Open up your veins and accept Poison filled needles They make you feel good If only for a time Open up your heart and accept Poison filled words That make you feel good If only for a time Love is a dangerous drug
Sweet summer mornings sound simply sublime standing in the incandescence infused by light infiltrating interior corridors connecting yours to mine. Microscopic misanthropic malevolent benevolence between barricades and bridges that lay across lingering lost loves — lonely, listening, longing — for a long faded farewell from far forgotten fortresses of forged affections and affectations. Actions acting acridly against their own ordinary occurrences occurring in accordance with mundane mistakes made daily. Disillusioned dichotomy dissuaded; disaster evaded. Evasion eventually ends encircling, encompassing, you. The ensemble you yearned yourself yanked clear from came — crashing, crumbling, crawling — creeping up your knees. Kinetic knowledge comes knocking, calling carefully on creative conjunctures in common corridors calmly. Patronage promoted by promising perversed passages passing for painted word pictures primped and pampered to be printed and prized. Or — rejected, reflected, resurrected — reasons won’t work their way visible unless vices verily vested in vouching for vendettas scream sounds silently; slicing surreptitious spaces, sneaking so surely slumber spares severance speaking sonorously. Honor hangs, hinged on hourly hope that waxes and wanes whether the tide teases or not.
Side Note:This here lady has won third place on my anon challenge and as the third place prize, I proclaimed I would reblog 5 of my favorite pieces written by her. And it’s relevant, because she is new on my dash — not so well known. Please indulge in the next 4 pieces. This one leaves me humble because rain is one of my favorite aspects of the world.
Misty dew drops Land on leaves Soaked in humidity Dripping off their Edges in rolling beads Of heat. The ground Is layered with damp Blankets that grow thicker as the day Grows older. Trees Hang low, pressed Close to the earth by Air that drops down Like rocks from some Place higher. Gray is Swathed over the Scenery leaving soft Impressions on the Inside of my retina. The rain pattering Softly against The bus window is The best poem I’ve Heard in a while.
They dwell sweet sorrows, among the shadows of the unknown. These creatures, and ghouls I’d like to call my own. For I am the only one who shall see them. Emotions overflow a bucket of unused words that mean nothing. Departing on to the ground where liquid sentences drip continuously. Where do poems get lost in the ocean? I guess all it takes to make you remotely understand is a pen’s ink seeping through blank paper. What hides beyond the mirror’s reflection is but a secret. She conceals her addictions, and bad habits. She watches her hands, reaching for the flask filled with London Gin, wanting to pour it into her tasteless drink. No one is aware of her forbidden plans, for she starves herself daily. I am lost within the colors, and lies within her eyes.
It’s been awhile since I last did an anon challenge and I have some free time in the next two days, so… I want you to anonymously seduce me with poetry. There are some rules though. You are not allowed to use the word love and poems without any personal pronouns will be more highly considered. Prose is also accepted, but it must fit into my ask box, I will not accept anything longer. And please, please, please remember to submit on anon. I will judge it in exactly 24 hours at 6 pm, ct. The top five will be promoted to all my followers and I will write a poem for each of the top three of their chosen style and topic. I hope you all have fun, and I look forward to reading your beautiful words.
I stood by the tides of languorous sighs, to rid from self, my skin of once it had been sealed in that your touch, and once it had been, dressed in that, our lust, and on the peek of the moon, I stood and waited for the hour before noon before you closed the door.
