Jump to content


Popular Content

Showing most liked content since 01/14/17 in all areas

  1. 11 points
    *ok I have no idea what this is, but I saw this art on instagram titled "Blind Woman in Love with Medusa" and I just melted??? it was so beautiful and cute?? so I wrote this thing down. first draft.* I should be dead, really, I should his blade should have slit my charcoal-gray neck in one raw, stinging swipe pulsing, spitting thin liquid crimson his shield baring my repulsive reflection, the one I despise so much the one I hardly ever see because I try so hard not to look. I should be dead, really, but seeing myself ugly and monstrous in his shield gave me the fury of Hades (no pun intended) and I struck him down. now I am alone again in my lifeless garden the only flowers here are the ones tucked gently behind a young maiden’s ear she is cold, gray stone now, and I have memorized her features the flowers are violets. I do not know how much time passes after that and I truly do not care two more mindless travelers stumble into my garden two more mindless statues adorn the withering grass. but then one day she comes a woman’s footfalls treading lightly over stone I do not see her, but I feel her anticipated breaths in the air, almost scared, almost intrigued and I wait for her to come into the light to scream, freeze in shock at my hideous visage the writhing nest atop my head my ashen, hollow cheeks my dark eyes, deep like Tartarus with monsters lurking in the abyss the one Athena condemned. but she stares and stares, unaffected, beautiful, delicate and I stare and stare, wondering, grotesque, pained I realize, now, that she is not looking, her eyes are milky and useless. no, she is feeling and smelling and tasting and listening but not seeing, never seeing I laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh, “has somebody sent you to kill me? you are the perfect weapon. immune to my ugliness.” she tilts her head, chestnut hair falling in a sheet “nobody sent me. I am no killer. I am curious, however, as to why you are.” “I do not try,” I say “my face is hideous enough. whoever sees me is finished, and I cannot control it.” I think of the maiden with the violets in her hair and how full of life she seemed now trapped in an eternal wide-eyes raised-brows open-mouthed fear. I tell the truth. “An unwanted curse,” the woman says unseeing eyes blinking, “I am sorry.” “what ever for?” she smiles slightly, and a giddy uncertainty takes to trembling wing in my chest. “for nobody ever taking the time to ask if you created your garden on purpose.” I almost smile back, but I remember that she cannot see. “either way, it is not beautiful,” I say. “it is not,” she says, “but the fact that you know that, is.” I smile this time and I know it is ugly, gray and unnatural but she doesn’t see of course she doesn't mind. the woman leaves and comes back the next day and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next and she tells me about the way the salty sea smells after a storm and I tell her about the way the leaves look just before they flutter to the ground like butterflies on gilded wings she brings me a woven basket of grapes and nectarines we laugh at the way the juice drips down our chins, warm and sweet she tells me my laugh is beautiful. I tell her that she is beautiful. she is silent. whenever she is with me and a traveler approaches, unknowing of my danger she directs them away so they do not lay eyes on me. my garden does not grow at all in an entire season. when I tell her this, I find that I have begun to weep and I cannot stop she embraces me and kisses me lightly on my marble-cold cheek. the warmth of her delicate, rose petal lips stays on my skin until she comes back the next day. she arrives, carrying nothing she sits on the grass next to me she says, “I love you.” she takes my hand. I say, “I love you,” and I almost begin to weep again but I tell myself that it would be foolish. then she begins to weep instead, a quivering smile on her lips, tears clinging like dewdrops to her lashes and I tell her about the way the sun looks as it rises in shades of rose and marigold. she says, “you’re beautiful,” and I do not protest. I gather her in my arms and hold her close she does not protest.
  2. 11 points
    every sentence you speak hums against my throat: you still awake? Your voice is drowning out my thoughts, I would let you go if I could remember how And Even if I could sleep, every Dream sounds like your flower scented voice You say you dream of me, of butterbeer and scented candles. but I Know. You're just telling me cuz you Feel so Alone. And who would dream of blue skies when there are bright stars above them? Each star twinkling like the jewels on your diamond necklace. Each bone glittering, osteoblast gemstones, blood like red dye number eight tattooed over R#3 hued muscle but i will say to you: don't walk away. not now. For then I will see the jewels in your necklace were glass instead of stars and your bones mere calcium instead of gems and your eyes, love, were only as full of the universe as i wanted them to be Our goodbye was a slow burn The world turned out of my hands and swept you away in the wildfire And as I tried to cut the stars from your eyes, you cried out Would kisses rend you, tear heart-flesh from rib-cage? Oh, our sweet, Sweet vanity. Wearing your presence like rubies, garnets, our love was a fire opal. We are rough and jagged, uncut diamonds scratching once smooth skin. the good ones, despite jarring metaphor, step back with 'are you sure?' but you, you were a good one in how you stepped forward and up, to reach the top of the pedestal you placed me on and the pedestal i made for you fell to earth along with he sky, with the stars, as you wept and those fiery comets dripped out with your tears the shattered pieces are a stronger monument to Pain than the smooth marble was to Love leave the architecture to the greek, my god, and don't bloody bare feet on fragments of my shattered heart that the ones before you ground to glittering dust follow not my path; I will not pave bloodstone, but rather marigolds. for marigolds are blooming suns that burst alive in the velvet sky; crystalline