EXHALING CATALYSTS

thelongroadtowisdom:

Tied tin-can telephone across the North Atlantic

words tangled up somewhere between

hanging like clothespins over a churning sea

written for you, written for me.

And I could kick my end of this tightrope of ours

send that homegrown prose to its waterlogged grave

weeds to be poisoned, not a paper to save.

Wander-mind musings, terrify me

and tremble, hands, give me a fright

I want to see what it’s like dive through the night

for the confessions I’m too senseless to read

and the ones I could never let you see.

flight-stubs:

Consider this your warning:

You will not be a hero.

You will not be a martyr.

You will not tame her,

You will not protect her.

You will not fix her.

You won’t last the weekend.

She will use you up

Like the last stubs of red lipstick

That soften her blunt words.

She will spend you out

Like her final penny

Placed on the counter to catch

The next train out of town.

She will wring you dry

Like the worn, sun faded towel

That spent her childhood

Soaked in salt water and memories.

Most importantly,

She will make sure to stomp all over your sorry heart

Like it is nothing more than

A dirty welcome mat at the front door

Of an open- house.

The morning after,

Do not raise your head from your pillow

And look to the right-

She will not be there.

She is gone.

And a piece of you will be too.

fakesurprise:

I wish our story didn’t have to end.
That we could go forever on.
We’ll never forget each other
And that hurts more than it heals.
I can feel you drawing away inside
Like tide pulled back to the sunless seas.
I am not sure what words I can make
To bring you back to me, or if they will
Be drowned out by the surf.
The waiting room pulls us further apart,
Not like magnets but like electrons
Split asunder yet once whole.
Your eyes bore into mine, voicing unasked questions
That I am too terrified to answer.
We hold hands together in brittle silence,
Afraid if we let go that words will flow
And fill the spaces between us.
I see my face dancing in the mirror,
My smile a rictus like death,
A clown’s mask I cannot take off.
Two young lovers, eyes like skittish colts,
Watch us and envy our love.

ordinarywonder:

I’ve read several posts over the last few days that have asked: What the hell is a writer’s voice anyway?

Wait, isn’t this just a pretentious phrase people use when they’re trying to sound like they know something about writing? The answer is: well, sometimes. But, I think it’s a valid concept.

Your writer’s voice is essentially the unique blend of your vocabulary phrasing, syntax, flow (often manipulated with punctuation and formatting), aesthetics, and style (including themes, motifs, character development, how you push the narrative forward, genre, etc.) All of these elements combine to give your writing a personalized quality to it. it’s not just what you write, it’s how you write.

Also, on a deeper level, it’s the aspect of your writing that is the essence of you that shines through, no matter what you’re writing about. It’s your point of view (even when you’re filtering it through characters). It’s your signature.

It’s the reason why a million writers can write about the exact same topics, but we can still create a million variations — no matter how subtle the differences.

Your voice is what sets you apart. It’s the one purely original thing you can share as a writer. I think this is why it’s vital to develop. This is not to say you shouldn’t push past your comfort zones, or that you should limit yourself to a certain topic/style. But somehow you have to find a way to make whatever you write “yours”. Otherwise, there’s no reason to go looking for it. There are already tons of other writers who have probably already written about what you were going to write about anyway.

Your voice is what makes the difference.

Everything has been written before… but not by you.

un-expectations:

tell me,
what do they do to traitors where you come from?
do they hang them
or do they scatter palm branches in their wake?

i’ve fought a thousand wars in my mind,
all against myself;
you told me that three-dimensional characters
need conflict,
and, love, i have it
in abundance.

i broke faith with reason
when i wasted my first metaphor on you.
“everything is up for interpretation,” you told me,
and you tasted my mouth,
and i asked,
“even this?”
“especially this.”

i think now, maybe,
you had been kind then,
warned me tenderly – i should have known, when i saw that Bible
tucked underneath your mattress,
matthew 26:47–50 in faded yellow marker.
“everything is up for interpretation.”
“even betrayal?”

especially betrayal

Sunny’s Note: This is pretty fucking amazing. 

ladyfunnybones:

i was analyzing my writing — i have noticed, i can’t write fiction. i can’t write flowery shit like most of the stuff floating around. my poetry is very basic, it’s raw — i can reach your hearts with 10 lines, or less and without using big words that would only make me look like a pompous fuck, or a pseudo intellect like the good 10% of the writing community on tumblr.

i think using a thesaurus to edit your poem defeats the purpose of “writing from the soul”, unless your brain is a dictionary.

i find it tough to make metaphors. i find it difficult to come up with characters because i lack imagination. i get lost in the dialogue. i become annoyed by stressing over getting the grammar right and i abandon everything. i don’t have the attention span to sit down and write. i don’t take the time to think outside of the box or about being ‘original’. i am afraid of failure. i am afraid of rejection, so i stick to faking it. i would rather write broken lines of shit.

