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Showing most liked content since 03/21/18 in Posts

  1. 6 points
    hey, li'l dude. dont you call me little while you here wearing my shoes from two years ago. it dont matter cos youre still my baby brother. and youre still shorter, my older.... si- sibling. ill never goddamn forgive my mother for making my cis, straight brother see why she doesnt deserve me he come up crying daisies tells me mom said you aint gods plan and that he cant call me who i am or he gonna get beat he finds solace in critical thinking when i say mom dont know shit and thats rich coming from a woman tellin us to be tolerant and openminded in the context she defending confederate flags he's stopped crying. i say you think god made everyone perfect? he answers yeah and i tell him then god made me perfect and trans and aint that just the goddamn tea
  2. 6 points
    Farmers market, on Saturday mornings Hipsters in jean jackets and nose rings flock to the food co-op And my third-grade teacher sells donuts from a food truck The icing is sticky on the pads of my fingers Downtown liquor stores and apartments Give way to churches and cornfields I know the way home by heart We would meet on playgrounds Little kids in fleece jackets Convinced we were something magical And now those little kids are teenagers Separated by thousands of miles It's the little details that I miss The bowling alley where octogenarians eat lunch The shopping mall carousel, the old museum Saturday mornings at the farmers market, the bustle of people Author's note: So this is really unedited but the whole city poem tag and @thepensword's urban hive poem made me want to write something about my hometown. I don't live there anymore, but just thinking about it makes me really nostalgic for all the little things that I never realized I loved about it.
  3. 6 points
    i. i’m standing naked in front of the sink examining myself like a cadaver i can’t decide whether i like what i see because i don’t believe the mirror or my friends when they tell me i’m pretty maybe i’m unphotogenic or conditioned into hating myself who knows ii. my skin and the room are turned vanilla by curtains that dim sunlight and block the outside and i haven’t shaved in weeks because it’s so cold so so cold goosebumps dot my arms and dark hair grows in all the places it shouldn’t i’m iii. envious of blondes and a lot of people really iv. i’m sorry v. there are three scars on my leg from my neighbor’s dog where the skin is not real skin but stretched and red and indented another on my right hand from a plastic chair (long story) a fifth on my ankle from twisted metal and a sixth on my arm from me vi. sometimes i wish we were all blind and always i wish i saw more girls with smiles on billboards and mall store signs vii. i smile often but do i deserve to? viii. i’ve gotten so bony to the point where i can stack quarters on my collarbones and you can see my sternum in the right light but is that good or bad? am i beautiful or not? ix. i can never decide
  4. 6 points
    i like the harmless habits, above all the ones that shy away from shoving they leave gentle touches, instead across the line i used to think of mentality like that some great towering 2d plane of black, deeming you in all caps: HEALTHY (in smaller letters, ‘good’) UNHEALTHY (even smaller, ‘bad’) a blue moon good day would let me inch forward, getting to dip my face through the curtain plunging my face in instead of just few hesitant fingers, just to squint at what could be better to catch my breath and the next thought, moment, minute hour, day, week, month year, years, endless cycle would drag me back down into the water, where my thoughts turned shifty, hard to catch red-handed and still, the harmless habits cradled me bathing only in strawberry shampoo made me feel warm against the pressure of approximately a fuckton of cubic meters of 3 point font ‘bad’ laughing ten seconds too long because i was grateful to get to smile dropped two more labels on top of that but it felt like a triumph, still its the harmless habits that got me by
  5. 6 points
    seattle, concrete-bound pier, your slipknotted sidewalks/city blocks traverse the port. when i was young i never dared set foot into your dense skeleton, all asphalt and stainless steel and sometimes, in the barrios, slumping wood. but one day, after finding myself, after clutching blue bus pass like a shield: you became a vast, unfamiliar home where would I be without your droves of anonymous faces like grapes cascading from a vine and your sky? oh, your sky? framed, always, by the rooftops, enough that ill never see your moon but from those very same rooftops? i had no idea you were so endless. you remind me to be finite. you sleep on the sea like a wayward soap bubble stranded on the surface. it is as if you have come from man's feeble attempts at creating beauty. you are not colorful, a sunken ship, or an edge waiting to slip, neither understood nor incomprehensible. you are as sharp as a canine’s point. you arrive bearing due west, towards the ocean's blue underbelly while your space needle salutes the moon. I have marveled at your gardens, be them of sound, glass, metal, or plants. chihuly begs us to take up landscaping. you’re seattle, the gay city, the starfish in the sand. you are a marvel. just as our flag, you are as vibrant as the midnight sun. you are not warm by any measure, all overcast rainy days, but you are definitely made true by your severity. how fluid you are, and along the highway the boardwalks rock with the winter waves. oh, seattle, you are the worst traffic and the endless night life. without you i would have never heard of the food truck that sells the best bubble tea and chicken wings. with you i find new ways to fall in love. this is why, seattle, you are the embrace i can slip into and lose myself in, why you refuse to let time run the same, why you shock hearts like a defibrillator on the roofs of the strobing nightclubs. i have praised many things, but for me you are more a fever dream than a dance floor of forgotten time. to my eyes, you are an ocean drowning in itself. ((i used the same form as ode to the visible universe but with less improv. heres the template i used from my poetry class: ode template.pdf
  6. 5 points
    *wow it feels like I haven't been on this site in years but it's been like a month :] but I found the time and for some reason I want to post this thing that's highkey a rant about a conversation my crush and I had one day...embarrassing. true. prob pathetic. enjoy* my brain says go to college, get a job but my heart says abandon it all drop my cares and go backpacking across europe. (I told you all of this.) I didn’t expect you to agree but you did and you smiled that smile that I swear can make flowers bloom and you said, laughing, I’ll go with you. ireland is breathtaking why don’t we run away there? (I replied.) the cliffs are emerald and rugged brown and the trees strain towards gray satin skies like outstretched arms. it’s always raining, cold air so clean it feels sharp everyone is sweet and feels familiar and the air is filled with music and laughter and language and promise. (I didn’t say any of that to you.) (we just sat in silence for a moment reveling in this future that could be.) (I sat quiet heart thudding thinking wondering what it would be like to make this a reality, what it would be like to go anywhere with you everywhere with you to hold your hand and stare up at millions of stars to hold your hand and not have to hide the sunburst in my chest whenever you smile.) (look, there’s orion, the same orion I can see from my front yard at home three star belt I trace every night. and look cassiopeia, the little dipper, and a billion other steadfast gleaming wonders doesn’t it all make you want to jump up and fly?) my brain says stop dreaming. stop getting drunk on wishful thinking and face reality, because this is all impossible and falling in love was never a good idea. but my heart still says, and will never stop saying, I’ll go with you.