stars of burning passion. Swirling Van Gogh yellows will sweep you away with glittering shards of glass Ha! That's all we are And ever were: Brushstrokes and gemStones. The art Medium. Stars winking, remote and alone. Solitary titans, like those we used to be; or, perhaps, nebulas clusters like who we are now. Clinging to faint wisps of hope that this universe, this vast fresco of burning cyan and cushioned crimson, will one day take pity on us pitiful ones. and yet, statistically: space is more empty than full And even if we say otherwise, we are more empty than full, too. and so we are ever reaching, ever grasping: empty creatures striving to fill the void swallowing ground-up glass to make the stars to fill it can only do so much, we've learned that and the stars that aren’t bring blood from the walls of my throat as I try to choke them down i touch your cheek and Hope that all the Stars you've swallowed were real Because if they weren't, you'll be more broken than before And I, tattered as I am, will be left to glue together your pieces and plywood, sum of scraps, holds no candle to fine wine-stained cherry At the same time, too many metaphors leave sweet crumbs that scatter. Too many metaphors break us into idealized clay-footed statues, and we forget that we are only human in the end. Well, my love. I Believe we both Know the Time has come And so, dear one, adieu. The Collective Slam Poem: Nov/Dec 2017 was written by: @drowntown @queenie_flower @X_of_Coins @Short_comedian @Hydra ’Liope @WanderingMonster @Beautifulgarbage @O. Captain @septemberskies_ @mouse @writeandleft @conradbirdie @Apollo's Lover @thepensword @Over the Rainbow @flamecoloredglowstick Thank you for contributing to this masterpiece. It has been really fun seeing how we all created the poem. I hope to continue collaborating with all of you this year. The next Collective Slam Poem will be hosted by @drowntown. May your 2018 cure your writers block! -Hydralio
  3. 7 points
    talking to someone from childhood— oh, a hundred, a thousand years ago— and remembering the sleepovers & the daydreams and the “these help me fall asleep” dreams. i’m asking if she remembers the time i dangled a caterpillar in front of her face, the time i destroyed her fairyhouses, the sleepover/pajama party (elementary school innocence & how badly i wanted to kiss her, didn’t want to admit it to myself but it was there), the time she asked how much i weighed, somewhere in all of this, and then we stopped being friends until she saw me at work, and recognized me through the tied-back hair, through the name change, through all of it. she laughs and says “i don’t remember any of that.” author's note: i want to publish this on tumblr even tho it's like 3 days old at this point but. shrugs. idk if i like it enough to post.
  4. 7 points
    dear mom. no. mom- no. hey mom. it's me, *****. i'm just here to tell you... you can do this, you can. i'm non-binary. I know it's a little strange to hear that and i'm sorry if it startled you but i just thought you should know. it means i don't identify with either male or female (the gender binary) and i'd be more comfortable with they/them pronouns. that's not all actually (sorry). in terms of my orientation i'm asexual panromantic. it means that i don't feel sexual attraction (asexual) but i feel romantically attracted to people regardless of gender (panromantic). almost done you probably have questions so here's an faq: are you sure? yes, yes i am. I have been sure for a long time. wouldn't it be easier if you just picked one, gay or straight? i can't, it's not how i was made. are you confused? is this just a phase? no it most certainly is not, and i am not confused at all well, do you require a pronoun change? it's what would make me most comfortable, so yes. what about a name change? maybe later. doesn't it feel nicer to have that off your chest? love, ***** author's note (bc i don't see a slot for it anymore): i'm planning to come out to my mom this Saturday, which is also my birthday! i get too anxious when i have to make out loud announcements so i decided to do this by email and this is the rough draft. i'm nervous but i also can't wait. <3
  5. 6 points
    iron & stone one day, i will ask myself why everything i am is laced with Blood, dark red like the moment despair turns into anger, like the instant before you die pour it into the hallow places in my collarbones, feed them hemoglobin; drain your veins, build up your marrow. paint my skin with it, open wounds in my metaphoric cardiac muscle, drink deep unravel my history like a spool of thread (with a skinning knife) spill my guts in crimson embroidered organs, unhinge your jaw, find my death-(rattle) at the end, (snake) teach me how to dance in death’s arms, i will need to at my wedding (father-daughter dance), should someone ever fall in love with Blood over bone, flesh over wire-frame-posable-skeleton tear off my cult-robe and peel back my skin all at once, rip from me Witch, and Queer, and Flesh, but leave me Blood, and Bone, and Death you can’t, you see. my Self is tattooed onto the surface of my bones: Blood runes when you kiss me for the first time i want you to taste the blood from my chapped lips, be disillusioned from perfection, be grounded, taste earth and take root behind my sternum one day, i will tell myself why everything i am is soaked with Blood, dark red like the moment you fall in love, like the instant you decide you want to live [Author's Note: Sorry about the Heavy Blood Symbolism I took a Homestuck Classpect test in like 2015 and have been hung up on my god tier (Mage of Blood) since then I just really love the Blood aspect]
  6. 6 points
    Hey Slammers, Art Director Jacqui here. Question, have you ever doodled on a sticky note? For like ever we have been kicking around the idea of a low-stakes ongoing art prompt for the Slam. Something that would be just for fun and open to all levels of artistic capability; from stick figures to Rembrandts. We'd put out a topic and y'all would post in the thread your interpretation on a sticky note. So if the topic were "Sea Life Formal Attire," someone might post something like this: What do you think? Interested?
