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  1. 4 points
    my phone won’t let me take pictures anymore because i took so many of the damn trees which is okay because they never really captured them plus things are more beautiful when you don’t see them as often in late april when i drive into urbana sometimes it’s like pink rain magnolia petals like wet cotton sticking to your skin, magenta veins when it’s overcast the trees cast shadows in the street but the sky is still white i’ve noticed when i write poems i always set the scene maybe because i loved the world outside my window before i loved any person he wants to be a writer you know i trust him because he’s a boy with more poetry in him than you’d ever know my gut is never wrong his lips are softer than the petals falling into sidewalk gutters brushed aside by windshield wipers and his music makes me feel the same euphoria that thunderstorms do i can’t shut up about what i love once this little girl with sepal green eyes told me i was a happy person and i realize now that it’s a full circle there a picture of me at fourteen months under a magnolia tree with soft tawny hair and the widest smile so many years have gone by where it’s been missing and now my hair has turned carob and my smile reappeared wider and the magnolia petals spiral down down back to the earth and everything is good again
  2. 4 points
  3. 3 points
    Swimming in cold lakes should be encouraged. Not only does it cleanse the body of perfumes made far away, it saturates you with pond scum and mud and detritus, and damn, does it feel good. In the water, you are invincible. You can surface, far from shore, and let the sun copper-shine your hair in a jagged halo. You can slip under the water and commune with the fish. Those sleek stewards of the lake taught you how to unzip the current and dive in, how to gasp in the air and sing under the surface, and, most importantly, how to swim with your eyes open. See, humans like to flutter their feet and close their eyes, but that hides the muddled green heaven before you. Pull your lids wide, I say, and drink in the cold and refracted world!
  4. 2 points
    Hey guys, I’m still around (if you’re on the discord you know that) but I’m just not writing as much poetry right now. Hope everyone’s doing okay, and maybe I’ll post more soon.
  5. 2 points
    I know from experience that the going is almost always easier than showing up unannounced, unplanned, even unwanted. (They didn’t expect you, and their discomfort showed) So. I’ve learned to slip away after a little while. Enough time has gone by and I detach myself again, become a recluse, drift with the thistledown and hide in the cornfield. I am disguised by bumblebee wings and sticky spiderweb, pale and confused in the middle of the unforgiving river. (I perched on a rock and watched the fireflies blink and noticed that no one ever comes when you don’t want to be alone) When the sun rose I was gone again and maybe then the people I loved left their burdens behind. They feel lighter in my mind now. I remember the stories - the monster is the villain in the end and I’ve been the weird one for a long time. I decide to leave the broken promises, let my words drift off into the trees and be forgotten, find myself lost in a waking dream. And just maybe, when I haven’t seen a familiar face in days, I’ll turn back towards my dying town and wave goodbye.
  6. 2 points
    note before we begin: this is about a gay girl who has to stay with her homophobic aunt and her family in a small town after her mom goes to a rehab center for mental illness. the bumper stickers mentioned are some alt-righty, hateful ones. also, i'm realizing there are some issues with voice and motivations of other characters. if anyone has advice it'd be much appreciated. CHAPTER 5- ELISE I look through the guest room drawers three or four times before I pick out what to wear, and then once I walk down to breakfast I can't stop fidgeting with my sleeves. “Elise, dear, calm down.” Aunt Delilah says, glancing at me from the table. Anna sits with her, picking at her eggs. I don’t know how to respond, so we’re all just quiet. "So, I was thinking I should drop you all off at school!” says Aunt Delilah, breaking the silence. "Mom. No. God no.” Anna says, like she's just broken the most sacred rule of high school. "Anna.” she says, her voice dripping with disappointment. “Please don't use the lord's name in vain.” (Put that on the growing list of habitats I need to break to survive here.) Anna knows better than to roll her eyes at her. (Lines I can't cross.) Delilah clears her throat and restarts. "So, I'm taking you guys to school today!” she says. “Besides, it'll give us a nice chance to show off some of those new bumper stickers!” I spontaneously combust, on the spot, and no one notices. Anna complains through the whole car ride, until Aunt Delilah firmly tells her to stop as she pulls into the parking lot. I get out and I look up. The school is big, but the football field, of course, is bigger. It’s a nice brick building, with signs with the school mascots haphazardly