  7. 5 points
    you flutter in peppercorns and daisies theobromine is your wine petrichor, your perfume a hundred thousand instances of worldly absurdity gravitating to you
  8. 5 points
    and maybe things will be okay. you're settled in the passenger seat of your classmate's tiny blue smartcar, sun flashing across the ice in your starbucks (her treat), just relishing the sixty-something afternoon weather. coming back to her car three hours later, down from the mountain, and it'd been almost too hot. the windows stayed rolled down until the interstate. spring's a little shy this year, but she'll come around. your chest feels free, and you think that maybe this is love of circumstance, the kind where you fall for the hue of the sky and how the sun hangs in it, or the green of the trees (Thuja plicata) and the way the wind smells. your starbucks is a little bitter, but that's okay, because no moment is perfect. it's easier to fall in love with almost. today is one of the days you count blessings: two years clean. one year in love. six months living. some of these things are more tangible than others, and while your classmate tells stories about her crazy ex-coworkers, you find yourself hoping you get laugh lines like hers. she's a woman who knows what company she likes to keep, and you feel a little honored that you're her company for the quarter. her smile is a switchblade, a slice of white, and her laugh is an inviting thing. do no harm but take no shit. the hike was something of a three-hour whirlwind, of Rubus spectibilis and Oxalis oregana and glycorrizaceae. an attendee collects the sap-laden cottonwood buds from downed branches for the salicylic acid found therein. cow parsnip advertises death. the class is enamored with redwood sorrel, clover-shaped leaves made something tart by the oxalic acid (like the crystals on sour patch kids). these things learned make you excited, even, for next time. it's an experience you can refer to jokingly as brandy and weeds, the post-hike high likely just as good. Brandy's smartcar shifts gears and you thank her (again) for the starbucks. internally, you thank your brain for the serotonin. you find yourself grinning long after she's dropped you off, because maybe things will be okay.
  9. 5 points
    my friends show me their scars made by this that and their own sword i touch my skin bruised and pimpled the hangnails are my work but not the scabs reminders of blood a girl i know walking in the rain with bair feet makes a pretty picture but sidewalks tred to escape leave sore heels i am walking through the world not stepping on myself and it feels unfair that their ways lie over their own bodies seems unfair how much they get pushed down when i am extended an arm i guess i'll be thankful you can ride on my back for a while instead of your own and we two will raise no blades against ourselves
  10. 4 points
    the most ridiculous thing about realizing you’re probably a lesbian is that it’s also the first time that your heart pounds really, really fast like lightning strikes flying out of your body when you see a boy, not because you think he’s hot but because he’s gay. too. he’s gay too, and you’ve talked about Love, Simon together (you told him how you cried 3 times) he’s gay too, and you forget to agree with him when he calls other guys cute (because it’s so exhausting to trick yourself into saying something you know you’ll never actually believe) he’s gay too, and when you make a comment in English class about how hypocritical biblically driven homophobia is when you talk about Oscar Wilde in class (you blush too hard and stumble and stutter over your words too much) you're afraid he did a double take from the desk behind you, gaydar: on insecurity: detected you: gay it’s not like you’re even really friends- you don’t wave to each other in the hallway because to be honest he’s a little intimidating (and you’re 95% sure he does drugs, and even if it’s just weed you’re 500% sure you don’t want to get mixed up in that) and you’re a nerd and you don’t like his popular-ish friends (they’re snobby, and this comes from experience) but still, these are the lightning strikes you can finally point out in dark, dark blue skies and lean back, laughing at how stupid and blind you were before for thinking the fires you tried to start out of a broken matchbox and fear could ever compare to a wonderfully platonic feeling of not being alone.
  11. 4 points
    can you just fucking not do that because i’m a rational girl independent learning to be strong trying harder than you ever seem to and like you’re throwing me off a lot can you just stop interrupting my thoughts? please? can you just not smile quite like that when you step in my way just so I’ll bump into you and like my name? if you could dim the light in your eyes across your face before you say that particular combination of syllables it would really help me sleep at night can you just look at the paper when i’m trying to help you you’ll understand the material better and i know that you can because if you can possibly talk about that many other things with that type of skill and you’re asking my bad-at-math ass to help you you must be pretty fucking desperate can you just (while you’re at it) stop making me fucking laugh i’m supposed to be taking notes and you’re over there calling out comments looking at me when i stifle a laugh fuck you now i want to make you laugh stop making me consider texting you at goddamn one am because i thought of something funny stop making me say stupid shit because you saying that one time that i looked like a classy prostitute was definitely not supposed to be responded to with a question if it was working especially if your expression shifted to that maybe it was the dark you paid for my dinner i had agreed to buy you coffee and that lady she thought we were dating? she called us cute? and you essentially ran away (you went upstairs. very fast) you barely finished ordering i overthought it i nearly ordered with your name (it would have been easier for them to read aloud i had the excuse planned in case i had made that mistake i hadn’t) you grabbed my arm so i wouldn’t walk into the street i didn’t even notice the street or much else i don’t remember any cars, though (was i like this even then? fuck.)