  7. 5 points
    space, black tablecloth (and spilled salt), your starfields shivering behind the light pollution when i was young your immensity terrified me but one day, after loving after losing: you became a comfort where would i be? without your existential enormity and your nightfalling curtain call unwrapping staticky expanse? whose to conquer but mine? whose to conquer but those who know death, know it for what it is, who know it and have held it as a thing heavy and real and cold as a stone in their hands, know it and still dare turn skyward for answers? a man does not pray anymore after that (death and space are inextricable, are twined together in the same rope that contains life and earth and sea) i had no idea. you remind me of home, as freezing and boiling and toxic and friendly as any familial spat you do not scare me. you soar on a canvas (pitch like ocean depths) black like nothing, because you are statistically more nothing than anything (and perhaps we, too: more empty space than things) it is as if you come from the end, and the beginning, and whatever lies between you are not a god, a titan, a deity neither made from man's feeble wishes nor of anything man can comprehend you are more roiling and alive than any sea’s waves than any beryl-vibrant canopies (probability itself keels and chokes at your feet) you arrive bearing tomorrow on apollo's back (apollo who has nothing earthly to fear seizes when daring to comprehend the cosmos) i have marveled at everything you have deemed show me, have humbled beneath eclipse and quasi-stellar radio source youre so much more than any earthly location the celestial sunsong, the solar astrochemistry within supernovae you are not a deity just as polaris, you are as steady as orbital fluctuation you are nothing without the sum of your parts but you are indefinitely infinite, our little spinning top insignificant in its star-spun flight paths within the visible universe how massive you are, how humanly finite (viewfinding opal eyes: how weak and yet icarus had to have something to shoot for) o, sunspots, you are the hydrogen and energy too beautiful to look at for long (without risking blindness) and yet: blindness, pitch dark, natural state of everything that has ever, will ever have existed without you we wither as one with flora, with fauna space hurled together a haphazard goldilocks (everything dies, eventually. everything dies.) with you with inconceivable odds flourishes life, death, space, earth, sea (components woven together in the same rope) this is why, starfield, you are unlikely gravity, dream-maker why you refuse to pull taffy-linked planets too thin why you burst nova like every celestial sunsong i have praised many things, but you are more than any helios of short-sighted civilizations that within the sky found the sun the only thing to fear (and not the spaces between countless stars) by my weak human eyes, you are the very end.
  8. 5 points
    yellowing light and busy hands. i like your eyes, I search crowds for the back of your neck. bet you didn't know. you make me laugh, you make me feel happy so i ask for this light. light and your time, light and your time. i don't ask for a whole lot from you. i try to try to be a better person. is change a myth fed to us by bright colors and cheerful music? I'll never know the answers i don't know the questions, either i'm letting it all settle into my skin: dust suspended mid-air, particles of light, your hands on the piano, stargazing blankets, but watch for spiders until all the film is exposed and i can make sense of what was of what could be we'll see it all in glorious technicolor connect the dots, constellation
  9. 5 points
    i know we're a week in but 2018's gonna be the year of me insisting on getting therapy bc my parents' "just get over it!" isnt gonna cut it lmaoooo - but more positively: hey! i already came all this way to get better, time to finish that journey up, physically + mentally + emotionally!!
  10. 5 points
    that wednesday afternoon he took my heart into his palms: flick of a wrist breaking it into two, a fortune cookie snap. he extracts the futures from the blood stained caves of my insides, he reads all that fear written into all that paper. tucks back my hair. brushes his knuckles over my own. i strike his cheeks with all of the ways my eyes can’t land on his own; every fruit tree withers without its butterfly. “bear, you aren’t used to this. you aren’t used to all this love, little moth,” he smiles. he wraps his arms around me and my stowed away moth wings. this is the last time i see him; he is unraveling his arms from my body. he is walking away. he hardly waits to wipe his hands free of the crumbs, newly sweetened, for all the birds to peck up swallow. i pick peaches off the ground now. misplaced the fortunes in some suitcase heart of hope-sent boy. only gray bubble text message like cloud on a white snow sky: “we’ll stay together, tomorrow. i promise.” peaches bruise on the soil from which they grew. tomorrow never arrives. live the cliche: it’s always today. spit the peach pits. lick your lips. pat them into hard december soil gray. do not wash your knees. grow all these trees. put every broken bone of your body back into the bag of your skin. in the evening, lit by man-lit gaslight pray it’ll fit together. pray all the fear away. but first, plant the trees. always plant the trees with both knees knelt, dirty.
