First published
A collection of poems about ponies, rocks and humans who used to be ponies.
(rock featured in cover is a lake superior agate)
(pony featured in cover is applejack)
Proofreading and advice from SecondPrances! You should check out some of their poetry too!
the fire rose in stasis,
held in its prison of rock.
the swirls
and whirls
and bands
that make up your face.
Smooth,
cold,
still.
Burnished and Cared:
Stood there, held for decoration.
That jasper on the shelf.
That little fire rose inside,
burning away its soul.
Luna, you came to visit me.
You came to speak and see,
to talk to me.
Our future prosopography,
everything I can be,
that we can be:
Our little play of humanity.
What can you be?
Little more than a dream.
Drifting off, my never-end.
My only friend, my pretend!
Our pretend, us, us all.
Every one.
Everyone.
Our dream, of us,
the little hopes of community.
The self made by committee,
as our only choice to be.
What are we if we can't be seen?
What are you if never invented?
Are we so great and powerful?
To never fall and fail?
That's not what greatness is, you say.
But to fall and stand back up.
To fail and keep on trying.
To know it never ends and take solace in that.
Are we so great and powerful?
To never need each other?
That's not how power works, you say.
But to exist within a system,
to know that you can depend.
To know that when you leave things will change.
Luna, you came to visit me.
A sea of stars, those stars I see!
A mane so great it could never be.
A voice so powerful, inaudibly.
A hoof that touched my heart inside,
a heart that faded, those tears I cried.
A single wish to fall and divide,
that single wish, the one I lied.
And as I saw that you weren't there,
that time was still, no fear, no care,
I knew myself as only I could.
I knew myself as others would.
let riverrun of Adam twice,
it’s tide’s millennium stand,
two ponies once just stallions,
fade to one as grand.
And weathered on,
and let badge hold:
that Apple one side,
Wings present t'other.
and Two as One
and One as Two
and always will have been.
And let ask, now, little colt:
those tears. Those tears!
you never let yr.self cry:
do they flow now, in jest?
or trickle out of closeness, compassion?
Can they really betray something so Simple and True?
That sadness presents, here and now, itself inside you?
Nervous young Thing,
Stallion of two.
let yr.self be known!
Family and Friends can try,
inspect empty heart as home.
empty, as it is, as it was of water:
salt of tears! yet, too, of river,
that stands just beyond thine roan.
empty, now, with room for love
room to grow and try!
little blossomed orchid sticks,
rooms within as should.
Let it grow! and water now!
and pierce it with the sun!
a little place to crawl about,
and petal in those veins.
Is he but an orchid too?
Grown inside your heart?
Try and reach and feel that coat.
and let end fade, restart.
Memories are funny.
They sit there, dormant.
Waiting.
Waiting for the moment to snap back
and ruin you.
They hide themselves
in little things around you.
The agate was small,
I had it on that shelf for
for months.
It blended right in,
til one day I held it again.
And I remembered everything
right
back
to
the
beginning.
That agate.
Every
single
thing.
Every day I saw it and thought
thought nothing.
Why now?
Why this agate?
Nothing else your hooves touched…
Why you?
Why me?
that agate…
waiting for the moment to snap back
the salt in the air
has bore through my sense
left its stain of rust
and disappeared
i no longer taste it on my tongue
the air is clean
my thoughts are not
you
standing there
brandishing your wings!
the words i never wanted to use:
chiseled, rippling, glistening, hot
how can i not?
this hole through the side of my skull
where restraint and logic once lied
this plug unplugged,
letting out, now, a tedium of dust
i see you
and
and feel you
still on my body
that hoof slung around my back
though it has since moved
is still right there, i can feel it
proudly brandishing the patch you left
the fairies dance in gardens as you walk by
the clouds swirl themselves into your dreams
the floor beneath me
is furnished
is hardened
with steel that once weighed down on me
that hung overhead
but now only steadies my legs
that lets me stand here
in front of you
that lets me stand here
and speak
for the first time in my life i am speaking clearly
im not
laughing at you
i just think its
funny
the way you shake your wings
that little shake you
dont even
notice
i dont
i dont like when you
laugh at me like that
it makes me feel
bad
im not
laughing at you
im just
laughing
its cute
it doesnt feel cute
when you laugh at me
i know
i know you dont mean
anything by it but
when youre laughing in my ear
it doesnt feel cute
i dont want you to feel bad
dont try and guilt me
im not
im sorry
im sorry
im sorry
i want to feel good
i know
i dont always feel good
i know
usually you make me feel good
i dont
i dont like when you
make me feel bad
youre better than that
not a lot of ponies are better
than that
you are
i dont like when you make me feel bad
im sorry
i
i l
im sorry
do you
should we
we could go somewhere
for coffee
okay
thatd be nice
i really shouldnt
its past noon
but i might as well
if you dont want
no i do
i want to
i want to go
with you
you did it again
that shake
that little shake
marble holds beauty.