  12. 4 points
    i think of rich mulberry hues whenever i hear your name the kind of purple that can't be synthetic your namesake was a saint and your birth month the amethyst heart of winter i always said i wanted your eyes, terra cotta flecked copper (unlike mine- oxidized) and your freckles stippled on with the lightest touch
  13. 4 points
    Dear Emma Gonzalez, On Valentines Day, 2018, your life changed forever Not because of love, But rather, A lack of it. On that day, You lost friends you've known since you were little And that thrust you into the national spotlight Dear Emma Gonzalez, You're a phoenix You buried your friends and rose from their ashes You became the Speaker of the Dead You're keeping their spark alive, Dear Emma Gonzalez, when talking about Carmen on NPR today you hesitated. she wasn't just a friend, was she? Dear Emma Gonzalez, With that spark you've lit a torch A torch that I'm going to carry with you Because my niece and nephew, Should never have to be afraid of someone with their daddy's gun Dear Emma Gonzalez, My fist is raised Dear Emma Gonzalez, I'm calling BS with you Dear Emma Gonzalez, I won't give up Dear Emma Gonzalez, I'll stand at your side. Dear Emma Gonzalez, Thank you.
  14. 4 points
    Wind-whipped chaos sweeps across the sand and blue-gray-green waves crash along the seam of the land some find peace in the serenity of natural things—not as I do for its constant motion, tumult, uncertainty, imminent danger is still a constant, despite the chaos— disorder is a reassurance in its consistency so when I stumble into a quiet place off-balanced by the sudden roar of silence in my ears I think about the thunderstorms I've felt and how they pulled me toward the inmost chamber of myself how myself is a chamber of its own, my oyster-shell identity wrapped glimmering around my hidden pearl. to find shelter inside myself from sandstorm winds—grit in my teeth, eyes— is like a welcome inhale of coastal sweetness and salt may be hidden in the sweetness, but then the peace is only made sweeter white noise generators hold the same lullaby of constancy but lord knows mother nature does it best quiet conversation in coffee shops is mirrored in cricket-song and summer wind I find in nature as much pattern as disarray—what charm!— never did I think that chaos would be my home but the silence when it is absent is chaos in itself —chaos as departure from a norm, as deviation from bell-curve existence— chaos is a resting place, a sandy beach, a coral reef— an oasis of bright and different and alive I breathe looking up at all the water completely submerged I feel no pressure in my chest my lungs find new ways to peel themselves back for the openmouthed sun the phytoplankton sing of that sunlight on their tongues, of quiet serenity, and i sink into blissful dark unknown where my eyes don't see but there's a kaleidoscope in my soul and the kaleidoscope is like that one i find in your eyes, like the sinking into pillow-soft dawn and cricket quiet, like the serenity that enfolds me as i gaze up at the sun. this is our oasis. (Contributors: @queenie_flower @Hydra ’Liope @thepensword @catasterism @Apollo's Lover @writeandleft @conradbirdie @O. Captain @drowntown )
  15. 4 points
    Why do we march? 1.We march for the right to love. 2.We march because we are all people. 3. We march because we are all different. 4. We march because we are all alike. My heart is no different than yours just because it chooses to love a woman 5. We march because you can't understand that our bodies do not match our spirits. 6. We march because, in your stubbornness, you refuse to believe that the baby you held up at birth could be anything different than the gender you assigned it. 7. We march because the only thing we should be worrying about in school is homework. 8. We march because bulletproof backpack shields are heavy. 9. We march because we refuse to believe that a man living in the sky was able to conceive millions of people (or however that was supposed to work) in a day. 10. We march because you do not speak for our country. 11. We march because we are all family. So why do you stand still?
  16. 3 points
    We say "someday, we'll try again" even though we both know we're only saying that to make it hurt a little less
  17. 3 points
    this backcountry, all pastures and fields and razor-backed hills where the clouds look like they could scrape the treetops or the backs of the winding cows lewiston, idaho, middle of fucking nowhere sister to clarkson, built on riverbanks and stolen land your town hall proudly displays histories lived by white colonialists and their snaking paths your town hall proudly displays the natives that died for them perhaps unrelatedly, every wireframe sign stabbed into the earth advertises gun rights and conservative campaigners i say to hell with it and i aint coming back
  18. 3 points
    I’ve never written you a poem. You don’t lend yourself to words, you see; You’re too strong, an oak To the little willow tree I am And I don’t know how to write a poem For a silent, seething mountain, A girl who could go volcano And fly in a fury to send vengeance Upon those who dare upset Her scattered equilibrium. No one writes poems for the lioness, Headstrong and stubborn And already too proud For calming words and coming into being. You’re the protector, the badass, the ‘I’ll drop kick you across the whole city If you mess with my sister,’ Who can still be a warrior While wearing a dress. I can’t be eloquent about A lightsaber fighting spitfire, Grumpy in the mornings And spouting sass all afternoon. It’s too hard; my poems are supposed To be soft and gentle but you Have always been powerful, Serious and stoic Until suddenly you say something To get us all laughing. And my poetry, too, is about eloquence But you and I don’t often talk with words, We speak with expressions and thoughts and hands, With random inside jokes and stories. That’s why I’ve never written you a poem before, Because you’re more important to me Than any words I know.
  19. 3 points
    caress the sun which drips and flows from my mouth my hunger is an abyss and you a marble. minute and absurd in the dark but blue all the same i'll pour out that light and serve it to you on a silver platter drink, drink, please my dark is home, i need it. let me eat. the skin above my heart is thin and stretched shadows flock to the space between beats
  20. 3 points
    keep me keeled and lain out on the ground there, like firewood or a robin and i wish a little bit to feel again blood runnin' through my fingers like rice through a sieve dream somethin' like the lilypads holding the pond down, full and flush and ill dream of you pulling my heart out through my jugular i can be a part-time obsession content to peel back t-shirts and put on the fight, parking lots and flourescent brawls breakin' in my new shoes predators learn not to make noise thumb the blood off that new white shirt and leave me soaked in the alley like so many paper lanterns with their lights gone out
  21. 3 points
    Call me over to you in the dark, Entice me with the molten lava that seeps from your mouth. Your creeping smoke entraps itself inside my lungs. Initiate a slow burn within the veins that continue to force oxygen through me. Until I can no longer move. Turn my body into a mountain. A slowly growing rock formation that is born from the lava that singes my skin I will be immune to the incoming storm Under an umbrella of volcanic ash I am reborn as a stone. Peeking through the tide, I can breathe again.