  11. 5 points
    original: http://cicadamag.com/index.php?/forums/topic/9321-dont-write-me-out/&tab=comments#comment-9297 anyways this is a poem about a homophobic, transphobic ex and im bitter as fuck kjsdkgjdfs i almost ran into the guy this poem was about in the college cafeteria a month or so ago and almost had a panic attack lmao god i Strongly Dislike him wow Eat The Rich Cishet Men i. listening to a new song on repeat, somehow i never get tired of the tune. i thought of you. how free i was (fired up and shot down, independent of your excuses and horribly casual 'im not gay and neither are you' or tiring 'youre a fucking girl' and 'why be proud of your identity? it's just an identity.' i didn't try should have known not never to reach out to you again.) ii. i talk a lot (either i always did i will not apologize for it or and you are starting to respond less. thank god.) and i apologize for my excitement. know that you don't deserve me this time, there's no answer. iii. local policy throws up firewalls between sound sites, sound bytes and half-rate speakers. i never was good at coding, and your language is one i don't know how to read. if i want to learn how to read. (silence has never been a thing i could deal with well. it radiates like static from your lips. but i don't need you, and you don't deserve pretty sugarcoated excuses for refusal to change.) iv. (am i falling out of touch? are you? you'd better fucking bet.) i forget you were my best friend. it's no fault of mine that anything has changed but you can barely look at me. spun glass threads hold us together. they're cracking. (thank god.) v. i wrote you out of a screenplay, suddenly wistful triumphant as hell (because for a good couple days i had forgotten you existed. written words made me remember) and i looked out the window, heart twisting. jumping with possibility. vi. we're in a state of 'never' and it was n't always meant to go this way. (we don't exchange words the way we used to, you know? maybe it's a result of finally standing up for myself.) vii. maybe it's because of what today is. (i forgot.) i still don't remember, thank god. do you regret anything, my dear? i don't. either respect my identity, or get out. viii. i reached out, fired up, (it had been a number of weeks since i had seen your face) shot down. graced with one-word courtesy, i didn't reach out again. why miss someone who's only done you wrong? vix. (i can deal with losing cutting you off. again. i can not deal with the cold and dismissiveness you throw at me, because we both know who's the better man.) at each fork and crossroads, i should never have offered meant every single 'we can still be friends' that i said. vx. i heard, a year later, that you'd switched programs and dropped out of fucking college for no apparent reason (or at least reasons i didn't care enough to pursue.) is this divine retribution? karma, maybe.
  12. 5 points
    My boyfriend woke up at 1:47 in the morning to draw a picture of me and a random dude in a speedo. He didn't remember doing it but his sketchbook and the voicemail on his friends phone say otherwise. The sketch is surrounded by notes about how hot I am????? He's quite the character.
  13. 5 points
    Coat: Disgustingly purple. There is an excuse in the pockets. Shirt: Orange with threads of rainbow plaid and creamy buttons up the front. It’s a boy’s if you check the tag. Skirt: Ties at the waist, swishes below the knees. Floating. Hair: Lots where it shouldn’t be and less where it should. Skin: Making space for weight. I look the most like me and the least like me. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Author's note: This is a poem about all the mixed feelings I get from my clothing and gender presentation. I'm supposedly a cis girl, but I also don't like it when people perceive me as girly. I feel at home in skirts but also in "boy's" clothes and it makes me so confused. It's fun.
  14. 5 points
    the job: placate 40 screaming children for five hours so the adults could have an Elegant Christmas Soiree [read: it was a mansion with a basement full of yelling kids that i was the Supervising Adult for] the reality: -oh god -there were more than fucking 40 -"why does my coat always smell like vinegar?" -there was rice fucking e v e r y w h e re -so of course: a child, stuffing a sock with rice- "they'll never suspect us here" -the sofas never fuckign stood a chance -me: NO JUMPING five goddamn children, jumping: SCREEEEEEE -henry caught on quickly to Furry Bullshit Jokes apparently -me: stop telling me to 'stay' im not a dog henry: yes you are -will was a fucking MENACE his mom basically went 'make him eat or else' and will just. bounced into the fucking void i guess -me: eat your bacon will, bouncing on the fucking sofa: YOU DONT CONTROL ME -henry is way too fuckign good at foosball for age 7 -the host: heres your party favor! me: oh thanks have a nice night! me, later, opening it: HOLY FUUUUUCK -(it was a handmade blown glass ornament big as a softball) -today on: this lady is fucking rich -the house: huge, decorated like a professional was hired to sell the house and stage it well -ok she had a fucking TEAM of chefs and shit running around making the food, serving the food, cleaning up after people's plates, et fucking cetera what the hell -i got to that party and i was like. me, a Poor: i do not belong here. people like me do not go to parties like these -even if technically i was Diet Crowd Control -the desserts were fancy as hell and lactose intolerance be damned i was gonna eat that aesthetic bullshit -everything was fancy -anyways she offered me a babysitting job because i Charmed her kid -me, huge eyed: y e s -her kids are pretty well behaved considering -except -ok so the patio was open -but sealed off from outside with plastic sheeting -apparently she's not concerned with a massive fucking energy bill -the kids: let's go under the plastic sheeting into the outside and drown ourselves in the pool -ok that's hyperbole but s e r i ou s ly -the dAD -had FUCKING GUITARS -HANGING ON THE WALL -A DISASTER WAITING TO HAPPEN -god it was so noisy ok -i heard horror stories of last year's party tho -apparently two Squads of children discovered that one of the rooms locked from the inside -(oh no, you might be saying. this already sounds bad. you would be correct) -so. these two warring factions (first grade boys, first grade girls) lock themselves in and the babysitters out -and proceed to have fucking fistfights -FISTFIGHTS -fight club: 7 year old edition -jesus christ -im so glad the worst we had was a floor absolutely covered in rice -and ok maybe some minor casualties -aka: orange shirt kid literally take off your socks to stop falling the fuck over on the hardwood -will, the problem child, called me mom once -and then about passed out in my lap -me: what do i do with this -hey another thing you shouldnt have in a room full of kids: the Hot Glue Gun -literally five seconds in and someone had glued a sock to the table -i was drop-dead exhausted by the end of this Experience, christ -at least the money i got paid was worth it lmao
  15. 5 points
    today, robert koch is granted sainthood by a search engine and tuberculosis resists, makes a resurgence says msf and this brachylogy recalls snippets of half-forgotten language and suppressed empathy it is 9 degrees celsius, 16 km/h winds and in yemen, fighting and starvation still. then stillness. here, i am quietly pleased with the perfection of squares and comforted by the disconnect between news and understanding with mathematical certainty, they say there will be peace and health this year in d.c., inconvenient truths play on the radio and the politician adjusts the volume to his agenda today’s coffee spills, appropriately bitter there will be peace and health this year they say. the bullets simmer in our lungs // Author's note: This is another logopoetics experiment. (Thanks @woundedBirds, again.) The prompt I used can be found here: http://uutpoetry.tumblr.com/post/7127670815/logopoetics-project. I'd love to see other people try it out!