caught in his gravity i helplessly fall into him heating up like celestial debris falling to earth our passion a burning flash of brilliance though the tenderness makes pale the light of passion heat captured by a force i can’t comprehend but looking forward to it’s affects as our souls collide
I hate that this has an expiration date a deadline when this heart will slow its beating if not flatline altogether It’s hard to enjoy anything when you know it has to end Especially now that the months are moving past, like a freight train, fast about to crash
We, the sinking bones of dead battleships. Our insides had rattled like the cages of Mockingbirds, we’d turned to rust, red hazed shows of metal, we. Shivered in the bones of us, dropped nails like we were hammers, pressed tin into skin, kissed goodbye to sanity. We, painted moans in the air around us, interior exterior pieces of iron core our spines breaking down pressing out, we, skeletons of ourselves. We, the artists of the damned, picked ourselves apart with skin like bolts of fabric, call me sick we’ve drowned in the salt shakers, the word weavers, the blasphemers, the treacherous, the fucking kings of their kingdom. We, hung paintings in the jut of our bones, gave as good as we got, splattered paint like it was oxygen, silver, oh darlin’ aren’t we precious. We, sanded down the edges of magnets and diamond rings and swallowed them and wondered where the fuck all the good things had gone. We, statues at the bottom of the sea, we curled, we distorted, we bended like fish food, let the sharks with their teeth sink into us, twisted metal we. We, screamed until our voices turned to the deceased, headstones of our characters, ghosts in their glory, we tore each other apart looking for the precious, the prim the proper the fucking place where our prayers would find peace. We, shot time like murderers, we, the bullets of the time frame, we squeezed the trigger before the microwave stopped, before the kettle boiled, before the phone rang, we. The salt shakers, the word weavers, the blasphemers, the treacherous, we, the kings of our kingdom.
“You don’t understand me anymore. I don’t think you ever did.”
He asked her what was wrong and told her he didn’t know what was going on.
“You don’t even care about me. You spend all your time playing your computer games or over at Tom’s house, watching sport.”
He sighed and told her that she was always busy with her painting and her writing. He thought she liked the time to be alone and do her own thing.
“Don’t go blaming this on me. And don’t pretend you care about my art, you never were sensitive enough to appreciate it.”
He threw up his hands because there was nothing more to say. It was true that he cared little for her art. He had cared for her and thought that was enough.
After work he found a card with the words:
You never were the one for me.
“I remember when Dean asked me out and I remember when I broke up with him. He didn’t care about wars in other parts of the world. His heart didn’t break when he saw kids starving in Africa. I knew he wasn’t for me. He’s married now, going on 7 years in a few days, and they have a beautiful baby girl. I visit sometimes.
I remember when Steven kissed me for the last time. He was sweet and I had to tell him no. He calls me every now and then to see how I’m going. I tell him I’m fine and single. Last time he called he told me he was engaged. He tells me his fiancee wants children and he’s not so sure that he doesn’t anymore.
I remember Harry. He played violent video games.
I remember Tim. He cared too much about money.
I remember Walter. I asked him out on the very day he got a year long position interstate.
I remember Jackson. He never walked over and talked to me.
I never went out with those last four. Even if I had I know it wouldn’t have worked. With each of them there was a clear sign that we shouldn’t be together.
I know my prince is waiting for me, and life with him will be better than it would have been with any of the others. It will be perfect.”
She looked up from her laptop to the mirror. Lonely eyes looked back.
They were married on Christmas day.
It was perfect, like everything else about their relationship. It had been mystical, almost eerie, the way that everything turned out for them. Their whirlwind romance began on the day they were seated next to each other on a plane and discovered their grandmothers had been best friends. They had everything in common. They seemed to run into each other everywhere. They met accidentally at a coffee shop, at a supermarket she was visiting ‘just on the way through’, at a gig for a band they both loved but neither had told the other, even at the Anzac day parade. It was then that Lexi decided she had better just follow the signs and go with the flow. He was her soulmate and she would never leave him.
He had been angry often in the time they went out. He once threatened to beat up a guy who whistled as she walked by. She heard he got into a fight at a bar. Rumours circled. She became convinced that the fight had been in self defence. He was in a car accident and the blame was laid on him. He punched a wall and swore it was the other driver’s fault. But she hushed him, and comforted him, and he calmed. She wanted to go to an ex-boyfriend’s party and he flatly refused. When she pushed it he pushed her. He was in tears. He didn’t know his own strength. He was unendingly sorry.
