to where our story is going.’

'pre-emptive mourning,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1270

‘we stand here in this wreckage—

scraps of plaster, shards of china, four walls echoing

with rage, and imprinted

with fists, torn as you stand there and tell me

that the dropped tears upon the floor

prove that I am too emotional.’

'anger, the non-emotion,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1269

‘love, meat-like, only serves to make us sick in the rawness of it—

tame your feeling; for I will not stand to be bowled by the strength of it.’

'love, meat-like,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1268

‘you weigh yourself out in pieces—

tiny morsels, bites of nothing

that regardless make you bleed.

just when you’ve rationed enough to make the scales even

they change the recipe.’

'day to day,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1265

‘and I’d sever my right hand

to have you kiss the left—

I’d burn in flames

if I thought you’d love the ashes.’

'unloved,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1264

‘she wants

that which she does not show;

she has no desire for that

will merely melt the iceberg—

dive deeper, dive deeper, the depths

scream and cry;

but that is where her monsters are

so explorers should beware the bite.’

'true love,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1260

looking into a heart-shaped mirror,

seeing ringlets and lace and long long lashes, thinking.

thinking,I’m the prettiest doll

that I’m ever going to be.

my doll-house is where I keep my victories.

over-achiever, people-pleaser;

I spend all my time

before some kind of mirror –

it’s easier to believe you’re a pleasure to teach

when you’re a pleasure to see.

I wonder,

just how long

before my china shoulders shatter?

I won’t be fuckable forever.

what if I end up as a grave

that no stranger will never admire?

go at your own pace,

says the old woman

who lives in my head.

she rocks, on a rocking chair;

I rock with her, try and listen

when she says, calm down.

you have so many years ahead of you.

open my jewellery box. a thousand baubles

for a hundred achievements –

and which one of them is enough?

flowers blossom beautifully and die quickly:

maybe I’m done. maybe my season’s up.

choker of pearls. aren’t you a pretty girl?

I’m not so special as they said,

and my luck will not forever last –

I’ll fail, soon. and I’d rather be dead.

we are rocking, still. harder, now:

my nails bite into my calves.

my breathing is shallow, sharp:

a sad stream, shuddering through

a Winter wall of jagged rocks.

fall, my old woman suggests, voice soft

like a skipping stone. cry. I’ll catch you.

I don’t.

‘I wrote this instead,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1259

‘look, look: the hearth is warm;

the beds rest on clouds, your spirit on stars.

do you want the door to open? if so, then speak!

you are but one step away— you lock yourself behind bars.

are you not starving here? do you not weep?

take on the lion’s courage, and be brave:

conquer your fear of the door, my darling,

and you will be warm— you will be saved.’

'1 chronicles 17:25,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1258

‘I love like I eat:

in dainty bites— I’m all downturned desperate eyes,

never wanting the chef to know that I’m still hungry.’

'hunger,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1257

‘I know the fire burns,

but is it truly hot? Truly bright?

Is it doomed to fade, entirely unknown,

in a dark and uncaring night?

Will these flickers of potential

turn out to be nothing after all—

what if I am nothing noteworthy?

what if I cannot climb higher? Will only fall?’

'potential,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1256

‘light exists not in passivity;

light burns, and brightens, and purifies.

tame not the anger that rises from compassion;

never dull the shine of loving eyes.’

'isaiah 58,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1255

‘I do not deserve all your roughness

simply because I will not break;

my bleeding is not yours to give,

when it is mine to take.’

'gentle handling,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1254

‘He sees the world all filled with mirrors: he sees not others, but how he feels about others; he loves not me, but his love for me.’

'the self-centred man,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1253

“well now I understand, how a mother’s heart

can boil into such a brutal cold;

I have thawed my rage, as I am without command;

weak as I am, I fall before your demands. I am subjected; I am told.

Hades too shall have my babe, should

this predatory Winter’s swollen stomach grow –

I give you my ring in hopes that it birth

no more— that the frozen rivers will start to flow.

Fill our fields with cornucopias of corn,

bright and golden as that which I have bequeathed –

how we shall chant your praises, then!

You shall wear our bounty as a victor’s wreath.

I fear for my love. I do not cry, nor rest, just rage;

believe truly, goddess, that I understand your pain –

for, if it were I that could grip the Sun, I would care

for no burned fingers:

I would starve you all— you too, fellow mother—

and starve you still again.”

‘a mother’s offering, designed to move demeter,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1252

‘my misery has too much depth to it,

and my words too much lightness—

I wonder if I can survive

another day of speaking in white horses.’

'speaking in white horses,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1251

‘and I know

that if I knew me

I’d know, she’s a desperate thing, by now—

I wish

that someone gave to me

the kind of love that looks.’

'I give it to everyone else,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1250

‘my mind paints its strokes in the brightest of colours,

but my hands can only manage grey;

so I turn to the night, which is all black and white,

understanding that I would only do terrible injustice to the day.’

'sad songs,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1249

Describing Setting:

Don’t overload:

The bluebird was singing soft melodies and flapping its wings. The breeze was blowing sweet scents from the flowers that were red, blue, and purple. The sky was clear with only a few thin clouds. The tall dark trees were creaking and echoing against the woods. ✖️

Vs.

The rose-scented wind blew breezes against the forest. Bluebirds sprang into the air with songs of summer. ✔️

It’s the most simplest questions that are so hard to answer, questions like ‘ Are you happy?’ or ‘ How are you feeling today?’ because these are the questions that are rarely answered truthfully.