  16. 5 points
    If you've been reading my work for a while, you'll know that for a while, I mentioned someone I called Jason of the Argonauts in my poetry for a while...Well, he's a real person, and he just joined the Slam on Friday!
  17. 5 points
    it is quiet outside the echoes remain in our minds of shoes squeaking on gym floors and feet pounding the court of shouts of anger of screams of victory it is the latest part of night but the bus rattles on and we stay sprawled across the seats too-long legs stretched and tangled together as eyes try to catch flickers of the passing-by it is spilled-ink black outside the jittering windows but silhouettes can be seen faces bathed in addictive blue yellow-white rolls over bodies mirroring the mountains we pass it is simply existing together in this space half-heard music overlapping conversations memories of laughter crowding out the groans of the bus as it limps us home
  18. 5 points
    how many animals cry over the dead? when they eat the bodies, is it mourning? do they have gods; do they debate their existence? are their languages capable of sarcasm? did wooly mammoths tell jokes to each other like in Ice Age? what do they call each other? what’s a lion to a bear? do they know the ecosystem the same way we do? will they stop eating when the ground cannot take it? do they teach their young respect for their world? for their prey? what would a dog tell us if it could talk? can they still hear the planet screaming? could we ever hear? would we have been better off if bonobos were our ancestors? is it wise to keep looking deeper into the sea? will we find aliens before we find every species on our planet? how long will the planet last, anyway? would octopi write manifestos on ethics or dungeons and dragons campaigns? how closely related to earthly cephalopods are those aliens from Arrival? if we can weave with spider silk, can we write with octopus ink?
  19. 5 points
    every day my understudy sits up in my bed and walks across the carpet, rehearsing her lines. she slips into green jeans and walks across the hall looking for something to live for. some days it takes twenty minutes to stand up, and on those days, my understudy makes up her face. she outlines her eyes in black, pretty girl war paint. my understudy walks across college campuses and listens to the songs that direct the dances she will do that day. she’ll smile at professors, because she knows that somewhere deep inside, we truly love this moment, these books and words that we try to read, that my understudy pretends to have studied. my understudy smiles at my rapist when he sits next to me and rubs my knee, telling me it’s my fault we aren’t happy, that we are so very hipster beautiful together, that they could make movies about the barista poet and the librarian poet, opening a bookstore and cuddling cats in dim bed, kissing. soft. ladybugs and summer parks and backpacking through europe. open windows. that’s who we are. my understudy nods, says silently, we are open windows to jump from? my understudy nods when he says that i should be happy that i am alive. my understudy stays inside my body, while i float away. i climb among the rafters, closer against the sky. my knees covered in cloudy dust. the wood sends slivers down my fingertips, and through my mind, and i climb across the roof and i look towards the sky. my understudy, she holds me like a balloon. she carries me with her, always. my understudy holds me down every time i curl up around my migraine mind, when i wish i had more bottles than i have. more alcohol, more pills, more anything. she looks at orion and sees more than his bow and arrows. she sees personal mythology. and somedays well, the first poem in my capstone chapbook. critiques welcome, as always,
  20. 5 points
    dear, you're built of hydrogen and energy, too beautiful to look at directly for too long-- and you've got sunspots because you're a star, because you're a heavenly body, because icarus had to have something to shoot for-- i'll love the sun if it's the last thing i do.
