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Showing most liked content on 01/02/18 in all areas

  1. 7 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
  2. 1 point
    someone: hows ur day going me: well i forgot i was lactose intolerant and now im afraid to drink the chai latte i have for breakfast
  3. 1 point
    lmao that fucking incredible feel when you work on an art request (a REQUEST) (AS IN IM NOT GETTING PAID) for five hours (A REQUEST) and you give it to the person who REQUESTED THEIR OC TO BE DRAWN and what do you get? not 'thank you' not 'wow this is great! im glad you drew my oc, for which i previously only had one ref for' not 'i love it!! i appreciate that you spent so much time on something so complicated for me!' you know what they said? you know what they fucking said? not bad. n o t b a d. NOT EVEN A THANK YOU. and when somebody else said 'at least say thank you', they grumbled about it like i didnt DESERVE some gratitude. christ. this reminds me why i dont do requests for strangers, lmao i dont get paid enough for this
  4. 1 point
    "It's the contrast of it," they say. "The narcissism and the breakdown, back to back, interchangeable. Let's you know it's still there." I shake my head. That is not me, I have the days of change. The weeks of swagger where I feel Goldilocks' 'just right' in my bones, two inches taller and settled into my skin. And there's the week's where I'm not, the ones where I feel eight years old and stuck with a newfound stammer. It's a slow, gentle kind of crushing. But then it's two months later and I'm braced against the bathroom sink, already crying from missing them, enough that salt is already pinching at my skin. I look up. And there, framed in the mirror covering the rusty medicine cabinet, is the prettiest thing I've ever seen. Pupils blown wide with the dark of two AM. Tears clumping eyelashes together like the exact opposite of good waterproof mascara, but so much better looking. A pretty redness to the lips, a little riper and more lusty red than that mixed in the cheek. Twas just the difference between the constant red and the mingled damask. There be some, Silvius, had they marked them in parcels as I did, would have gone near as to fall in love with them. The gender neutral Shakespeare is enough to distract me until I squint again. Because that, the image caught in the mirror, is me. I can't change it. There be some, Silvius, had they marked that in parcels as I did, would have gone near as to fall in love with it. But for mine own part, I love it not. Here I deviate from Phoebe: hate it, I do. But only numbly for now. I slouch again, tapping my nose lightly, trying to get feeling back in me. It's less like having a leg fall asleep, more like the cognitive trick where researchers stroke a rubber hand along with a subject's real one, until their brain feels them as one and the same. And then the researchers smash the rubber hand in with a hammer. I scratch at my nose until it goes red. I try different postures. Where I am right now makes me look like Gollum, even the wrinkles--still pink and new from crying squishing my face up--are there. I stand up confidently straight. My neck looks swanlike. A necklace model's, if it wasn't for the pimples and freckles. It curves down to my shoulders in a gentle slope. My collarbones look just as prim. I start crying again before I can find gross amounts of wrong in everything below that. The sobs don't feel shaky in the way the drop rides at the fair don't. The rise, rearing back, the pause, the plummet, repeat. It's not shaky because it's supposed to not be, it's breath-stealing because it is. So I scrub at my eyes and struggle through clumsy renditions of breathing exercises and try to find a happy medium of posture. Tall enough to feel like something more than a coward. Hunched enough to hide actuality. It lets me breathe again, so I take another counted series of breaths and blow my nose until the sides are red and raw from tissue, just as the tip still is from scratches. It looks cartoonish, unreal- Which feels right. I'm suddenly exhausted, which I don't mind, because I've been meaning to sleep for the past three hours. The 'contrast of it' finally wore me down, there art thou happy. I'm [positive my family heard my whimpering as I tried to stay standing soldier straight, daring my reflection to break first, so I'd feel less rumpled up, even as I was stretched out. But no one came to check and chat, there art thou happy. I blow my nose again. I avoid mirrors like a vampire hiding from the reality shift of them, which I can relate to. I curl up in bed until I'm just as hunched as before, but this time there's no lull of straightening up again, I can slouch in peace. There art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back, happiness courts thee in her best array. But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench, thou pout’st upon thy fortune. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. And the gender neutral Shakespeare is enough to distract me until I can sleep. ((this is pretty much just me getting out Emotions, and going like "haha this is Such a cliche feeling?? better think about shakespeare, bc THATS not CLECHE at ALL")
  5. 1 point
    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)
  6. 0 points
    I feel like I should admit I was going to make a daddy joke but then I decided absolutely nobody needed that.
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