placed around the entrance. HOME OF THE SEA HOUNDS reads the- well, reads pretty much everywhere I look. “Uh, what’s a seahound?” I say, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice. “It’s those… those squirmy things in the lake” Anna says, almost slamming the car door behind her. I wave goodbye to Delilah, and Anna… Anna declines. “Do you mean crayfish?” I ask. "No, they’re blue. With purple dots, and tentacles.” Okay, no. Those don’t exist. "Are they water bugs?” I try. "Sometimes they’re yellowish?” she says, looking at me like I’m the stupidest person to ever live. “Seriously, none of this ringing any bells? They don’t have those in the city?” “I don’t think so...”I say. I want to sink into the ground. “Is this like an urban legend or something?” I say, laughing nervously. "Well, for one thing,” she says, her voice rising and her eyes cutting into me. “We aren’t in a urban area. And two, maybe don’t accuse me of lying when you’ve never even visited here. The main office is to the right of the security desk.” She storms off, joining a group of other sophomores by the field and I try not to panic but, fuck, I just lost my cousin in a sea of people I don’t know. On the first day, like I’m that stupid, like, couldn’t I have waited at least a day before blowing everything up? Am I just that bad at being a normal person? Panic is rising in my stomach, and Anna’s friend’s gazes are just burrowing into my skin. I’m just standing here, and worse thoughts rush up to me. She hates you now. You’re so alone. You aren’t ever going to have friends. Everyone will hate you and then you’ll end up stuck in this town, alone and alone and - Okay, no. I have a brain. I can walk into an office, by myself, without exploding. My world’s still spinning with panic but I take a breath, and put one foot in front in front of the other. I go in and I notice that the school seems too big for the number of kids. In the city 3,000 kids would probably be in this building, but it’s so small. A bunch of people glance at me from the corner of their eye and I feel a million sirens going off in my brain. I know it’s irrational, but everyone here feels like a land mine that could go off at any moment. But, it’s irrational. It’s irrational, and I just have to keep moving. I feel like Jonathan Byers walking down the hallway of Hawkins High School. (Except I don't take weird pictures of girls at parties, and I think Barb is cuter than Nancy.) I reach the office feeling like I just ran a marathon. (Or, what I feel like a marathon would be like.) (I’m way too much of a stereotypical nerd to know.) A woman wearing a red, floral dress at the front desk smiles at me. "Hi!” she says.” I’m Ms. Rodriguez, are you our new student?” "Y-yes. Yes. Hi. I’m- I’m Elise. I'm here for a schedule.” I give a weak smile. “Yep! Got it all right here.” she says, gesturing to a file. I realize that I probably look panicked, and I should've come to the office an hour earlier so I could get to my new locker and not get completely lost and...ugh. It's too early for this. Ms. Rodriguez looks unfazed. She opens The File and gives me my schedule. "Thank you.” I say. "No problem! If you need anything, free free to come down and ask questions. Your guide will be here in a second.” "Guide?” I try not to sound like I'm two years old when I say it, but right now I'm just trying not to pass out so the bar might be a little low. "The student that will help you find all your classes for the day.” “Oh. I didn’t. I didn’t realize…” My voice trails off. "I know it’s overwhelming here at first, but you’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.” she tells me. I guess I look unconvinced, because she keeps going. “Both of my parents were in the army when I was little, so I moved around from base to base a lot. I’ve had like… 10 or 12 different first days of school?” “That sounds exhausting.” I say. I wouldn’t be able to handle that. She shrugs her shoulders. “It wasn’t too bad. The worst thing that happened was showing up in the wrong classroom. So, just take it from an expert. You’ll be fine.” “What if I’m not?” I don’t mean to say it out loud. It just slips out without me thinking, and I literally put a hand on my mouth hoping I can somehow reel the words back in. She looks at me, thoughtfully. "Here’s a secret- it’s your senior year, so it’s just one year of your life. Most normal people hate high school.” A little bell on the door rings, and a boy with a Legends Of Zelda shirt comes in. "Hi, Mrs. Rodriguez.” he mumbles. "Darien!” she says. “How was your summer?” "It was fine.” he says, distracted and pretty much monotone. Well. At least he’s too tired to care about making awkward, invasive small talk. And if the silence gets way too unbearable, we probably have a fandom or two in common. "So,” Mrs. Rodriguez says. “ Elise Simon, this is Darien Hill! Darien Hill, this is Elise Simon.” I can hear her rethinking her life choices to work in a really small town with really antisocial kids. “Hi.” I say. "Hello.” he says, a million miles away. We leave the office to my first class and, well, at least I’m not alone.