  21. 4 points
    heartbeats. if there is not room for all the things you need to say shrink down to the size of insignificance and pay attention to what you're made of. atrium. here you will find scar tissue and building block memories in a castle of too-sharp pain. there is something beautiful in broken things, learn to appreciate it and maybe maybe maybe some of the loose puzzle pieces will fall into place. veins. the things you tried to forget are here. when she doesn't talk to you anymore, come here. when you're afraid of losing him, come here. wrap your shoulders in warm-breathed nights of unholy confession, in arms covered in sharpie because we're too young for tattoos. live in the past for a moment or two while you still have the chance. ventricles. step inside and put your hands behind your back clasp your fingers like you're trying to keep from falling apart and watch. if depression is a chasm this place is a mountain dreams like blue-white water froth and your soul is an ocean. maybe if you squint your stained-glass eyes and hold the breath you're already losing there might still be hope. vena cava. fill your lungs with stale air and breathe out something fresh. don't shake too hard. take one last look at the twisted ground you don't understand. like preschool art or a homemade card it's probably worhtless but someone still cares. ________________________ author's note: i live for using different pronouns in romance-y parts of poems
  22. 4 points
    My boyfriend stalked my account on here and informed me I have 103 points and I screamed because I had checked literally 10 minutes before he looked and it was 83
  23. 4 points
    oh my gd so... my sister is in an iop (intensive outpatient) program right now, and she showed some of the other girls in the program some pics of me. apparently the three girls who saw my pics all said i was cute, and one girl said she's going to set me up with her sister? i am not sure if she was serious but gd i hope so!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
  24. 4 points
    excerpted from a work in progress, ode to the visible universe: probability itself keels and chokes at your feet
  25. 4 points
    The Slam collective poem for November and December I'm really excited for this. I made some guidelines, but we'll see how it goes. For comments/questions/discussion use the Community poem 1 forum This poem is open to everyone to contribute. The last day to contribute is December 31st. Each person can add one line at a time. While you can post indefinitely, please keep authors varied throughout poem. Your contribution should be deliberate, as in your line develops the poem the way YOU want to develop it. The topic will develop throughout the course of the poem's composition. First person to contribute writes the opening line. -Hydralio
  26. 4 points
  27. 4 points
    without fuel, the engine will not turn. i, faulty word-machine, am low on oil. the tortured artist paints with blood their own blood, the blood of those they lost. the blood of those that harmed them. my brush is wet only with water thin lines of pigment left by small misfortunes. what is a poet without the tales to tell? i have written novels of lives that are not mine, i have poured emotion into experiences that are not my own. but the words were lies and so i stopped and made do with the anthills beside your himalayas. when i was younger i won an award. 'congratulations! your poem is great!' and i stood before a crowd of family and friends and i read: 'cherry blossom, cherry tree' soft and sweet. and then, smiling, i sat down and listened and what i heard was raw, beautiful pain. i do not have that pain. i do not have those words. but i have a mind. and so, high on the sense of freedom words provide, i write. AN: this is not my best.
  28. 4 points
    the request i did the other day :000 [edit: pls click/download it's very high res dkgjldkjfs]
  29. 4 points
    this next year is going to be fantastic. glitter-drenched & glowing, & i’m speaking that into existence. going to be the year i go back to california, almost six years after the wedding. i’m going to bask in the glow of the jellyfish & (almost definitely) end up crying at the beauty of the natural world—thank G–d for all the fish! this year has been a bad one for most everyone who lived to see it, but this next year, i swear, is going to be my best one yet. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! last poem of 2017!!!!!!!!!!! i am Speaking this good year into existence!!!!!!!!!!!! fuck yeah!!!!!!!!! (i am very caffeinated)
  30. 4 points
    I want to give all of you guys a big hug and tell you it’s going to be okay because I’m having trouble saying in words “I’m sure that hurts and I’m really sorry, I just don’t feel qualified in my straight/cis identity to tell you it’ll get better” and with hugs you don’t really need words.
  31. 4 points
    talking to you feels like stabbing myself in the chest with something sharp and beautiful every second hurts but it’s just too nice of an experience for me to stop jewels cascade instead of blood precious objects dripping slowly from wounds inflicted long ago drops of ruby tears sapphire longing i sew up my wounds to wait for our next encounter
  32. 4 points
    If I flew too close to the sun Would the wax in my wings melt And would the feathers drift apart And float slowly down to rest on the ocean As I plummeted through the soulless waves? If I raced too fast through the wind Would the breeze tear my heartstrings And leave me hanging breathless and alone in the sky? And if I tried to swim, To catch my breath above the sea, Would the weight of my thoughts drag me down To the ancient stones Where the foolish sleep with the Gods? It takes too long to struggle back up; I will sink into the sand and just Stare at the blue air high above As a few last bubbles of breath rise To bring my spirit to the surface.
  33. 4 points
    i. hot water gushes onto my hands i turn my fingers in the light and wonder if this is what my skin will look like when i'm older worn into wrinkles by the world ii. i silently apologize to starving children around the world as i scrape excess chocolate into the compost bin after the students have moved on from their cooking classes in favor of a new adventure swashbuckling in the sandbox and pillaging the playground iii. i see the food scraps fall into the hungry jaws of the trash can and i know that it will devour me, too, if i let it maybe i can find warmth in the belly of the beast and escape the bitterness of the daytime fog a safe haven nestled into the folds of city craze iv. blankets are good for disappearing. sometimes my sister drapes herself in a fluttery pink scarf and calls it an invisibility cloak we pretend to believe her so that maybe she can remain protected by the shelter of naivety for a few years longer v. it's been said that people who sleep with more than one pillow are lonely and i can confirm that statement but when i burrow in my duvet at night to feel loved sometimes i just feel more alone
  34. 4 points
    The light and the dark For years they worked in harmony Dancing around each other. One dawn the light asked the dark "How long until we fail? How long until we stop?" "A better question is how long until I fall. You, Light. Are strong. You are a man of passion and honor. I am better known for deceit and weakness. I am nothing but a coward. An Evil. No one prays for dusk They pray for dawn." The light did not respond. He looked at The Darkness with sadness. For he was so blind he could not see how much he mattered to the light.