It was a fairytale wedding.
Years later she rolls down her sleeves to hide the bruises.
Hey Sarah, how’s everything going with James?
We’ll see how it pans out. I don’t know, he might be the one, we’ll just have to wait and see. I have a test for him tomorrow.
Well I have news. I’m leaving David. It was never true love. He never even understood me properly. It wasn’t meant to be. I was just impatient and settled for second best. You’re right to be careful, Sarah.
Oh, hun, you’ve done the right thing.
Maddy, I’m so sorry.
Don’t be sorry, Lex, and don’t worry, it won’t be like this with you. You guys are special. You’re meant to be together. Remember how everything worked out so beautifully. You can always be sure he’s the one for you.
For all the ones that aren’t enough. For all the ones that begin the story but forget the details: the kiss, the fight, the five-hour drive.
There are those that dance upon the tightrope of your senses, spilling joy with every unhinged laugh. Those that change black to starry blue skies pin-pointed with innumerable sparkling smiles. Those that see more than just a body and a name.
There are some that run through your being like they’re on fire inside. Those that are nothing short of spectacular in their unique, humble, unassuming way - like the boy that doesn’t like to be hugged, or the girl that snaps silent pictures on the sidelines of life.
They are the ones left standing when the smoke clears and the wreckage couldn’t look more beautiful.
i saw a plastic bag in a tree it was held against the sky like a cut-out ersatz body mimicking the soaring stars from where i stood looking it was the same size as the sun and the moon i wondered if it was waiting for someone to point a telescope at it and say and yet it moves
Railroads on his forearms showing me where to travel next and I am inching closer to the halfway with a bullet lodged mid neck. Black coal burning hot and slow under my tongue so that when fever hits there is reason to measure. A sickness to cure. This is danger. I suppose I am still sane, but getting further from remembrance. A drunken stumble in my gait. He tells me it’s time to go home. To him and a bed I know instead of unfamiliar car seats and smoke soaked fleeces. And I don’t know how to do that. Don’t know how to go home to someone of my same skin so I tell him I am here already. I am home.
She says she wants to be a girl on my page. She wants to lay down on the cold white mattress of my prose, and she wants to become it.
She thinks she’s got a crush on me, when she’s really just hungry for the bait.
There’s something about her that wants to be helpless, but that’s just one word for it.
She wants to be held (down). She craves comforting and compassion, and maybe at the end of it, something a little more mean.
She tries to distract me from what I want with what I want. I let her.
I tell her, “We’ve already met once before, in that nameless hotel where you stood before the broken sink and looked upon your blissful nudity in the cracked mirror. I was the man in the mismatched suit and the blood on his tie. I held your hand while you were crying in the dark, but you kicked me out of the room right before I could suggest that we make-love on that whore-stained bed. You said you’d never forget me, but you didn’t want to know my name…”
You called me last night while I was laying in bed. Said you missed the light way I laughed and how we used to spend hours wandering around each others’ heads, delving deeper against pockets of thought purposefully left unsaid.
I missed the cadence of your soft voice as it washed over my skin, opening wounds that had grown over, scar tissues had replaced scabs that cried out when opened of how badly they missed you. Who knew that re- opened abrasions hurt worse than the original.
Spider legs tapping away at The weave we weave our words of, Her nimble sonata waxes beyond the grasp Of the insects below her Witnessing things we cannot comprehend Through her poetic compound lens, And I embrace my simple cliche, If that her versed fangs would pierce my veins, Just to feel her touch upon me. And let death linger as it may.
Written in either poetry or prose — either or will do, as long as it is no longer than the exceeded limit in an ask message. This must be an anonymous message towards me. If you accidentally send me this visibly, I will message you immediately without reading your post and delete it — hoping you get the message to resend it to me anonymously.
This prompt is not just about obvious issues that we all face. It can be anything that you (or the character) secretly struggles with as an individual.
