this poem is not about you.

devil.

i could name you as such but you might take it as a compliment,
a concept of your element,
and place yourself upon it as if it were your pedestal and you were someone of importance.

this is not a jab—
i am simply saying that you don’t
know when to quit when you are wrong;
i’ve learned your song corruption
and you play it very well,
those sounds of hell
before the curtain shifts that soft and pretty little skit
to cover chaos.

yes, you wear manipulation on your fingertips like knives
and write scars against your thighs to gather pity
as if your lies meant more than the pain
they hold in their arms,
clasped tight against heaving chests.

and oh, how you are just like a politician
repeating statements and sentences,
working people like pawns with hands
that shake in the darkness but tremble when you speak—

and those lips,
those lips you hold so dear,
those lips that drip poison so sickly sweet
that the smell is cloying from half a continent away,
those lips that blend blood with crocodile tears
with every movement of the mouth,
those lips

that don’t know whether or not to smile or scowl so they sit even
set in your face like the joker of apathy
where you could rip any moment in a fury of cruel insanity.

why you believe that red is a colour permitting bloodshed in a fit of passion
is something i do not know,
yet you find comfort in dyes to hide deeds of deviance
under soil-coloured strands of permittance,
and instead of compassionate reassurance
you ripped her heart without flinching,
somehow inching your way into pity,
expecting history to replace apology.

oh, you.

i never used to hate you
but it’s really hard not to learn to.

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  • #poetry #spilled ink #rejectscorner #alt lit
  • 2 days ago
  • 4
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  • #artists on tumblr #paint #clouds #pretty #sky #Easter
  • 3 days ago
  • 2
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  • #hipster #indie #retro #boho #travel
  • 4 days ago
  • 3

microcosms

i heard a story about a blueberry tree
and i fucked up trying to find it
you see i was tired and tired
and dying in wet socks that stank of the ocean
and you were ignoring my peril

when the tide came in i was neck deep
with an ankle stuck tight where the water did
seep from the cracks in my chest to the cracks
down below and i could have been king
had you taken me to the shore

and the story i heard of the blueberry tree
was a lie i believed in frantic disposition
of greed and an impertinent temperament
that grew from a seed of design
on the side of the railroad line

and you had been caring for it all along;
little girl yet the queen of the fronds

i remember a story of a blueberry tree
and i fucked up trying to find it
you see i was tired and tired
and dying in wet socks that stank of the ocean
and you drowned me deep in the well

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  • #tide #water #blueberry #ocean #seed
  • 6 days ago
  • 5

acosmist

you told me silence was ecstacy

and i said you were wrong
and wasn’t it plain that i asked you
wasn’t it plain that i couldn’t bleed

it’s a killing thing
that salty sweat
from ocular corners
of the moon

when it sees you
oh

didn’t i warn you love
didn’t i warn you good

and you were there
and you placed my hand in yours
i felt the sweat under my thighs
and you smiled
oh

didn’t i warn you love
didn’t i warn you good

and you told me i was lying see
and i said you were wrong
and didn’t my face match my name
wasn’t it plain that i couldn’t bleed

it was plain that i couldn’t bleed

cut your teeth
break my ties
bind your hands
blind my eyes

touch the sky
shine in rain
rip through skin
smile through pain

oh
didn’t i warn you love

didn’t i warn you love
didn’t i warn you good

didn’t i leave you there

(and so we bled the sun)

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  • #love #warning #eyes #rain #sky #skin #pain #cut #face #bleed #legs #moon #ecstasy #spilled ink
  • 1 week ago
  • 6

connection

are you on standby
when the daylight takes your heart
or is it something so
simultaneous
with all eyes on you
and you
disappear

I have no words to say
but oh

if you crashed your car into your mothers house
would you throw the keys
would you run
if you crashed your car and bled through your mouth
would you stick your lips full of cigarettes
would you run

would you lose the keys
would you run to me
with rocks on the window
and blood on your knees

would you give me your skin
and the dark of the night
and my eyes on the stars
and my hands on you

yes I could be blind
and your smile would have
my eyes

hey
I like the sound of your breath
and the sound of the sheets
around you and your dreams
and me

so if you crashed your car into your mothers house
would you throw the keys
would you run
if you crashed your car and bled through your mouth
would you lick your lips after cigarettes
would you run
would you run
would you run
if the sun came round

and the sound of the trees
and the wind
and the sirens
and your quiet
your quiet
you are

and my eyes on you

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  • #sky #sun #car #keys #sheets #dreams #stars
  • 1 week ago
  • 8

to the young man in the suit who thought i owed him my time

stop telling me you want to get to know me; you don’t. take that suit and shove it where your momma should have taught you manners.

i don’t need a boy to tell me i am beautiful—i’ve been on that route before and my waist is still dented from the way he (or you, since it makes no difference) had pushed me in, not knowing that these fingers were like bullets, five on each side, plus ten in the mind.

and you, with your sweet-talkin’ honey-tongue, need to learn that when a girl brushes you off gently, it still means she’s not interested.

am i friendly? yes, i smile if you are courteous; yes, i thank you when your legs are tucked clear of the aisle; yes i’ll direct you to the nearest bus stop if you need it.

but friendly does not mean passive, and while i am too nice for my own good, you do not have the right to badger me. do not follow me off the bus; do not flatter me with pretty talk, and do not make it seem like i am obligated to give you anything more than my name.

i do not know you; you are a stranger playing games, yet if i even give you that much, you still do not have power over me.

you can take your expectations; i don’t owe you a thing.