  35. 4 points
    But I didn't Not before we both said yes So here I am Deleting and backspacing Trying to tell him What goes on in my brain Anxiety blinds me to reality, I don't know what's made up by these chemicals in my brain And what's real I bite I Pick fights When the air gets a bitter cold snap Seasonal depression grabs hold of me in a freezing embrace And the serotonin thaws in spring So, Issac My handsome man with one hell of a jawline And those Root beer dum dum eyes Hope you still want me.
  36. 4 points
    1 i’m from the timeline where we never met, lemmings. you should know this by now. it’s why i get so giddy when you call, why my voice quakes and shudders around you. and still i worry that part of me isn’t quite over 2013-14, what happened then. the things you said, the things i did in response. 2 i tell myself it’s normal that i’m so drawn to you. this isn’t your fault, you know. it’s me. it’s the way i was programmed—to see things in u.v. light only, a dark sort of glow around it all. & around you, in my mind: steel blue. you tell me that you’re sorry for what happened back then, the things you said. how i reacted. i don’t know how to tell you that i haven’t processed any of it—just locked it all away. 3 explaining the undercurrent of terror that runs through my talks with you, about you, etc., is impossible. that’s not to say i don’t know where it came from—but i can’t explain why it’s still here. i’m trying to convince myself that this is fine, but you’re the only one of my friends who scares me. i thought i had worked the terror out of my words, but apparently not. 4 i swear i love you. there’s just this awfulness that lives inside of me, whispering in my ear, maybe he’s still bad. maybe he still wants to hurt you. and part of me knows that’s not true. part of me doesn’t care. all in one breath i’m crying into a pillow, saying what if he hates me, what if we’re growing apart, and then: it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. 5 i don’t know what things would be like if i had stayed in the timeline where we never met. but despite everything, i’m glad to be in this one.
  37. 4 points
    Dispersing thoughts, smoothie with cocoa nibs Blood milkshakes, Transylvania is a great place to fall in love. Our hearts were too cold Microwave on full defrost couldn't melt a drop Maybe if I give it 5 more minutes maybe if i rock off into doze, into sleepy mind ramble and pray tomorrow morning I will not wake in the rumble My heart was in your palm and you crushed it for the fuck of it your words are broken glass, you have shredded me apart with each word it was like losing a limb Ripping the flesh from my soulI cried out my worst sins LATE AT NIGHT WHERE NOBODY COULD WATCH WHERE THE STARS GAZE UPON YOU Shining so bright, so dear Yet still fills me with a sense of fate A fear balled up so deep in my throat, I can't spit it out I guess I'll chew it out like tobacco or snug Oral fixation is the new black. Tie me up. Tie up my restless hands and thoughts The rope burns are beautiful bracelets The greatest gift I've received: rememory, crystal-refracted? Author's Note: exquisite corpse done where each person in my class contributed one line at a time on a paper passed around the room. the paper was folded after each person went so that only the line of the person before was visible to go off of. My lines are 'maybe if i rock off into doze, into sleepy mind ramble' and 'rememory, crystal-refracted'
  38. 4 points
  39. 4 points
    i want my paint the color of the sea i want the salt blood and the brined lungs i want the bird-cry voice and the dull gritty crunch between teeth. i want the ocean on my canvas and i want it to feel like freedom i want the marsh grass scritch scratch grass and murky, boggy mud i want bird wings as delicate strokes small white dots that aren’t clouds pieces of sea foam detached from the sea free spirit and flashing, splashing silver wriggling and swimming and sparkling scales i want the underwater flight and the midair swimming floating through air or water, what’s the difference i want paint the color of the sky on a clear day the color of the wind rushing, roaring, blowing hair caught and flung like kite strings and the kite flutters away in the wings of the gulls i want the waves on the end of my paintbrush i want the ocean on my canvas i want a moving portrait of the sea.