There will be 5 honorable mentions and 3 winners.
For 3rd place, I will reblog 5 of your best writings to my preference on Exhaling Catalysts, with a descriptive side note.
For 2nd place, I will do a collaboration with you that will be well thought out and first proposed by me
For 1st place, I will write a poem that is inspired by either your tumblr name or who you are as a person and also write it out//send it to you
Depending on how many entries I receive, I will be hosting this challenge until tomorrow 5pm (EST TIME) at the earliest
I don’t work until the end of this week so I have extra time on my hands. I look forward to reading your written art.
We talk and talk and talk. We talk with words, and we talk with tongues. We swap saliva in delicate wallflowers and reflect a fatal innocence. We talk with eyes closed and fingers full. We talk with our smiles married, tongues tied and twisted. We talk in sheets, we talk on couches, floors, bedrooms. We talk through lips and tongues and fingers and teeth. We speak a foreign tongue but slip in the day so familiar and wet. We talk with eyes closed, but mouths and hearts wide open.
A war within me rages, emotion and reason take separate sides. Each knowing a part of my story. The warrior within me screams, muffled sounds bouncing against muscle, sinew, and skin. She prefers peace, but peace is for the sleeping and I am not dead yet.
The passage Of the morning Gave way and Sang odes to the Moon that it may Show her beauty Radiate on the fading Atmosphere and join Stars who have written Themselves in Braille That a blind man could Reach out and narrate Stories no man has yet heard She goes go back to wintry November To realize the relish she had set free The breeze has retreated farther Underneath quilts of deep gray, Mr. Sun has slipped to slumber Closing the eyes of the world The fields are the fades seas Syllable by syllable, weans Trusting the eternal gaze Monochromatic words Lungs escaped from A caper’s goodbye; Give her a name
I became a collector at age nine. My mother’s face, wet and drawn, was full of meaning I didn’t grasp as she fastened my grammy’s favorite bracelet around my too-small wrist. I showed the trinket to my father and he choked, gasped, and held my arm to the light. Showed me the sparkles. Asked me if I felt special. I didn’t feel anything. But, when my parents held each other, looking at me with my new bracelet, I knew I’d collect anything they asked me to. All the fleeting items that created those looks of sadness, memory, and longing on faces I loved.
I was too young to understand collections are only taken for the dead. Beloved friends and I would trade our favorite baubles, wearing them proudly. The look of love in my parents’ eyes was missing when I’d show off my latest addition to my growing pile of remembrances. This wasn’t the same, and they wouldn’t explain. But, as they handed me an autographed photograph of Benny Goodman after my grandfather’s funeral, to keep in my clarinet case, their eyes again flooded and they embraced.
My collection became separated out of necessity. There was a pile of goods to remember those living around the corner, and a small box of treasures kept in my dusty closet. The box was reserved for when I needed to see love in my family’s eyes. When I wanted to rule the universe and force hugs and regretful smiles where there was distance and distraction. I’d flaunt my bracelet, and my autograph when silence loomed around every corner of our too-large house.
I waited a week after my brother was gone before requesting a token. I had been staring into my box of memories, wondering why I had to ask. I thought everyone remembered. I made a specific appeal, and perhaps that was my fatal error. The mistake that shone light on all my collections and the reasons behind the embraces. I wanted his favorite sweatshirt, and instead was given an old winter hat he’d worn once and tossed aside. My family did not embrace. There were no wet faces. No smiles. The hat was tossed in the pile of nonsensical things my friends and I had contributed to my collection over the years. Meaningless and dead.
It never dawned on me, growing up, that the items in that box were without life. I was collecting so I wouldn’t forget. The warm smiles, the tears, the loving hugs and words of the past centered on an object so I could distance myself from the only thing I couldn’t have. As I stared at that hat, it became painfully clear, no matter how many things I collected, I couldn’t collect people. They’d go, and I was unable to feel the warmth I longed for, even as I piled myself deeper. I was collecting the dead, not remembering I still lived.
