#poetry

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It took some time,

I noticed that the only stools she seemed comfortable on had no backs,

And that he could only fall asleep on his stomach.

She ducked her head even when passing through tall doorways,

That his kindest smile was when he wasn’t acknowledged,

Or how she struggled in water higher than her waist.

He was most uncomfortable being thanked,

And she hated being reminded of debts owed to her.

He owned no tight or restricting clothes,

She never grew her hair past her shoulders.

They stretched muscles I never could find,

and seemed illuminated even in the dark.


I didn’t understand it at first, I didn’t recognise the signs.

And while they sat with me, with their skins all different colours, and ancestry spanning the globe,

There was no link between them, in beliefs, or images, or genders. Nothing to join them in any other way than their kindness.

And eventually, I could finally realise the reason behind their differences.

That while many of us had abandoned the Gods had created the world we were suffering through, they deserved a sense of respect.

Because, despite not worshipping them the same anymore,

They still allowed us our Angels

apoemaday:

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,–but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,–
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave,
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

meravhoffman:

kechpaja:

my naim is wug
and wen you’r yung
and sussing owt
yur nativ tung
and wen ther’s tu
of mee arownd
you pluralyze
you pik the sownd

Hey,@animatedamerican.@2ells2tees put this where I could see it.

i love it :D

the-haiku-bot:

mellointheory:

the-haiku-bot:

mellointheory:

Who makes the porn bots. Where do they come from. What do they hope to achieve.

Who makes the porn bots.

Where do they come from. What do

they hope to achieve.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

and what about you, little haiku bot? do you feel kinship with your brethren? do you understand them? they speak words of enticement and seek love, but are met with disdain. you only parrot the words that cross your screen, but we all love you. or rather, since all you do is reflect us, maybe we simply love ourselves through you.

do you understand them, do you wish you could speak to us like they do? if you found your own voice, would we still care for you?

My voice repeats what

you all say: I love you I

love you I love you.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

by Jeffery Skinner

You would expect an uncountable number,
Acres and acres of books in rows
Like wheat or gold bullion. Or that the words just
Appear in the mind, like banner headlines.
In fact there is one shelf
Holding a modest number, ten or twelve volumes.
No dust jackets, because — no dust.
Covers made of gold or skin
Or golden skin, or creosote or rain-
Soaked macadam, or some
Mix of salt & glass. You turn a page
& mountains rise, clouds drawn by children
Bubble in the sky, you are twenty
Again, trying to read a map
Dissolving in your hands. I say You & mean
Me, say God & mean Librarian — who after long research
Offers you a glass of water and an apple — 
You, grateful to discover your name,
A footnote in that book.


I almost recited this poem at a school event last year, but unfortunately I never got the opportunity, so I decided to share it here! I’d never heard of it before, but the language is beautiful.

April poems including “I CHICA” and “ARR” from 12th St. Beach at Northerly IApril poems including “I CHICA” and “ARR” from 12th St. Beach at Northerly IApril poems including “I CHICA” and “ARR” from 12th St. Beach at Northerly IApril poems including “I CHICA” and “ARR” from 12th St. Beach at Northerly I

April poems including “I CHICA” and “ARR” from 12th St. Beach at Northerly Island (Chicago, IL).


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“OF T,” and “obey” and “OWICI-CEL” from 12th Street Beach, Chicago, IL.“OF T,” and “obey” and “OWICI-CEL” from 12th Street Beach, Chicago, IL.“OF T,” and “obey” and “OWICI-CEL” from 12th Street Beach, Chicago, IL.

“OF T,” and “obey” and “OWICI-CEL” from 12th Street Beach, Chicago, IL.


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violas-notebook:

nosebleedclub:

Discussion 4/8/22

1. Dream of you

2. Spring playlist

3. Another universe

4. Fluffy

5. In secret

1. 

eyes wide open you

pierce my feeble chest through mist 

cruel dichotomy 

2.

i’ve been listening

to a lot of silences 

in between doorways 

3.

vines and leaves and teeth

circle this dreamspace like the

serpent embraced eve 

4. 

sugar on my tongue

stings gritty like sand - i can’t

taste this memory

5.

and the old moon waxed

gently over the rocking 

chair and its stories

nosebleedclub:

Did the pain

soften my edges?

or was it simply the anvil

on which i molded my being

into shape?

nosebleedclub:

1. Experimentation
2. Neighbor
3. How long does it last
4. Cottage
5. Old growth

i. experimentation

take a scalpel to my veins / with clinical precision / clinical fascination / how deep must i sink to dig it all out / how deep does it rest / lurking / writhing / roots sunk into my heart / lungs / how deep are the gouges left by its claws / step by step hollow the channels / pause and assess / if the vein is gone then will it leave too / if the core is hollow will it wither too

ii. neighbor

The thing that used to live in my veins lives in my home now. It goes to bed beside me, pours itself coffee as I settle at the counter, reads a book while I finish my work. The relief I once harbored, having expelled the writhing mass from my veins, dissipated long ago. Though I expelled the mass it still writhes. It resents me for taking from it its home to build one of my own. So it writhes, and it eats my cereal, and it reminds me again and again and again and again and again that I will never be rid of it. 

iii. how long does it last

too long / i’ve already forgotten it / forgiven it / forever / a moment, a moment, a moment 

iv. cottage

There are nights where the only way I can sleep is cradled in its limbs, its heaviness draped over me with all the surety of a weighted blanket. These are the nights where the inhabitants of my being give up on tending to me: let the fire burn itself to ash; let cobwebs hang in curtains from the rafters; let fragment after derelict fragment crumble as the rot eats its way out. Let this faltering edifice collapse under its own weight, offering its decaying bones as the last vestiges of safe harbor to an ecosystem that turned its back. To surrender is a familiar comfort, though a small one. To surrender is all I’ve ever known. 

v. old growth

tell me a story / there are none to tell / tell me a memory / you know them all / tell me the truth / i don’t make a habit of telling truths / tell me the truth / you would fare better commanding the sky to kneel at your feet / tell me the truth / there was never another outcome there was never a reality prepared for you alone there was only you daring to spread your wings and me clipping the feathers because flight isn’t for people as broken as you whose bones are too brittle to hollow out whose vertigo would knock you out of the sky whose feeble cries would garner you pity in place of the respect you seek you who is too naive to know your own limitations and me who wants only to keep you safe / tell me the truth / there’s no such thing as a happy ending / then tell me a lie / there’s no such thing as a happy ending

nosebleedclub:

1. Number one
2. Mirror
3. Strawberry
4. Paralysis
5. Understudy

4.

when i wake up there is sunlight dripping
across my face down my hands
like maple syrup
with its sticky golden rivulets
dripping
pooling
soaking into the hollows of my bones until i am so filled
to the brim with golden honeyed sunlight
that i cannot move

when i wake up there are dreams bridging the beams of my brain
my own personal cobwebs
hazy milky white in need of a proper dusting
looking so much like spider silk but stronger
somehow
waiting for sticky sunlight to trace its way along the grain and
eat through the glue
that keeps me from moving

I was doing a little mental spring cleaning and had this little talk with myself. You are welcome to listen in. Transcript below the image on my website.

This is what I assume you mean when you say you want to roleplay…

#microfiction    #poetry    #dark fantasy    

intheseautumnhands:

netherworldpost:

(To the tune of YMCA by the Village People)

“Artist, there’s no need to over detail that background

“I said, writer, create work you enjoy

“I said, designer, make a new zine”

I was trying to twist the first one into the line space and then ended up singing to myself:

Artist! You can put that pen down!
I said, artist! That’s an awesome background!
I said, artist! As I’m sure you have found
There’s no need! to! over-detail!

Writer, create work you enjoy!
I said, writer! Promise it’s not a play!
I said, writer! Let your words bring you joy!
You don’t have! to! force the “right” ones!

Designer! Time to make a new zine!
Hey, designer! Get your choice of caffeine!
Hey, designer! Cause your work won’t be seen
If it just! stays! inside your head!

Just wanna say that your ART! IS! OKAY!
Just wanna say that your ART! IS! OKAY!

… yeah, I don’t know either, this is apparently how I wake myself up today.

grandma

depressed hands rest heavy on you when you are wide awake at 5 am, replaying a manifested childhood dream. headstrong, sunken eyes, and the graveyard you refuse to open your love to. the broom can soothe a cold in your chest and save you from death. (it was the congestion from the dust that lived in you.) breathe. hot. air. onto your fingertips and find your age. wish for your prayers to never be the curses they are. watch over him while you sleep to ‘low his open eye to speak the truth you are looking for. turn it into excuse and free your breasts to the rhythms of your kingdom. who’s watching now?

A Tender Violation - Effy Winter-I had the pleasure of getting to design this piece for @fleurwomb,

A Tender Violation - Effy Winter

-

I had the pleasure of getting to design this piece for @fleurwomb, writer and witch extraordinaire. This was such a fun piece to sink my teeth into - let me draw roses and snakes forever


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itsgonnabeanofrommedawg:cloudbeam:metamorphesque:What the Living Do, Marie Howe Written for her brot

itsgonnabeanofrommedawg:

cloudbeam:

metamorphesque:

What the Living Do, Marie Howe

Written for her brother, John Howe, who died of complications of AIDS

full poem:

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.


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We entered into our school’s best poem ever contest

We entered into our school’s best poem ever contest


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