  40. 4 points
    You first meet her in the hallowed halls of your father’s palace. In the depths of the Underworld she glows like a star in a vast void. She is too young to be a queen, but your father assures you that she is. His queen, but not really, he says. Somehow, you understand what he means. Her laughter sounds like the sun rising, and in the chill of the halls her breath makes fog clouds. “You should see her when spring comes,” your father says, his cold hand upon your shoulder. He smiles at you, and you are reminded that the heart of winter is the crackling of a fire in the hearth and the company of loved ones. They are a striking pair, the king and queen of this place. She drags you into her garden and teaches you how to make flower crowns and complains about her mother. The lilies you weave for her crown are a purple-red, her favorite color. She gives you small white lilies, calls you “valley flower.” One supper, while your father is away, having some urgent meeting, she reaches behind your ears and brings out two coins of glittering gold. She lays them in your palms and they are warm like her hands. “Shh,” she whispers, “don’t tell the ferryman.” You never think to ask if she’s one of them. She can’t be, not with the tiny sun inside her eyes. She’s friends with them, as much as one can be, and side by side you’d never entertain the thought of her being anything like they are. She asks you, when the time has almost come, if you’d like to leave with her. You glance at your father and he smiles, says something like, “go on and steal my queen, why don’t you?” But you know this is his blessing. She takes you by the hand, and you feel the sun on the earth above, the snow bowing, making way, the early buds peaking above the thawed soil. You land in the dirt and she pulls from the ground a perfect pomegranate. “Stay for the spring?” she asks. You find that spring is cruel. She is as merciless aboveground as she is merciful below. She calls back the frosts once, twice, thrice, and the new spring shoots quiver in unexpected chills. In the Underworld you were your father’s daughter, his last and only priestess, but here you are nothing but a subject of her capricious will. Her sunlight goes from blinding to a dim oil-lamp in moments. She flickers in the rain she sends cascading onto your head. Some days you lie out on the grass and she reads your palms, telling you the breaks in your lifeline are your visits to your father’s realm. You don’t believe her; your father told you that in his kingdom you were never really dead. She laughs, and tells you he was sparing your mortal sensibilities. She lies, she lies, she lies. In summer she drifts away, as another claims the skies and scorches the earth with her fiery roar. Sometimes she visits and she paints your nails and mutters curses at the sun, and complains about her mother. (You heard her curse the earth once and for a week she was pale and almost, almost human. She never uttered unkind words toward the soil again.) She takes you to the Wild Hunt of her cousin, and only turns you into a deer twice. Her cousin smiles, rolls her eyes. It is so easy with them, to see the family resemblance. Her cousin asks you if you are like them. You shake your head, and the Mistress of the Wild Hunt looks quizzically at you, and then at her. She grins at her cousin, and the Hunt continues. She is gone for most of the season, and you miss her, try to find her sunlight eyes in passing strangers on the sidewalks, try to taste the light she brought the world in every fruit. She sends you pomegranates, sometimes. It’s a little joke, between you and she and your father. Your nails match the color of the fruit and you laugh because she knew, she always would. She returns as the leaves change, and she dresses accordingly. On Samhain, she opens a portal and your father waves. He tells you to take good care of her. You grin and nod. Before the winter comes she takes you to a faerie ball, and you remember the benefits of having someone like her in company. She is so inhuman, with her deft steps and effortlessness in all that she does. She stretches a hand to a tree and the leaves turn, and she looks green for a moment, and smiles sharply. This is where the green goes, you think. This is why the light dies. She braids leaves into your hair and presents you to astral royalty as the heir of the Underworld. They are impressed but unimpressed with the mortality of your body. She saves you from death, again, again. The ground cools where she sits. As in spring when she radiated warmth she now takes it back, bleeds the earth dry of sun-energy and breathes out the last warm wind of autumn. She is no more monster than the seasons but to see her glowing while the trees are hibernating is unnerving. She is both the mother and the executioner of sunlight. The earth turns, and cools, and she will be the first one to breathe snow upon us all. Days before your father’s chariot arrives to reenact her mother’s deepest tragedy, she has covered the earth in cold. She is still so, so warm. She is glowing, full of sunlight in her bones. She cuts her hand on a branch and where the ambrosia drops a sprout arises. She kills it, drawing the warmth back into herself. You find the autumn may be crueler than the spring. Your father is the one to call you back for winter. She must go, you are invited. She gives you little choice, still with her hand clasped in yours. A cold hand falls upon your shoulder and dark horses take you below the earth to the first home of every living thing and the last place they shall ever go.
  41. 4 points
    i miss the quirky location feature + the authors note feature ;w;
  42. 4 points
    Hey! I have been on here for just short of 5 years. I don't write much anymore, but I really want to get back to it. Being a stem major in college has taken time away from my love of reading and writing. I love getting to read all work posted here, and will lurk for ever. Hopefully I can get back to writing before I age out!
  43. 4 points
    I logged on yesterday To find the update was in progress I never got to say goodbye to the old Slam The yellow and maroon so simplistic So homely and warm Sometimes we just don't get to say goodbye.
  44. 3 points
    He got on and turned to look There she stood With his suitcases He didn't go back to get them The doors shut
  45. 3 points
    yall i still can not believe that i named my halfing cleric "anna-mae" w/ no hesitation. i named my newest and most fleshed out d&d character 'anime' without a second thought
  46. 3 points
    Birdie, I really hope this gets better for you. Know you’re loved here. @woundedBirds I will also call you son, but mostly for shits and giggles bc you’re only slightly older than me and i make a habit of calling people slightly older than me things like kiddo and sweetie pie and son
  47. 3 points
    If you can change the color of your room I can change the color of my hair to a brilliant fuck-you-blue What's wrong with claiming this body as my own? what wrong with making this body my home?
  48. 3 points
    and i know that angels draped in gossamer have a tendency of sticking around, if only on barberry and milk thistle and cactus standing guard across not-quite-prairie and dust dervish, flat sea to intermittent, rocky island. and i know that angels draped in gossamer have a tendency of sticking around, if only on earthly tethers and human baggage and stubborn canine standing guard behind guiding hand and escape attempts, stoic tin routine to buzzing vulture wings. Author's Note: another ekphrastic poem for class, this one done in a 10-minute free write and unedited. picture inspiration was a photo from mexican artist Graciela Iturbide's collection 'los que viven en la arena' (those who live in the sand). http://www.gracielaiturbide.org/los-que-viven-en-la-arena/03-5/
  49. 3 points
  50. 3 points
    'rank: imago' ????????? i googled it it's 'the final and fully developed stage' aka insects (the egg>nymph>imago ranks are kind of cute omg)