Side note: Beautifully written. I can relate to this, the feeling of wanting to know what you’re made of. Just so achingly real. “the moist droplets beating music into my back, echoing through my ribs and vibrating through my chest.” - perfect.
I was standing under the rain fall of my shower head. The moist droplets beating music into my back, echoing through my ribs and vibrating through my chest. I watched as runaway beads of water snaked down my breasts.
Then I thought, I can’t be this hollow. My heart can’t be that silent. The thick layers of skin, muscle and fatty tissue should have absorbed the vibration, should have muddled the percussion of my drum tight back. I should have never seen the waters rhythm dance across my chest like crumbs bouncing around on an exposed speaker.
I thought, I can’t be this hollow. What scared me was the thought, I just might be.
Pull me under the surface of your skin, where your waves slam against fragile peaks of frozen volcanoes, drops of summer seep through broken bulwarks and cracked bones, and become my oceans of seething tears;
tears which evaporate coaxed from that bitter ocean by the angry sun, dancing their rage across the furious sky captured in jagged lightning tongues which speak acidic, falling across your dusty marrow, etching through your ashen bones.
I’ve noticed that when I walk I walk with my head down. Perhaps because I don’t believe that I deserve to look up, perhaps because I’m not confident enough to look up when I’m walking. Perhaps because I’m scared to see what lies ahead of me – I’m scared for my future and what it might entail. I’m always looking down at the floor when people talk to me, and playing with my hands when I don’t know what to say. Perhaps I just bend to their words like a willow reed in the wind, I just suffer blow after blow with my head down – only to emerge with my head raised higher than before, because I am a fighter. I fight and I struggle and I don’t win often but I triumph sometimes, rarely. I play with my hands when I don’t know what to say, when words escape me – when they slip out of my reach like pebbles glossy with water and moss. I search for these pebbles yet they manage to evade my grasp each time. I’m always looking down and at nothing, because I’m unsure – because I don’t know. I’m always looking down because I don’t know who I am and I never have. I’m lost in my own world of inadequacies and faults; I’m lost in my own world of doubt and despair. For the rest of my days I might look down, although I hope that will not be a self fulfilling prophecy. I’m always looking down.
Speaking is exhausting. The constant insignificant chatter one is forced to participate in to get by in everyday life is so… pointless. Nothing interesting is said. Pretty soon, people forget how to be interesting. So you talk, on and on, about nothing really. You fill up time giving voice to letters that would sound better if written on a page in a different order about something other than what is being said right now. Yet every day we go through this ritual of speaking about nothing. And it makes me feel so very weary.
I think I’m going to run another side-blog. HAHA. Okay, I know. I make a lot of these, and they don’t always stick. Hey, I have a lot of free time ideas. I get bored pretty easily, but I think I can handle this one.
This is going to be a clusterfuck of writing “prompts” ranging from movie clips, photos, websites, news articles, and actual written prompts. Basically, all of the things that give me a creative hard on.
I think I’ll also reblog submissions that I find provocative, or interesting. You can send anything from hardcore porn to sonnets. But to keep it to a minimum. I’m only going to queue 9 posts per day between 9am to 9pm Central.
So yeah. First post will pop out tomorrow at 9am Central.
If you’re going to Haunt me so, Pursuing me through The black dead trees And jagged briars Of my heart’s hallow, Then upon my last breath’s eternal eve of night, I shall meet you in the twilight, Though you lay entwined in a Another’s loving arms, And I as cold as I am lone, Frozen from death’s cusp. So when they find me on the morrow, I beg you tell them I wept for joy And in these last moments forgot my sorrow, As I walked alone to join your ghost.
‘How do you know what you’re doing is right? That the direction you have chosen is the path for you?’
