EXHALING CATALYSTS

Side Note: Brand new amazing person. Welcome, blueskyemergency, to the Tumblr Writing Community - your words are lovely.

blueskyemergency:

A silent signal was given 
somewhere in the darkness

Every inhalation into my lungs
expands my ribs,
presses into my skin

I watch between the cracks
as shadows cross through the moonlight

The timekeeper stands on the corner
calling the hours to the stars

I step from behind the wall where I hid,
unsure of what lies beyond the fog, 
unsure of what lies beyond the now

And I give my silent signal,
watching it slip off
somewhere into the darkness 

arpista:

There is a clay pot atop your windowsill, made from tired hands. Along the edge, there are thumbprints, pressing stories of marigolds. I was born of a similar seed and tucked into the dirt, sprinkled carelessly. You watched the blossoms show, peering behind a curtain of brass bells. It whispers, as you do, when nightly animals cease their sweet call. I run my fingers along the curved rim in search of lasting fragments that exhale your mother’s name and your stone well wishes. I seek remnants of you, mixed into spun potter’s clay from your father’s tired hands.

Note: I love this. I can totally relate. This is divine writing.

darkhorsepoet:

Coffee burns the skin in the grip of my hand

my knuckles, chilled blue and rattling

in the winter wind

my hand out the window

the streaming, steaming tracers

of thoughts and caffeinated heat

her big blue eyes and wild mind

her full smile and upraised voice

I’d leave everything for her

but I say that every time

I bring my hand back into the car,

my mind back to reality

and try to focus on contentment

the grass is never greener

because I destroy the lawn

wherever I tread

Side note: I really love this, a lot. 

deadfiction:

I came from above
just like the plague
eating all human souls
I became their ruler
never questioning me.

Clawing at ambitions
weaving all treason
kissing those dictators
smiling at the popes
becoming everything
licking their sins.

I came from above
just like bitter Death
sweeping away tyrants
killing all those saints
I became the ruler,

no one asked why. 

Side note: This is just stunning. 

orangesinabowl:

melatonin deficiencies allow you
to write poetry deep into the night,
long after the color has bled out
of the sky. like a fairytale, when
the clock strikes midnight the
veins in your arms burst open
and leap onto the page. characters
crawl on top of one another and
rearrange themselves; you’re just
a vassal now, just a hand holding
a pen. powerless to stop the dance
of the derivations that pour from
where sanguinity once dwelled.

Side note: This piece embodies everything that I love about her writing. It just all feels so wonderfully delicate. 

oceansandmilk:

there is a fisherman standing in the hull of his ship pretending he is neptune. he’s listening to the echoes of the sea and they feel like an old song he still knows all the words to. he’s standing on his ship and his arms are at his sides like a hushed main sail. there’s noise. the ocean is singing, the deck is speaking in it’s crepitate modulations and the fisherman’s mouth is open and articulating grand allegories to the sea as if the conch shells, in disarray all over the floor, were capacious ears gathering his false fables up in knots in their innermost coils. when he speaks to the sea, through his lips flecked with salt, flecked with saliva, lips mottled with a dapple of sun, he only sees his words on the sea and no sea in his words. he’s alone but he isn’t. he hasn’t uttered anything over water that’s led the words to taste brackish in his mouth. he’s trickling tales about the meaning of things, saying he gets it, saying he’s not afraid because there’s no one around to prove him so misconstrued anyway. the sea just dips her delicate caps towards him. a perpetual salute, an infinite nod. an amaranthine dance entwined with the moon. a bow, a bow, a bow, from all sides of the fisherman. a cadenced condolence of i know i know i know.

Note: I like this quite a bit, mind blowing imagery.

goldenagony:

I. New

The girl, such a tenuous thing, with friable skin and feeble bones wore a black Lolita dress cupped over pearl frills and anonymous bows. The silken material rolled in and out her palms and felt foreign to her senses, her artificial senses of not touch but recognition. For, what was an android girl to be if she did not encounter the abundance of silk? Chestnut curls in quivering mishaps framed the sculpture and only illuminated the radiance of her brown iris’ that held magnetic sparks that bolted through (but only hypnotic dreams controlled by electricity). 

II. Balsamic

It was winter, 28th July 1992, the frostiest icicles pricking at the greys of your veins, when silver lined the cracks in the pavement and clinged to the trees for doubting support, that she witnessed a ghost in her reflection. For hours of unceasing minutes and minutes of unending seconds, she had stared into the pupil’s of her mirror’s eyes to find she was somewhere new, a cascade of dust consumer her in the least post-modern attitude. What atoms disbursed from powder to create such an illusion of herself? The ghost’s soulless eyes (made from steel) and fingernails aching and yearning for something it couldn’t have. 