  22. 3 points
    the “should have” may beckon you but I pray to you, turn away. for even if it glitters prismatic under the light when tilted the “would you” sneaks in from the shadows if you fall from that rabbit hole that blade of possibility will become your undoing splitting every hair into infinite halves turn away love or the silence that burnt my tongue will soon match yours temper that boils over and logic that melts at a single touch i may have carried the world but now you hold it like it is nothing and I pray to you turn away before the “could i” creeps from underneath the crust and four and twenty blackbirds nest in our hearts somewhere a bell tolls and somewhere else, vengeance is ours but yet not in this universe, for the reckoning has not yet trickled down and the cracks in the stone below that waterfall have not yet grown to let more than droplets pass so until that day comes turn away for we will try to hear you but over the roar of the boiling water and through the clamorous birdsong in our souls there can only be pain turn away and let the light trickle in with the water
  23. 2 points
    let's endeavor to be soft and round like the warmest muffin, the sweetest marshmallow; place her on your tongue and she tastes like confidence. let's lift up her soft spots and give them a trophy tell her that flight is free of gravity that her size is not detriment to soaring through the stratosphere. dress her in jean shorts and a crop top. belly button showing and thighs bared to the world; look at her stretch marks, proudly displayed, inked in sharpie look at her hips, round and powerful imagine your hands are full and you need to close your car door. there you go, swing those hips! sometimes her reflection transforms into hideous monstrosity, into too much flesh; sometimes she hides beneath sweatshirt and blanket, does not bear her roundness well this is when she needs you the most; your reassurance, your warm touches: i love your roundness, your softness, how good you feel to hug. let's place her on a stage and encourage her to dance let's praise those thighs that jiggle, that stomach that spills let's find the laws of physics in those hips and that presence is like a hurricane let's teach her she's a force of nature and that nothing can move her let's teach her to love herself in her entirety.
  24. 2 points
    you let her slip into your brain with her stupid shining hair (that you know is just dirty blonde but looks like shimmering gold to you) and her stupid voice like melted butter so soft and sweet and lovely and that stupid laugh like bells (you feel strange describing her like this because that's how authors talk in books but there's no better way) and plus her stupid stupid eyes the stupidest part of all that you hate the most (those stupid stupid eyes gazing velvet soft blue satin dark and light and all the colors of a summer sky) with stars in them and all the brightness of the world stupid, stupid, stupid.
  25. 2 points
    you will grow stronger than sequoias and in time, you will touch the sky this whole earth is a blank page and your fingers are bleeding colored ink the waves of the sea cannot compare to your eyes oracle beauty universes wait to be unravelled, secrets yearning to be found sadness sinking in like fog over fields, but soon, the sun will shine through laughter, golden smiles even on sad days, you are truly ametrine you will find your way although wolves howl at night, you are safe here with us. ~~~~~ author's note: to selah, kalani, emma, alejandro, jocelyn, oliver, and emmelia. these could be read individually or as a single poem? i think i'm going to rewrite this with different line breaks because it seems a bit weird like this.
  26. 2 points
    yellow light, yellow like daybreak, butter, burnt ochre— paint caked on the end of the tube. rich velvet sky beyond broken shades, eternal fireflies gleaming radiant above the stratosphere eyelids droop and pages turn quiet like wind outside or cricket song or low-level buzz of the noise machine there is nothing else so silent as the midnight hour
  27. 2 points
    I did a whole Proust questionnaire for a new character I made named Ada. Here's some parts of it: (the font is weird because I copied it from google docs) What is your idea of perfect happiness? Ada: Perfect happiness doesn’t exist. What is your current state of mind? Ada: Well, by making me think about my current state of mind you’ve probably changed it. What is your most marked characteristic? Ada: Do you mean physical or the other one? If you mean physical, then my hair, but if you mean the other one than my logicalness. Logicalness is not a word, but it makes sense according to English suffix rules, so I don’t see any problem with using it. When and where were you the happiest? Ada: Well, this one time I was playing with my band and we were outside and it was just the perfect temperature and just the perfect windiness and it smelled like spring and it felt like spring and we played perfect like we were spring and not people. What is it that you most dislike? Ada: That beautiful things are supposed to sound poetic when you describe them, despite the highest point of beauty being the transcendence of words. What is your greatest fear? Ada: That I will go too insane, or that I won’t go insane enough. Sometimes when I feel that feeling like you aren’t part of yourself anymore and instead you’re part of the world, or the world’s thoughts, or someone else, or I don’t know, just something that you wouldn’t find if you took yourself apart, I think I’ve gone to far and I try to become myself again, but when I get back, I miss that feeling, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to find it again because I’m trying too hard to shield myself from it. Which living person do you most despise? Ada: I thought this was a serious questionnaire, not a gossip session. What is your greatest regret? Ada: I never told my best friend from Kansas that I was moving to Ireland, so now he probably thinks I’m dead or something. On second thought, even if he thought that at first, he’s probably realized by now that the conclusions you draw as a nine year old are often wrong, and corrected his hypothesis to something more realistic and closer to the truth. To him though, I’m really as good as dead since we’ll never see each other again. What is the quality you most like in a man? Ada: I really thought this wasn’t a gossip session. What is the quality you most like in a woman? Ada: Well, I understand the last question better now, but I don’t understand why you asked them separately since they should have the same answer. The ability to be someone you love and someone loveable. What do you most value in your friends? Ada: The ability to accept that presentable me isn’t all of me, but it’s all of me anyone outside my head is ever going to be authorized to see, because the rest of me is in a state of permanent disrepair. On what occasions do you lie? Ada: Never. It’s mutually detrimental and therefore as useless as eloquence. I always speak as true as I can, but I don’t try to make it pretty. In short, I tell all the truth but not a bit slant. What are your favorite names? Ada: Names aren’t important. They’re just a label so we can distinguish one person from another when we’re talking. If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be? Ada: I don’t deign to know the workings of the afterlife. Knowing if there even is an afterlife is impossible since no one can experience what’s after death and report back to the living. I think the most sensible idea is that nothing happens to us after we die besides our bodies decomposing. Our “soul” is only electrical impulses in the brain. Our whole experience of living is, really. It would be nice to think there’s something more after death, but it just isn’t reasonable.
