broken walls and narratives

A not so revolutionary blog about feminism, socialism, activism, travel, nature, life, etc.

Archive for the tag “writing”

This Old House

This Old House

H. Bradford


Paint blood on the door.

They’re coming for you,

and your soul,

and your sins.

Howling for more than you can possibly give.

Prepare your confessions for the crimes that were his.

Take the lashing,

bow low your thick head.

Hold down the old house,

its your will

and their wind.

Give them some fat, give them some skin.

If it all falls apart,

no one will win.

“That Very Old House” art by Murphy Elliot


A Poem about Toads


The toad always frowns,

With its head to the ground

And glossy brown eyes

That look a little dead.

It can barely hop.

And can barely hope.

So, it shoves it long face with worms and dirt.

It is a creature of the earth.

Its eyes never look up to the stars

Or ahead to the distant horizon

Beyond to the dazzle of the city

It sees only mud

Or walls of reeds

And only speaks in sighs of resignation.

The toad’s world is danger, tragedy, and torment.

Love is a long rejection.

Life, a tall hurdle between sleep and death.

Frogs long to be princes.

Toads just long for kisses.

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