that's what ponies tell me,
the statues they saw.
chiseled by hoof
into
beauty.
in galleries,
you find it in galleries.
marble
manipulated by tools and instruments.
changed to reflect our own form.
mutilated.
marble holds beauty,
it does.
why do we have to hurt it to see that?
can't we find it as it is?
is marble really only as good as what we can form from it?
i like marble.
i think it's beautiful.
i don't want it to change.
i don't want to change.
i just want to be beautiful.
and my breathing starts back up
starts up more
regularly
and my chest softens
and the light is shining through the window
and my fur feels so warm in the sun
and I can see through the window
see the trees just outside
as they
bristle in the wind
and the blood and cotton has fallen from my ears
and I can hear the birds outside again
and they're singing their songs
their little chirps
singing in the trees
and the bed beneath me is so soft
and the tears still haven't stopped
but they don't feel so bad
and I can see the little specks of dust
floating about
in the sun
and I can see the sun through the window
and I can see the sky outside
and I can feel my heat beating
and I can feel my heart filling up
with all the love
I was ever given
and I can see every pony I ever loved
so clearly now
in my head
and the bed beneath me feels so soft
and I can't believe I ever forgot how much I want to live
Take one last look:
at the weight on your shoulder,
the weight of this boulder,
you choose to carry
up and down this mountain.
Luna, who are we helping here?
To sit in puddles and reminisce
of rotten vices and open wounds
of every bad thing we’ve
ever done.
Wouldn’t you be free,
with shoulders unburdened?
To stride further and stronger,
to rush on with
out a care.
Wouldn’t we get there faster?
Wherever it is we’re going.
Must you see yourself suffer
for what is written in stone?
for what is
plain to see if one
looks.
Do you have to look?
And as I poke and prod the
scars left ‘cross my legs
and as I
hoist my own boulders too,
as I sit in space
alone.
No one is hurt.
because their tears are done but
ours still flow?
because the biggest mistakes are
not to be retold.
because when your shoulders are clear,
when your legs move with ease
it becomes so much easier
to step over the ponies
that you love.
because we need to remember how it feels
to hurt
because no one should ever have to
know how it feels to hurt.
are you afraid?
that you might crumble?
it’s okay.
i’m scared too.
i don’t want you to crumble
but
you don’t have to
pretend like you’re strong.
there’s nothing wrong with being weak.
there’s nothing wrong with being soft.
sometimes i swear
i swear i could see inside you.
sits down, and takes notice
of the picture frame hanging
at a slight
angle
and does her best not to
move.
Resists the urges to
stand back up
and fix it.
Suppresses the twitches of horn,
keeps mind blank as can be.
Distractions are what cloud
cloud the mind,
pull creativity to its dead end.
“artist’s block”.
but continues to stare at the frame,
the picture inside.
with her sister, smiling,
a memory.
a life.
To run in the same three circles,
chunks of brain reworking,
nothing new to spout but
reimagined and regurgitated
offals of past experiences and
past dresses sewn patchwork
to make nothing new.
something new would flow,
so with eyes straight ahead,
at the misty dust nothingness
of a clean space.
and ears straining not to hear
bird song from outside
but only the brain’s own vibrations.
If possible.
And the hoof that bounces
reflexively
at the end of a jittery leg,
must soon silence too
when the conscious mind notices.
jittery legs, bouncy hooves, are not ideas.
not ideas, not dresses.
but soon one will come.
if it takes all day.
and knocks on the door are not dresses
and pangs of hunger are not dresses
and romantic novels are not dresses
and flutters of wind are not dresses
and yearning muscles are not dresses
and empty hearts are not dresses
and tired faces are not dresses
and sleepy eyes are not dresses
and morning suns are not dresses
and gloomy minds are not dresses
and cogitations on thoughts on overthinkings are not dresses
and time spent alone in uncomfortable chairs are not dresses
and none of these
are dresses
sickening to think
you could have always had this
if you tried.
to take three steps back,
and find yourself here.