let me come clean about something: i don’t even know the first thing about writing. i can’t label my things with “flash fiction”, or “micro fiction” because i can’t differentiate between the two. i am not even a legitimate “prose” writer. all i know is that i have thoughts festering in my brain that need to be let out. and if i didn’t share them with tumblr, i would go bat shit crazier than i already am.

with every post i share — i am giving you all a part of me. these are direct thoughts — unedited, a complete unadulterated version of my life. sometimes it humorous, and most of the time it’s fucking sad. a lot of the times you will see my thoughts about “love”.

i have to say there is real talent on this site, and then i find blogs which make me want to cut my eyes out. but then i have to calm down and understand, everyone starts somewhere. the more we write, the more we practice; thus, the only outcome is becoming better.

when tumblr spotlighted me last year, i knew i didn’t deserve that space — alas it went away as quickly as it came. that did not sadden me, all i knew deep down was, i am only on here to spill ink. when i grow tired, i will disappear.

one thing i dislike about tumblr sometimes is the competition. the politics. the need to seek another “better” writers approval. the grievances over becoming a top-contributor before someone else. the preferential treatment some people think other writers get from their editor friends.

i will never forget the first month i signed up for tumblr. i learned so much — and 17 months later i am still learning. i am not afraid to say: i don’t know everything about writing and i will keep sharing whatever i have.

parsley-sage-rosemary-thyme:

Savor the pungency. Suck out the juices. Let pulp cling to your teeth. Hold onto the peel. Remind yourself that some things in life are sticky. Remember that even bitter things have beauty. Collect the rinds. Tell yourself that bad things come to an end. Relish the harshness. In hindsight it will make you better. It will make you brighter. Be careful. People are not always as they seem. The ones blessed by looks can be acidic to you. Outer appearances can trick you. Help extract the sour from others.

Never throw away the lemons life has given you. Cherish each tangy mouthful. Think about who you have become. Each bite of a lemon is a struggle. I know this. Every obstacle frees you. Recognize that nothing is permanent. Lemons decay. Lemons rot. Study them. Know the lemons you have hidden away in your drawer.

When life hands you lemons, embrace the sharpness of their taste.

When life hands you lemons, appreciate them for what they are.

When life hands you lemons, do not be afraid to feel the tart tears spring from your eyes.

When life hands you lemons, eat them. 

capriciouspoetry:

Taste what is left of me.

My mouth feels like an ashtray 

on the nights when solace comes from

the mouth of water where I first found my 

love for you. The tree with our initials

has been cut down and one day 

the pavement will be mulled over 

until the only notable remnants of 

our love will come from the strangers

we’re growing into. There is nothing romantic

about holding my breath on 114 and I’m sorry

to take that away from you. I’m sorry to have 

given you more than you were willing to keep.

I’m sorry that your letters take up space 

and that the poetry was almost for naught.

I am sorry to be sorry that I knew you.

dancingtoheartbeats:

I have been conned, this is not
the blonde beautiful life I paid for,
where’s the guitar solos every commercial break?
I think you left out the love interest,
that just won’t do - 
can’t you see my soul’s lonely? aching, bitter.

and I didn’t ask for crushing misery until I’m thirty
and established, as a painter in Paris,
where did this teenage angst come from?
I didn’t order this,

this isn’t the body i asked for, either,
legs are too short and skin is too pale,
and frankly, look at the eyes on this model!
pretty, maybe, but there’s nothing there,

this isn’t the life i ordered at all,
please send a refund to my usual address
and we’ll try this again next week.

musesinthestars:

I was twenty-two and
you were twenty-five
and you always smelled
like aftershave and
bloody glass.

You told me that
your dad once strangled your mother
right in front of you
and when he let go of her neck
she didn’t look eager to breathe.

After that I wanted
to give you my…

profoundfuckery:

I wrote you onto a pedestal
And myself into a hole.
I wrote the sun in you, as you left,
Leaving myself in the cold.
I wrote the whole world as a villain
And left myself to be prey.
I wrote myself unbearable
Now no one will ever stay.
I wrote every other man inadequate
And left myself at a loss.
I wrote you as precious stone
And I cannot afford the cost.
I wrote all men into monsters
And let them go run amuck.
I wrote myself into a corner
And let you fuck me up.

My pen was mighty. 
My heart was faulty.
I was not worthy.
You left me hurting.
I foretold solace.
But wrote me lonely,
Cuz you won’t have me,
Now who will hold me?
So, I let them fuck me,
‘Til my soul was holey,
And there you sat, high
Like you were holy.
I wrote myself lonely.
I wrote myself with you.
My work was fiction.
All I really do is miss you.