  28. 2 points
    what if we could end all war it's simple in theory and impossible in practice because all it would take is an end to all fighting a kindness, forgiveness we could change the world now, we could end all suffering but just as everyone is capable of good, everyone too is capable of evil and why is evil so much easier to do? what if there were no lines and we lived boundless what if we were not confined by the borders scribbled in violent red crayon on construction paper earth what if there were no refugees because there was no need of refuge what if we ended pain and fear today what if what if we were birds and instead of fighting we flew? what if we were free? what if we were painted the colors of the canvas, bright orange and midnight blue what if we were all beautiful beneath the dust what if someone had a rag to wipe off the grease stains what if red was just sunset and not blood on our hands what if we said good morning and we meant it?
  29. 2 points
    Snap at me If you would just say something do something That would be appreciated Look at me but see me Is that too much to ask? Tell me that I’m enough even if not for you Remind me that I actually mean something to you because we both know it Your face lights up unless I’m seeing stars where only candles flicker I don’t care if you shove me against the damn wall Just react when I speak when I move Because I can push you back I can be the one that pushes you on You say nothing when I pour my life into your lap You let me feel like everything and nothing all at once And maybe I’m not drowning but I’m certainly out of my depth
  30. 2 points
    you have grown out of misery loves company and into this too will pass. maybe this growth mindset, the kind that looks for sweetgrass in the lawn and daisies among the thistles, is what sets you apart. and trying to reacclimate into a group of misery loves company sort of close friends acquaintances after a calendar year is like eating a durian: messy, thankless, and better off left alone. it aint their fault, you suppose, heavily considering the cut and run option. you dont know them anymore. youre too happy for them. in this one year, you have learned six notable things: staring contests arent about who blinks first, theyre about whether or not youre aware enough of the big picture to see your opponent's friend stealing your TV in the background friends dont send friends dick pics scars heal over twice as strong communication is half of what keeps love going not everyone is an asshole but most cis men are this too will pass now is a great time for you to drop off their radar for three days, just to see what will happen. it's not like you have a choice, being out of town and all, but youll pretend you did, and they wont wonder. they didnt wonder for eleven months and seventeen days, but who's counting? not you, of course. not you. youve been displaced but that displacement left you kicking hard in the ocean undertow, learning how to swim with lead fins and salt eyes, and your acquaintances in the kiddie pool watched mayflies lay eggs in the filter and the algae discolor the concrete or stagnate by the wall. they floated easy on their backs and unlearned how to grow, or to dive, or to stand up (and thats a kind of stagnation too). you had begun to love the afterthought, the lost time, the idea of someone, the nostalgia for something half-remembered. and that too will pass.
  31. 2 points
    When I get out of bed I ache to feel comfortable again But when I lay and soak in my thoughts I just want to get up What if I never find comfort? Is that why we as humans work so hard and travel so far We experience highs and lows Yet it is only on our death bed When our eyes relax and our bodies go numb Because we stop trying to find what cannot be found I want to be touched and to experience But I don’t know where the line of innocence lies I’m not ready to cross it Is it defined by me, or others? I stopped writing for a while I just want to fall in love with words again And just plain fall in love Maybe I don’t feel sympathy for those with nothing Thinking about their situation doesn’t make me feel spoiled Because I know If instead of nothing they, like me, had something they would be complaining just like I am now that is why people with nothing are the happiest because they don’t know what they don’t have and any something is far better than nothing at all
  32. 2 points
    It was September When you said you were leaving. I remembered last spring, the way you showed up out of the snow, promising light and warmth And adventure, And I believed you. It was wonderful, for a while; The world was different and wild and colorful And the sun stayed out longer, The skies were brighter Until they weren’t anymore. Your words pulled on my heartstrings, A warning that winter was coming. The sun started to set and I didn’t escape the cold until April came again but By then it didn’t hurt that you had gone. The world revolved, once, And I was entirely whole by May; Even though spring came late this time It was gentler than the last.