‘Does the rain ever stop to question what it is and where its going? No, never. It just falls without question, when it wants to, in sprinkles and in pours — and eventually it finds its way back home, it always does. Whether that’s the ocean, the river, or the lake, whether it’s trickling brooks or gushing floods, or whether its back to the sky once more.’
I’ve been busy weaving words onto cloth to make a cloak I can wear into dark forests to whisper poetry at the Moon and make her fall in love with me and sit amongst the branches of trees rustling the wind with my language and falling bump bump bump onto the ground to find metaphors shaking around me and shoving at my shoulders insistently because the world can tremble itself into rubble and no one will notice because you can stitch things together with just your mind and your fingertips and all of it will be entirely yours.
It resonates, your muddied judgment’s echo on my unshed covers — it does It turns shameful, your name’s aftertaste on my rigid spine — it burns It lasts, your 3am backlashes’ pain on my martyrdom — it throbs and r e s o n a t e s Skin me down and bare me to my pinnacle of weakness but save some light save your life
Breathe this cry breathe your lies impair my arms and shatter the sternum where my heart is caged i t a c h e s It resonates, your reverie’s utmost cruelty on tangled tales — it tries It kills, your mockery’s whips on my vestige of innocence — it lasts It scorches me, the aftermath of truth’s concealment on my tarnished name — it aches
we all go through the rights of passage - being born, blossoming into an annoying toddler, ripping apart our parents belongings, going through single digits as devils spawn and then blooming into a nightmare of a teenage dream: experimenting with everything from drugs to dildos. then, you have a rude awakening and you realize you’re 25 — and your life is nothing you had imagined it would be.
i remember my first love — i was only 16. a young, agile, and carefree teenager. he was a few years older than me. he constantly rubbed in my face, his latest conquests and how he would fuck them. i promised myself, i would never be one of ‘those’. but the fucker charmed me like a snake — he was one of my first heartbreaks, i thought parting with him was end of the world. then i discovered, the tragedy of survival (hello!). i met more assholes, some gagged me with my own heart, others just didn’t make me happy enough — some gagged me with their cocks and i thoroughly enjoyed it. currently, i’m single and damaged, but i constantly spread my legs.
some of us go through this world without any long-term plans because we know it’s going to end anyway — what is the point in trying? i hate having to worry about growing up (oh wait, i’m a grown up now), building a career, starting my own family. then i think, who’s going to marry me? i hate children, they are annoying little shits who just puke and poop all over the place, and even when you feed them they don’t shut up. i would be an awful parent.
at times, i begin worrying about my parents getting older. when i was 5, i thought my parents were invincible, everything was perfect — the world was my playground. they would buy me barbies, clothe me, give me the best they could give and most of all they loved me. all i really had to worry about was who i would play with at preschool.
back then, boys had cooties and pb & j was cool. my grandfather always waited for me at the end of the day, to walk me home — he would carry my backpack because i was a princess. i would run home and jump into my mom’s arms — everything was done for me, the way was always paved.
all was great when i was a kid — for the most part, i had an awesome childhood. i am the youngest kid and only one left at home — so the idea of responsibility is overwhelming, since i’m the baby of the family still stuck in the parental nest.
the reality is, my grandparents are dead, i don’t get along with my siblings, my parents are aging at a rapid pace and looking towards retirement.
i am lost and have no idea which direction my life is heading, plus i just look like a pedophile holding that bunny — and a creep.
The show of the sun was to arrive A death of another month were to show those curtains are open, Reverberation of voice runs in different ways Shine is in the wrong? Ice is in the right? A picture we do not see A picture, it is phenomenal Hot and cold never converge But they did Machines are screaming Confusion is in a seizure? The pencil is lead-less, his hand is reluctant Will a hellish firestorm freeze us next?
My hourglass is cracked, with the sands of time spilling my memories. I hide the indent which I used to lightly smash it, with dusted books. I do not need time to remind me that I will heal- I only need myself, and the beauty the world surrounds me in.