Amongst your peers.
peers you never had back home
in your
world
your own personal prosopography,
stretching back yards and miles of
lonely lonely turf
weeds pulling out of clumps of
dead grass
that you never thought to tend to.
it’s different, of course,
but it’s all the same.
When hasn’t it been?
Those faces you see,
you could swear you saw
if you tried hard enough
faces when you were young
smiling too.
They weren’t there.
Were they ever?
if you tried hard enough
standing right there
hand in hoof in hand in
were you always this lonely?
little books found in
cracks and corners of
rotting memory
never probed for
lack of need
a colt who cried when you
said no
why now?
but here. in front of you.
flesh and blood.
that same river
flooding back to you
younger years in dress up
ahead, the puppets that
swing and canter
fold over you in their dances
that seem so close
but feel so far
you don’t need this
little drops of
swirls of
dancing in your head
laughing at you
begging you to take one more step
into that same river
telling you you can
breathe underwater
young,
young,
young,
young
people
having fun
it’s sickening to
Those tears welled in my eyes,
as thoughts dwelled uncompromised,
little rock of jade looking back at me.
I remember who you were,
let memories slow and defer,
little rock of jade staring back at me.
Your gift a poem, your heart a song.
I can't help myself. Has it been so long?
Little rock of jade crying back at me.
I can see and wish and hope forever,
I swore one time I'd leave you never.
Little rock of jade calling out for me.
Everything reminds me of you these days,
all that I did wrong, and still do, this haze,
little rock of jade
sitting in the trash.
I ball my hoof
my hand
into a fist.
Squeeze.
Open
and
Close.
Veins web,
muscles welt.
it’s disgusting
isn’t it?
I hate it so much.
To see that flesh writhe.
Open
and
Close.
Is this me?
It couldn’t be.
Those wrinkles…
Folds of flesh and skin,
storm about those knuckles.
Bones.
Flesh.
No fur.
Open
and
Close.
And the mirror.
The mirror!
This is me.
This is who I am.
This is disgusting.
A horrid visage wrapped taut on degenerate skull.
I Squeak and Shuffle
Mouth
and
Jaw
into place, out of place.
It moves back.
In the mirror, it moves as it should.
But why should it?
This isn’t me.
I hate myself.
I want to go home.
I want my body back.
Open
and
Close.
Mouth
and
Jaw.
I forgot what it was like to…
The Grey and Black
rippling across my chest
rippling through the open wound
oozing with salt of tears and blood
in little flame licks of pain,
that prop up from the background hum
that thrum, works itself through me
the little throbbing wretch you left me
The heart thumps while it can,
your touch leaving only dead flesh
flesh that once wrapped itself around you
grew bitter in your absence
now only serves its own rot.
It’s easier to stay here, in bed
without the pain rippling to its head
too far overboard to tear me to shreds
where you once lay beside me
hoof tracing fur, touching chest
now bare of coat accepting only
torn, bloody flesh.
Dead flesh.
You are the witch that killed me.
Queen of the Frauds,
that played perfect.
Perfect, changeling, changing,
playing pretend that you
were special.
That your touch wouldn’t
rot me to my core.
You’re not special.
And I hope whichever
whichever pony you’ve found,
I hope they see through you.
I hope you’re rotting too.
Pinkie, why are your poems so sad?
when all you do is smile
Pinkie, can’t you just be glad?
with the things you have all the while
Pinkie, don’t you want us to feel good?
don’t you want to make us laugh
Pinkie, do you want to be understood?
aren’t you meant to make us laugh
Pinkie, we know that this isn’t you.
so why do you keep writing these
Pinkie, what do you want us to do?
unchecked feelings you’re trying to appease
Pinkie, we liked you the way you were before.
do you have to write these little odds and ends
Pinkie, we liked you when you used to smile more.
do you even still care about your friends
Pinkie, you need to stop writing these.
you really need to stop writing these
Pinkie, you really need to stop writing these.
you really need to stop writing these