  33. 2 points
    please feel free to leave your thoughts below! thanks! is it worth going and running out of words for the smallest chance you might find a person and a place where you don't have to say anything at all
  34. 2 points
    please feel free to leave your thoughts below! thanks! When the sky dreams up tears applauds the failures on your feet with my umbrella at the stained brick wall where we always meet Three hours to limelight if only the skies were still yellow lemony sweet laying pictures on my pillow I spend so much time trying to hold the flame in my palms are you as cold as i am? skipping stones on the bottom of the ocean You can see the stars but they don't search for you your picture is worth less than a thousand words white with envy a politician's promise your perfection is perception i'm not fooled
  35. 2 points
    Prompt: "Your people have been living on an island for over a million years. There is a supersized volcano in the center, but that’s not a problem. Whenever it begins to erupt, your community sacrifices a virgin to the volcano gods which stops it immediately. Today, the volcano starts to smoke and the ground starts to tremble. Your town starts preparing for eruption. There is only one virgin left in town." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The day she is meant to die is the day she meets the goddess. It is a tradition of sorts; occasionally, the mountain will rumble, and then it will smoke, and then a sacrifice must be given to calm its wrath. And on, and on, but now she is the last sacrifice and after her, the town will have no one left to give. She is frightened, but she will not show it. She inhales deeply, and only the slight tremor of her fingers belies her terror. Her mother is crying. “My baby,” she sobs, running tear-soaked fingers down her cheeks. But the sacrifice does not cry. She closes her eyes and stands tall. This is her duty, after all. She’d always known this day would come. She knows it like she knows that she will be the last, and that after her there will be no more sacrifices because there will be no more need. “It is time,” says the High Priestess as the ground trembles beneath her feet. There are tears on her face, too, and her wrinkles are like canyons in her grim, gray features. The sacrifice nods. She is as ready as she will ever be. The climb up the mountain is a long one. The sacrifice is barefoot and dressed only in a thin, pale slip and she nearly falls several times, but every time she steadies herself and continues. She is a soldier, headed for battle, her home behind her and her eyes ever-fixed on the rim of the mountain. The small group stops a few yards from the edge. The High Priestess reaches out and paints red clay in unwavering lines across the sacrifice’s forehead. The symbol of the volcano gods, etched into her skin, marking her as their prize. She had left her name behind at the base of the mountain but it is here she leaves her identity. The High Priestess sings a long, low prayer to the gods and the earth below their feet trembles. “Go, now,” she says, gesturing to the rim, and her eyes are sad. The sacrifice nods once, taking just a moment to steal herself before turning away, towards the top. She begins to walk again. The ground is warm beneath her bare feet and the rocks are jagged, but she pushes on against the pain. There is no turning back, not now. There is a moment, at the rim, where she looks down into the crater and she looks up at the sky and she wonders why this must be her lot in life. Why this is her fate, her duty; why she hadn’t given up long ago, found a lover and defiled herself from the sacrifice. But, she thinks, she never did find anyone worth that love, and besides, she’d always known that someone must perform this task. If that someone had to be her, than so be it. But no more. She thinks of her sisters, her cousins, and she thinks, no more. “O, Great Gods of the Burning Mountain,” she speaks, voice hoarse and rough and choked with ash. “I beg you to spare my home. In return, I give myself to you, pure and untouched.” The lava below bubbles and belches and gives no answer. The sacrifice squeezes her eyes tight. It is time. “I know it is not my right, but I have one additional request of you. After me, there are no more who are suited for the sacrifice. Those who are untouched are young, far too young, and they are not prepared as I am. So I ask only this; after I am gone, let me be the last. The people of my village have lived quietly by the ocean for centuries and we have only ever given you our respect. Ask what you will of us, be it temples or gold or a piece of our harvest, but please, please spare our children.” The sacrifice turns her eyes to the sky and knows that her piece has been said. She has nothing more to offer, no more reason to stall. And so, wishing that she had at least kissed her mother’s cheek one last time, she steps carefully forward over the rim. There is a hand at her wrist, holding her back, keeping her from falling. It is hot, unbearably so, and her skin blisters and burns at the contact. Unable to stop herself, she turns, eyes wide, and finds herself gazing into the face of a god. “Why, child?” asks the god. The voice is an ancient one, creaking like stones and crackling like flames, and on the god’s forehead is the symbol of the youngest goddess, Itum. “Why give yourself so willingly? Why beg this deed?” The sacrifice trembles. “Great Lady Itum,” she says, voice fragile and afraid. Around her, the world has warped and faded, turning to smoke and sparks and haze. Magic weaves itself through the air, terrible and beautiful, and the sacrifice knows that she now stands in another realm, an ancient one of gods and demons. “Please forgive me. I merely hoped to save my sisters.” Itum watches her, unblinking, eyes of molten rock wholly unreadable. “You are kind of heart,” she says, and lays a burning palm over the sacrifice’s chest. “You have never given yourself to another and yet you are so full of love.” The sacrifice knows, in this moment, that she is going to die, and it compels her to bravery. “My Lady Itum,” she says, and this time her voice does not tremble. “Please grant me my wish. Stop the endless killing of daughter after daughter who never had the chance to love.” “Is that what you really want?” asks the goddess, laughter in her tone. “Or do you wish for freedom? Do you pity your successors because you so strongly desire to be loved?” “It does not matter,” says the sacrifice. “I am the last. The village is empty, and I will soon die. It does not matter whether or not I desire love.” Itum leans in closer, breath singing the sacrifice’s skin. “You are noble,” she says. “And kind. Both are admirable qualities, and I do not wish to see them in vain.” “My lady?” “My brothers,” says Itum, and the magic in the air shifts around them, “would see you dead. It is they who lust for the sacrifice, who send the tremors to demand more and more. My brothers will not grant your request, for they know there are always more of your kind and they know they will always be given whatever is is they may ask. You are proof of this.” “And what is it that you want?” asks the sacrifice, and then curses her own tongue, but the goddess merely laughs. “I am not sure, myself,” admits Itum. “Perhaps, like you, I long for freedom, and for love.” “Then what will you do?” The air is quiet between them as the goddess thinks. The sacrifice is burning with the proximity of the lava, skin blistering and hair turning to smoke. She wishes to cry out in pain, wishes that this would finally end, but she bites down on her tongue and does not make a sound. “Perhaps,” says Itum at long last, “I will break the cycle and free us both.” The sacrifice opens her mouth, perhaps to ask a question, but she does not manage it because in the next moment, the goddess kisses her. It is not a soft kiss, like the touch of her mother’s lips beneath her ear, but a fiery one, passionate and hungry and burning. The sacrifice’s lips sting at the heat but she does not struggle, even when the goddess slips tongue between lips between teeth and tastes of her lungs. When the goddess releases her something has changed. The air around them is thinner, cooler, bits of blue sky breaking through the smoke. “There,” says the goddess, and smiles as she slides an ember-bright thumb over the sacrifice’s lips. “You are no longer undefiled.” The sacrifice stares at her, breathing heavy and words lost to the goddess’ tongue. “My lady?” she whispers, unable to manage any more than that. “You are free now,” says Itum, voice gentle and strong. “The last virgin is no more, and the village is empty. There will be no more sacrifices. The cycle is broken.” The sacrifice closes her eyes. A tear slips free from between ash-flecked lashes and the goddess wipes it away in a puff of steam. “Go, child,” she says, not unkindly. “Go home to your people. Tell them that the sacrifice is no more. Live in freedom and find yourself someone to love.” The young woman, no longer a sacrifice and no longer a girl, nods her head and does not say a word. Itum lets go of her wrists and steps back, and behind her the smoke clears a path to the top of the crater. Numb and in shock and overwhelmed by emotion, the nameless young woman begins to climb away. When she reaches the top, when she sees her village in miniature before the sparkling blue sea, she turns back to the goddess. “My lady,” she says, and her voice breaks. “Thank you.” Itum smiles and then she is gone. The young woman crumples at the mountaintop. She crawls the paces down from the rim, to where she may lean her back against a rock and cry unseen. And cry she does, tears streaming down her cheeks and aching sobs pulling daggers through her lungs. It is over, she thinks. At long last, it is over. There will be no more. She is the last one.