  7. 2 points
    “I had fun,” Nathan said. India shook her head at him and broke into a smile, eyes downcast. Her eyelids were glittery. Nathan could see where some glitter had fallen under her eyes like tiny stars. “I did, too,” she said. “Even if Erin made an ass of himself.” She paused for a moment. “Actually, that was a highlight of the evening.” Nathan grinned. India’s hand was relaxed, fingers barely keeping touch with his. He wondered if she knew she was still doing it. A bug buzzed as it hit the porch light. India jumped, dress spinning with her as she turned to look. Her hand slipped away. Nathan caught his breath. “Um… you look great,” he said after a pause. India smirked. “Are you saying that as part of your mission to treat this like a real date?” she teased. Nathan sighed. “Can’t I be nice to you?” he asked. India laughed. “But seriously, you look beautiful.” She stopped laughing. She was still smiling, which had to mean something, even if it was something soft he wouldn’t dare touch. “You don’t look too bad yourself,” she said. The car horn blared from the front of the house where it was idling. Noah rolled down the passenger window and leaned out. “Just kiss already!” he cried. “This is ridiculous!” India glared at him, turning to face the car and even taking a step toward it. “Shut up, Noah!” she yelled back. “I’ll do what I want!” Nathan covered his eyes with his hand. “I… Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I’m driving next time.” India sighed. “That doesn’t even make sense, your house is normally like the first stop—“ “Did you NOT hear me?” Noah yelled. “I have a curfew!” India rolled her eyes. “Then let Erin drive you home, you little shit!” India called back. “Nathan can get his own ride!” Nathan grimaced. India shot him a glance. “One that doesn’t pressure him to kiss a girl! You of all people shouldn’t be forcing heteronormativity on us!” Noah gave a thumbs up. “True love is out there for you!” he yelled. India scowled. “Noah Walker, I swear to any God there may be—“ she began. Noah rolled the window halfway up. “We’ll give you some privacy,” he teased. India threw another finger up, which Noah happily returned. The car pulled away and India turned back to Nathan, shaking her head. “I’d apologize, but only because I’ve been friends with him longer,” she said. “I feel like I’m supposed to kiss you now,” Nathan said, glancing around India’s porch. India rolled her eyes. “Gee, what a compliment,” she said flatly. Nathan sighed. “You know what I mean. We’re all dressed up, we’re on your doorstep. If this was a movie, we’d be kissing.” India raised her eyebrows. “Before saying all that stuff about how great we looked and what a nice time we had?” she asked. Nathan grinned at her. “We did that already,” he said. India rolled her eyes. “Okay, Spielberg. What happens now?” she asked, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to the other foot. Nathan sighed. “Do I have to like, go through the mechanics for you? He was a boy, she was a girl--” “Maybe one of them’s gay,” she teased, shrugging her shoulders. “We just talked about heteronormativity.” Nathan sighed again, running a hand through his hair. “For the purposes of this movie, let’s assume that they’re at least bi. Pan. Some potential energy,” he said, waving a hand. “Like, I don’t fucking know. There’s stars out. There’d probably be an awkward romantic speech.” India grinned. “What’s in the speech that makes it so awkward? Couldn’t get a good enough writer?” Nathan shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You have no idea. Some shit about comparing your eyes to the sky. Especially with the eye makeup,” he pointed out. India rolled her sky-like eyes. “Writer’s Guild doing okay?” “Maybe they’re on strike right now,” he said. “I can’t think of anything.” India laughed, shifting her weight back to the other foot. Her dress rustled around her legs. “What happens next?” she asked after a moment. Nathan looked back out at the street, at the wood paneling above her head. At the trees, her shoes. She was nearly as tall as him. More than normal. “At that point you’d probably be overcome by emotion that you definitely had awakened by my high quality speech with