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  • #pocketsfullofsand #spilled ink #alt lit #mysogyny #feminism
  • 2 weeks ago
  • 2

to a woman who wears richness in her soul

you are golden-brown in warmth,
hair tucked into a knot torn loose by frenzy,
spilling over strong shoulders and arms,
fingers worked and chapped yet soft
in hand.

it’s been so long, and I believe I’m daring
enough to dive in
to the grass like a sea of green foam,
where the sunlight touches the leaves like fingertips
on grass-stained skin;
and you will be there.

show the sky the way you move,
that dance where you coiled yourself
around pillars of bark and stone—
snakelike yet somber
and simple;

who used to play you, I wonder,
fingers on ribs blanketed in moss,
keys covering coarse bits of the heart
that sat out and weathered the rain
two many times
too many.

you are the golden light of sun on silent trees
with roots reaching deep
and branches outstretched to the purple skies;

you are glorious,
you are wonderful—

you are more when you are free.

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  • #pocketsfullofsand #woman #moss #trees #branches #prose #freedom
  • 2 weeks ago
  • 1

twice the man, double the discomfort

hello sir-i-met-on-the-sidewalk-
with-your-hair-swooped-lightly-over-your-eye-
and-leather-notebook-in-hand.

perhaps you wish to write a poem,
a love poem,
with your hands like you would sculpt
the earth,
their minds,
with ink as dirt under your nails,

but instead your grimace paints your hands
with pressured whiteness and this ink is
red as blood and purple,
poison caught like words within your throat

and it is hard to tell the difference between the sound
of spines being cracked like books
written with dark paint in mind
like separate rooms and lives found
when glances from bench to bench become
wrinkled brows, downturned mouth and elbows
pointing to an area of some importance.

maybe you were disconcerted—
I understand
it’s hard to realize that are you afraid to see
two men
more in love
than you’ve ever been.

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  • #pocketsfullofsand #rejectscorner #alt lit #lgbtq #love #words #notebook #blood #ink #poison #man #discomfort #homophobia #gay #men
  • 2 weeks ago
  • 6

I learned my true name in a
daydream and wrote it
on my ankle during class;
black ink on white skin

feigning a yawn, I licked
my hand and rubbed it
off again, and you stared
at me as if I was a creature
of the likes that you had never
seen

I saw your name in the smudge
my lips moved in silence
and you were the same;
no words

just a connection that left
the microphone chirping
like crickets

and secrets on my skin

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  • #pocketsfullofsand #spilled ink #rejectscorner #alt lit #name
  • 2 weeks ago
  • 4

On Eggs.

Plates clink against forks and I am quiet
while looking at you.
Your face is somber and there are crumbs
tucked into that bit of a beard
you’ve been trying to grow; grease
on your chin and oh
isn’t it funny to watch the air cloud
thick with sour smoke—

and the coffee is black
and the chair tilted back
and you are twisting your napkin like
dishcloths wrung before wiping the tables
beside us.

"would you like to scramble"
he says open ended,
or so he tries.

No, it does not interest me that you
are a fourth year English student writing papers on James Joyce and
simplicity;
you with seven dollar tea
and coffee with a name that panders to the poor of pity—
Shakespeare said it best of yolks and zeros,
so perhaps this nought is naught
for wear and so are little men with egos.

"would you like to scramble"

See, to be true I do not know why I sit across from you—
you who has made my hair limp with your words,
for it may only be 9am but your breath is stained with whiskey while you
stare down at your cup in distaste,
tilt it in examination,
watch the liquid presentation
and my impression is less your profound wisdom and false excessive tact
and more of what lies under face
when the cards are simple,
stacked.

"would you like to scramble"
he says.

No I would not like that fork shoved any deeper
than your eyes graze my skin, wandering,
as such where men scour the earth for faults and flaws,
pores and imperfections,
small vulnerabilities.
You will not take me from this place
with your hair slicked back and your sleeves rolled up
exposing forearms of a different breed than I had ever seen—
I do not want to dance with you;
I do not want to run away with you either.

Instead I will sit in this seat that creaks with every shift
and I will watch you wipe your chin,
lean back and grin,
and you will say those words.

And I will ignore them.

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  • #wisdom #mysogyny #feminism #patriarchy #eggs
  • 3 weeks ago
  • 5

[A novel is] a paper where your thesis is that these people are real, and you have to prove it.

Maggie Stiefvater (via peaceloveandafropuffs)
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  • 1 month ago
  • 13028

If you’re a writer and you see this post, stop what you’re doing.

kingcitywitch:

mark-helsing:

WHENEVER YOU SEE THIS POST ON YOUR DASH, STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND WRITE ONE SENTENCE FOR YOUR CURRENT PROJECT.

Just one sentence. Stop blogging for one minute and write a single sentence. It could be dialogue, it could be a nice description of scenery, it could be a metaphor, I don’t care. The point is, do it. Then, when you finish, you can get back to blogging.

If this gets viral, you might just have your novel finished by next Tuesday.

Well, it works. XD

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  • 1 month ago
  • 58378

If the emptiness filled up like snow settles, I would have been stronger by now.

I carry sadness on my back instead and I know sometimes I sift quarters through my fingers like sand as I listen to violins echo in tunnels that feel more like open landscapes; I have seen better angels on the side of the street than in my own heart.

Would you question why I am quiet, why I do not speak, why I get so caught on words that wrap around my tongue and coat my throat with sandpaper; yes, I could have told you about the freckle on my eyelid, the curl that perches on my head in defiance, the way my fingers cramp into fists at every mention of his name, but I am tired and without grace, and I am here with shaking hands aching to be tucked tight and away and you do not look my way even when I am more visible than I’ve ever been.

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  • #pocketsfullofsand #writing #poetry #poem #spilled ink #rejectscorner #alt lit #prose #thoughts #snow #winter #cold #angels #quiet #heart #tired #city #hipster #indie #boho #retro
  • 1 month ago
  • 4
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  • #thesedroppedthoughts #ask #answered
  • 1 month ago
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