  36. 2 points
  37. 2 points
    you and phoenix will be clinging to a balcony railing, trying to see as far into the night as you can, when he asks if he can tell you something. you nod, not sure what to expect. he tells you he loves you, that he's been in love with you ever since the night when upon seeing him--a stranger at the time--said "who are you?" "go away." alas, you put my lesson to not trust towards the wrong person. phoenix backs away when you start shifting. the dragon you will become is large, winged, and most importantly, spiked with poison. you tell yourself it's a joke. after all you've been wronged so many times before, why should this be any different? he doesn't try to block the thorn that enters right below his heart.
  38. 2 points
    We are on the brink of war With a steak salesman as our president, and We've got people in the military living in luxury With cars and houses When teachers (the ones who ensure your children aren't ignorant the ones who spend day after day in the classroom just to make sure that each and every child can make a living) Aren't paid enough buy a shared apartment in the town they teach in. We've got people walking into schools Armed with weapons that weren't made with turkey dinners in mind Taking the lives, futures, from children Something has been taken from us And it is more than our trust
  39. 2 points
    it's under bridge and round bend and there there she is my city oak-tree tall and bursting with life there's welcome in rainbow letters on the side of that building welcome it's an urban web where here's the suburbs and there the city there's so many towns it's like there's no difference it's one hive with many queens that school building tall and red-brick and old with the lockers inside that don't open and the kilns in the basement place of learning begats place of learning but now there's paint on her hands and chalk dust on her face and look out the window, there's the main street with colorful banners and art installations it's we have too much money so now this is cobblestone it's take this old building and paint it something new back to the oaks and the flashing tree building-side there's walter, wrapped in flags in bronze and bright and watching the crowds go to the fall and here i am on the ground level with the asphalt and covered in pigment there's a face on the street before me and the faces around me watch as down the block an acrobat backflips under flame-bright showmanship and the dancers twist as the people applaud bronze faces on the steps watch the children run laughing mom did you see the butterflies i saw the butterflies and i was one of them once when here i am, behind the bronze faces on slip-and-slide wood beneath the stagelights grace wins the election and i sing my delight and watch the little girls scream out their praises in the seats below look at her. look at what we could be. all are welcome say the rainbow letters and the air is full of song from the open-air amphitheater i sat there once and cheered and cheered and many times more by the lake with the ducks and the turtles and above, bright-lightning fireworks as the symphony swells welcome to the hot summer with sticky skin and damp hair welcome to the forest paths and the city corridors to the old buildings made new to the library built up high and the butterfly houses and the red-bar playground i once hung from the green bars and climbed that tree until i was tall the children still laugh on that playground every friday mornings with that orange flag that's where we're going this week be wild, be free be welcome welcome to the pyramid hive to the ant's nest amid the hills go east to the ocean or west to the mountains or stay here here with those rainbow letters and the flashing building tree come see the butterflies, see grace win, be someone new create your own world within the concrete walls march down the street with the signs held high and stand beneath that acorn demand your existence welcome, i ask the city and welcome, it answers back. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ don't mind me, just following the trend and writing a city poem.
  40. 2 points
    the shades of gray that paint the concrete trees that glitter with scales of glass and steel exoskeletons are beautiful I suppose and the morals of the people here seem to match every possible shade of gray always in between never entirely here nor there a purgatory a maze that I will never finish let me out of this labyrinth, I cry nobody hears me or at least nobody cares to stop another beggar on the cobblestoned corner the sidewalk stained with god knows what or perhaps even god hasn’t been informed I shrink in this concrete jungle played down to a speck a pebble lost in a gravel driveway a sea of humans and noise and infinite grays the color comes through signs that scream and dance and lure us in sirenlike signals and the people with their ideas and words and clothes and music and sound I still feel small but I know this corner this little circle and I can navigate by the stars I cannot see because I know how the ground looks below them and I know the colors here the beauty that hides within the power of people Another poem inspired by @thepensword (Urban Hive go read it) and also by the biggest US city I ever visited I actually really love cities but I was small so I was overwhelmed and don’t really remember much of it. But, I now have a whole bunch of other city poems I want to write so I’m out of my sad uncreative spiral!
  41. 2 points
    My parents tell me that when I was little, they couldn't understand me. My sister had to translate, saying with a sigh, "she says 'I want ice cream'" or whatever I was trying to communicate to my parents. How fucking ironic is it that, more than a decade later, we're back with the same issue, but this time speech therapy won't help. We can't talk about the things that are important to me without calling my other sister to moderate. The only kind of therapy that can fix this is family therapy, and god knows how that would end. I was in first grade when I first met the nice lady who patiently corrected my lisps and mumbling. We played games and I met some pretty girls who were in 5th grade. I was a chatty fellow, telling stories as they picked me up from my classroom led me to the lady's room, where we practiced breathing through our noses and played Heads Up! My voice got better through the 4 years of speech therapy, but it was raspy for years after. In 5th grade, I joined chorus for the first time, and I fell in love. I pretended to hate it simply because everyone else hated it, but I loved it. I loved the vibrations in my throat and the sounds that poured from my mouth. For once, I had a voice, and it was beautiful. My year of chorus ended, and I left for middle school, where my voice was ripped from my throat by people who thought that I was something for them to destroy. I couldn't even order food at a restaurant. My mom became my voice, ordering my food, talking to the principal, even calling the cops on this one girl who prank called my cell phone for hours and hours on end. She stopped being my voice when I came out. No, she didn't stop being my voice, she stole it. She read my texts and I never got to come out. I never got to use my voice to tell her that I like girls. That I felt more like a boy than a girl. I wasn't able to tell her. She found out. I don't talk to my parents much. Sometimes it seems like our relationship is irreparable. But I'm speaking out, I'm rising up. I'm using my voice again, and I'm getting stronger everyday. I've found a family, and I'm being the man that I needed when my voice was gone. I'm in chorus now, and my tenor is strong, vibrating through the auditorium. I sing, telling everyone that they are not alone. That they can always use their voice. I'm living proof that they can make it. My voice is strong, and I am brave. My voice and I are friends. Sometimes, when I'm speaking and I want to claw my vocal cords out, I sing. I sing, and I feel the strength and the journey that it took to get me here.