too many mixed metaphors,” he said, finally making eye contact and the shadow of a grin appearing again. He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Like, I never came back to that whole potential energy bit. I could have easily said something about kinetic energy, like--” She took the step forward before he did, and the step back before he could try to hold onto her. She crossed her arms again, using the edge of her pinky nail to fix her lipstick. “What happens now?” she asked a final time, still a half step too close. Nathan swallowed. “What happened to ‘screw heteronormativity?’” he asked, trying not to sound completely overwhelmed. India shrugged. “Still there. I think it was the speech that did it,” she said, as if discussing the results of an experiment. Nathan nodded once. “Or maybe because I told Noah I do what I want. Or maybe I’m just a stupid girl who’s into guys. Or maybe—“ “I get it,” Nathan said. “Can you drive me home?” India laughed then. “Yeah, Nathan. Let me get my keys.” (my bi wife Jess said I should post this)
  8. 1 point
    lancaster county, familial birthplace, your thunderstorms lend me the peace of mind to continue. when i was younger, and wishing to be undone, i blamed myself for not loving god enough. i said i was rotten, and didnt know why. my eyes only knew how to glare because i was scared of smiling, or of not deserving to, or of letting go of that hurt, or of losing my identity if i did. im still scared of dying. that didnt change. and one day, after letting myself stop pretending to be godly, after letting myself love being rotten, just a little, you became a monument to learning the word hate. where would i be without your shame and your conditional love? i had no idea what passive aggression meant until you had a reason to teach me. you remind me how to glare, and how to be undeserving, and thats a kind of rotten too. you carry churches on your back like god is my fault, and sometimes i believe you. it is as if you have come from the past and youre upset the world is leaving you behind, and thats my fault too. you are not a kind county, a home, or gentle despite the rolling fields, neither a place for outsiders nor one to give up a warm body without a fight. you are as lonely as a postapocalyptic movie's deserts, and your cities beg to be left empty and standing and dirty just so theyd fit so perfectly at the end of the world. these cities are paved with bricks and paint and god. you arrive bearing washed out, low-contrast hues of green and undersaturated brown and every photo ive taken looks overexposed. i have marveled at your night sounds, at the tar lines clacking under the tires on the highway, and yet youve never been beautiful. the closest thing to beautiful is the full moon, orange with pollution, rising over the lakes dug out of the prairie and filled then with rocks and fish and water. youre the stadium that becomes a city every weekend, youre lincoln, or youre the storms in the night that put hail the size of my fist through the windows. you are a 754-block coping exercise. just as i let myself love being a christian's rotten shame, just a little, you are as oppressively godly as a rural town with 192 churches on a sunday. you are not made of tomorrows, or of opportunity, but you are definitely just green enough to think so. how frightening you are too, where i am scared of being gay but losing myself in the closet, and afraid of that too. oh, old cheney road, you are the apothecary's witness and a false sense of safety. it could only be the echinaceae, but laying in the ditch on the side of the road is halfway beautiful. without you i would have grown up more slowly, and learned to love myself a little quicker. with you i am nothing but homesick. this is why, lancaster county, you are made of towns of empty architecture and lonely streets, where only the animals and the crooked trees are content this is why you refuse to progress, why you cling to old, tired bigotry hastily rebranded as belief like an beloved, frayed blanket clutched protectively in a fussy toddler's hands. i have praised many things, but for me you are more unloveable than you told me i was. to my eyes, you are a thing waiting to die.
  9. 1 point
    *emphatically* “It’s not an eggplant!!” *sulkily* “it’s a caterpillar....”
  10. 1 point
    yo hey i forgot about cicada oops but anyways im in nebraska until August >:[ look @ this art i did on my new comp tho hfjfjsksk radish is lookin SNAZZY
  11. 1 point
    begin by listening not to yourself for when I tried to be prettier softer less awake no matter what I would see my reflection everywhere and without falling through the looking glass I would hear them and I was never enough for the looking glass so it shattered and on the crushed-glass shores of the river where I wept where I said amen and I mean because nothing is correct when I say it nothing is holy is sacred ever shifting river of opinion you cannot break the river even ice did not shatter so my tears melted the frost my blood ran hot and when you listen to others: have faith for they think the blood and tears you shed is water turned to wine they believe in miracles of white-hot lightning crowning hips of blue eyes like a storm of warrior’s legs and Aphrodite’s curves carved marble beauty I do not claim to possess any stars freckle new skin and golden hair spun from straw maybe if you write it down you will believe in miracles too listen child, for someone loves you someone must want to know how you feel under their gaze their hand their someone must, mathematically, you believe in probability, do you not? remove the variables such as yourself and clearly if p then q it’s obvious you are obvious, and yet oblivious allow yourself to fall through the looking glass let you believe in something you can blame
  12. 1 point
    @The Invincible Troodon Okay, cool! Thanks for the tip, I kinda stumbled through some of the grammar things that weren't really obvious or just spelling errors. I'm happy you think it's interesting!
  13. 1 point
    The family is here. We go for a walk today, string out along the trail then spring back together to recuperate in the shade. Normally, I hike quickly. My goal is to get to the gleaming lake, or the cold, clean-cut peak, then begin my structured revels. There is a process for this. Today, though, my grandmother and I walk slowly. There are several ways to walk slowly: regally, with measured paces, lazily, with loose hips and soft ankles, and perhaps another: leaning forward, arms swinging, heels solid. My grandmother and I walk lazily. I feel the rock in my shoe, notice the valleys scoring my grandmother's face, and feel the sun embracing my arms.
  14. 1 point
    First of all, jess my girl, this is beautiful and the imagery makes me want to drop everything and move to italy secondly, in no particular order: (throwback to our country poems) but this flows so nicely with the rest of the poem, even if it fits in as more of an aside I don’t really know why I like this part, but I do. (I feel like you could go either way with line breaks and repeating the will I a second time) Very relatable problem, but here I feel like you do a good job of verbally capturing it. I suggest going more in depth on the essence, what bits of it you can describe. Good line to end on. Musical, a little alliteration, gotta have a cathedral somewhere.
  15. 1 point
    whisper farewell with tears in throat and fly with anxiety and excitement; escape one life to visit another here is a world that is quiet and calm (except at night or in the early morning; afternoon stillness is a deception, for at night comes the singing and the drums.) and the bells—oh, the bells. ceaseless chime from yonder tower over orange-tile rooftops. green shutters open over cobblestone streets with cafe tables and people walking, wind blows heat past into something not-quite reaching coolness. come with me to the garden and look out to the hills; they tower as mountains, nestled with houses like anthills in fields or beehives on branches i hate it here, says the beautiful girl with the rolling words. i want to visit your home think of the gray asphalt streets and the crooked stop signs the grass is always greener on the other side, the sky always a deeper shade of blue. sometimes i want to go home. marbles in feet and sweat between thighs, but oh, how are voices ring. there is difficulty in distance; and a sort of detachment from reality is this my life? is this my world? this is a liminal space that exists in the moment and will remain in photographs; across the waves, my family still slumbers as the noonday sun rises above my head. will i remember this when i return? will i forget the details—the smile of the barista, the stray cat crouched in the shade? will i forget the deafening wind in the microphones? i think i will not forget the hills, rolling and fantastical; at the very least, i will have the evidence saved for later viewing. at last visit, i painted this scene; i could not capture its essence. but evidence, i think, will remain in the deep pockets of my voice, and my song will linger in the corners of cathedrals.