  42. 1 point
    It’s like being stuck in Possum Springs, In a changing town and a dying church, A fading life and an aging world. The stores on Main Street are closing, Have you seen it? It’s all small here, hidden away, so There’s no escape from the people; They all know me, They all know what I’ve done. They won’t forget and I won’t leave Because I love it here, The childhood I never outgrew. And we’re all broken here, Together and alone, The dust swirls as everyone moves on, And I’m too naive So I keep hurting them, Saying the wrong thing. It’s precarious, walking these telephone wires, Looking up at the stars. And Mae, she was a violent child, And me, I was a monster. Bea, she can’t see a good future anymore And I can’t find hope. And Selmers, she writes the empty away; We are poets, the both of us, Writing about this weird Autumn Where I came home for a while. But it’s night in the woods now And there are spirits in my dreams, A Whatever-god who tells me It’s too late for us because The forest god is gone. It’s the end of everything and I’m trying to hold on. So Greg, you get out while you still can But I don’t think I will die anywhere else. Author's Note: This is a poem inspired by the indie game Night In The Woods. (It's a story-based game with lots of dialogue and it's art. Also it's kinda heartbreaking but it's so good) Also it relates to my life a little too closely so I wrote a poem about it
  43. 1 point
    I don't really know what to say, but if this is based in experience it sucks so much that you have to deal with this shit from your own mom.
  44. 1 point
    this is really good surrealist imagery...it stood out to me specifically also yeah i second what queenie said-- ive been there, and if the collarbone thing is intentional....please take care of yourself. my trick to that is that i'd be sad if all the good bacteria friends in my stomach died so i feed them like id feed a pet :0 it helps
  45. 1 point
    Hope’s a funny thing. Sometimes it’s bubbles, like sunlight and flying And sometimes it bashes you into the rocks far below. It’s all a cycle, endless searching and finding and losing and doing it over again. I don’t know why people keep trying to get up after they fall, For the ground is steady beneath my feet And I don’t feel the world spin from down here. But then my brain says ‘stay awake, keep trying, Keep fighting, for when you plummet, it means The time before it was worth it all.’ I want to tell my mind I’m tired of this, That I don’t want to hurt anymore, But it keeps holding on to hope, those summer breezes And lavender butterflies, bright stained-glass and dreams. I’ve tried countless times to get it to stop But it won’t and it seems I’ll keep suffering. Is rose-colored, ember sparked to life, Heart beating rapid adrenaline rush Even worth burnt lips and aching fingers, Wrists striped red at the end of the road? I can’t pretend to know. That’s the thing about hope; It’s floating, holding on every time I manage to climb back from the abyss again And maybe it won’t end because I need it Just as much as I need you.
  46. 1 point
    You confuse me. I can’t understand How, on the outside, you’re cold and strange, Arctic fox and ice shards in the snow fields, Frost dusted stones and frozen lakes beneath Rime coated pine trees. And then you hold out your hands to me; Suddenly it’s warmth like autumn, Like oaks and orange leaves, Like cinnamon and nutmeg And November. When you hold me for those brief, hidden moments It feels like embers and I forget how Your words are winter winds and your blizzard soul Chills me to the bone. All of that is gone With your arms around me, Sunset colored and comforting. I’ve never really been good at describing love, But I think it’s like you, like that moment When winter and fall are one, When fjord blue eyes meet mine And campfires flicker around us And you just stay here, with me, And it's November. Author's Note: This is probably cliché and ohlook I've fallen in love with a childhood friend.
  47. 1 point
    this is awesome!!!!!!
  48. 1 point
    I was in my house and we have a glass sliding door and I heard dogs barking and I thought it was my dog but he was under the bed and then I heard more and looked outside the sliding door into my backyard and saw about 2 dozen dogs just running across my backyard. Quick note about my house: it has two paths on each side of it so that you can just keep running around my house. So after I saw that I was really confused and then this guy in a gas mask and jumpsuit with a huge vacuum attached to his back and he had the hose-thingie in his hand and he was just like waddling towards the dogs. We have curtains at the sliding door and so I hide behind them and I heard paws scratching concrete as they ran on the right side of my house. So I drew the curtains back and then I didn't see anything in my backyard. So I tried to forget what I just saw but then I heard barking again and looked back outside and saw dogs getting sucked into this dude's vacuum. I yell and he hears me and he turns towards me and I hide. But then he knocks on the glass and now I'm scared as hell. For some reason I decide to go outside, and I pick up this really fat dog and toss it at him (apparently I'm just Superman now) and then the dog gets stuck in the hose and the thing implodes in his face and IT'S LITERALLY RAINING DOGS. Anyway, that's a dream I had a while back, but I somehow remember it 'till now.
  49. 1 point
    i made out with clark on a bed in a guest room in the back of a mcdonalds after waiting in line for food at said mcdonalds
  50. 1 point
    As a literal white girl in ap world, I’d like to at least attempt to offer an apology for white people being kinda shit and racist people being really shit. You and your culture(s) are more than just what the College Board and uneducated people say they are.