  16. 1 point
    Yes @Fullmetal Sorcerer we were all talking on the discord, but I was worried about you because you aren't there even though I know you use the site a lot. I thought it might be just the old slammers who couldn't get on and then you would still be here and be thinking "where is everyone?" Thank you @Autumn for talking to us.
  17. 1 point
    Hey @Autumn! Thanks for explaining what happened. A whole bunch of us were freaking out and tried to contact you guys, but it was a little difficult. Is there a reliable way to do so in case something else happens? Some of us tried the “contact us” link but it said we didn’t pass a security check. The only issue with that was that there WAS no security check. Is there an email we can use or a way to send asks on tumblr?
  18. 1 point
    after the two week shutdown, this is more about the slam than i thought. I will miss all of you so much when we inevitably get shut out again. This site is so helpful for us sharing our ideas, our thoughts, and our creativity.
  19. 1 point
    here's to us, because we have not split apart. our embraces were not shattered by different schools and we have not been confused by our different stories, our years have not been lost in the past, we have not fallen into that type of silence so loud it's just like static, no, it's us against time and we're winning. long train rides and new people and other plans have not dissuaded us we did not dissolve, like so much of everything else and we have not stayed the same but we have not left each other alone and I could not be more happy. This is for my best friend, and even though we've gone to different schools for a while now, we've stayed friends and I got really happy about it on the train so I wrote this. Please give advice! I'm not sure if I want to give it to her or not.
  20. 1 point
    Happy pride month y'all! (I know I'm a bit late but still)❤♥💛💚💙💜
  21. 1 point
    u ever feel like u Should Not vent because it doesnt help anything nd it just gets people worried when itd be better to just Chill Out and bury everythign in the front yard while rbing everything u can find from positivity blogs bc thats the Current Mood, babes
  22. 1 point
    i. huginn. muninn. from their throats comes a draconic hungry purr, clicking as if the noise catches and sticks before clattering to the ground like a car that doesn't want to start they spiral. you spiral. these aren't so different here though yours is a metaphorical thing less of feathers and updrafts and more like pencil sharpeners and pocketknives you are running low on peroxide. ii. memory. thought. you apologize to your past self your future self: for not being kind or good or happy or the type of person you needed when you were younger steak knife. pocketknife. these things, these blades, are the kind that flash in the sun and show you the meaning of the phrase 'eyes are the windows to the soul'. you suck the rambutan stone and you are, by default, at peace. iii. golden film reel. more sepia, really. colder. emptier the color of yesteryear's forecast when you picked up the habit of holding your sleeves by the hem when they might slip two nights. 977 nights. these things are different only by their edges by their endings and by their titles your past self is angry and ashamed and your present self is sick to disappoint him you are your own ticking. iv. you break patterns. they lend themselves to you, laid out and easy like a spread of block print like sandcastles you step square and firm right in the middle to feel the crumble or the hard, fast way completeness can end and then all you have is a sandcastle with a footprint in it. there are things that cannot be hidden. this block print brandishes old scars and tall socks. v. longevity is the mistress of anxiety. vi. when the sun sets, you dig through the sky searching for diamonds but you find pea gravel flung far past the string of buoys that tell you you've gone too far and to turn back lest your lungs burn up in a flare of oxygen the rope holds the buoys down like scars hold down your skin. you are something gossamer. vii. last night you stood freezing outside at two AM with your head back and eyes flung wide to embrace the stars in your irises. flashlight in one hand, pocketknife in the other the shadows cast threaded a coil of fear in your gut and your knuckles stretched white. you are made of this, of tendons and veins and smallness under the sky, the kind of smallness that fills your chest with helium and lead viii. you look hard for good endings but always stumble into begging for forgiveness instead
  23. 1 point
  24. 1 point
    @Apollo's Lover@Short_comedian@thepensword@queenie_flower@conradbirdie oh you know
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