III. Last Quarter

Lolita Girl soothed the bruises (the monsters) of her knees, burnt bruises of deception and beauty and a suitcase of nothings and nothings waiting in the corner. While she cried and the velvet tears strummed the goldmines of her porcelain cheeks, her eyes turned white like the centre of the Vega star. When she wailed, miniature brides in white dresses fell from her eyes and clung to the pores of her skin but wait - too late, they fell, as all tears do and the Vega star never maintains lustrous forever.  

IV. Disseminating

There was an event that occurred on the day were Lolita Girl’s arms failed to work and a French girl visited with ruby apples grazed upon her cheeks and the richest of rubies embedded into the cores of her lips. Lolita Girl followed her around until she left, unable to reach, to touch, to speak. Isolation shelled her like a gun barrel that was fully loaded with segregation and quarantine simultaneously shot at her, her bionic arms glued to her sides and her lips being sewed shut. Voiceless and deprived and bruised, Lolita Girl wailed more figurine brides. 

V. Full

In the most rawest of dreams, she surged the forbidden lands with a voice too loud and guards too mute to stop her. 

VI. Gibbous

Her silken Lolita dress achieved the floor and too exhausted, she only sighed. Her bones too fragile and skin too firm (Much too firm) was now deteriorating in angst and without the fine touch of another. 

VII. First Quarter

October 30th 2003, Lolita Girl projected herself down to a riverbed of acrylic sand and clouds too white, too white for her, tucked away into jars. Rations too radiant from across foreign seas ate her lips. For, what was an android girl to be if she could not experience the wealthy sense of Caribbean luxuries? (Although the tastes remained indistinctive upon her pouted lips)

VIII. Crescent 

Ultimately, the Lolita Girl was just a rag doll regulated by strings and a puppet of discipline approval without a voice and a fragmented imagination.

Side Note: I never fail to be amazed by this young woman’s work.

my-dear-haphephobic-heart:

You spilt the words from the lips of your heart
like freshly bought milk over our kitchen floor,
and cried your soul pink, and your eyes to sleep
for weeks,

as I lingered by the bedroom door;

ears pressed to the bottom of glass cups
waiting for the footsteps to come catch my shadow
sliding through the gaps desperately,
(its fingers searching for you).

But your breathing echoed in gasps from the shallows
where the starfish cling to the grey stone rocks,
each counting their skyward lovers as they sing
with the wallowing of the waves upon the docks.

(There’s no silence for them, ‘til death
but I’ll save you, I whisper against the wood,
hoping you’ll hear; I’ll save you)

And there’s no silence for them, ‘til death
and final breaths —

where they whimper away their last memories,
and unclasp the remnants of their past pains;
unanchoring themselves from their flesh bodies
and fleeing to hide as the moonlight stains.

(The kind that hang beneath your eyes
when you do not sleep — for weeks,
and I wilt through the gaps
of the floor and the bedroom door.)

The kind that burden me on sight
when you wander into the hall
on indistinguishable sort of night —

with questions diving in my hands for comfort
as the robe of black falls from your shoulder blades
leaving you vulnerable and naked;
soaked, exhausted and left to wade
in the ocean, spent and spread in the space
that our fervent skins breach and break
for the rescue of anothers warmth.

Side note: I love this. For some reason it reminds me of Grapevine Fires by Death Cab For Cutie. 

shesanargonaut:

The world did not end the day we burned like forest fires, our hands running rampant over mountainous goosebumps and wildflower veins. The earth did not shudder when we did, our backs rippling with aching gasps and subtle tremors, our shoulders shaking with regret. The moments we spent together were not cataclysmic, apocalyptic, or in any way a seizure to the soil we have so graciously lived upon for so long, but to us, the moments we spent together were so sacred, so fragile, so delicate that when they ended, the earth itself could’ve collapsed in sorrow and still would not feel as tragic as it felt to lose you.

Perhaps, we will find each other again just as lightning does when it chooses to kiss the earth.
Perhaps, we will always be lost to each other, two messaged bottle drifting amongst an unending sea.

(Either way, I will never forget how softly you kissed me, like a moth’s wings before a soft and engulfing flame.) 

Side note: There’s something delicate about this piece. Beautifully written. 

lightningtheraintransformed:

These tools,
forged and tempered.
Through determination,
resolve and strength. 

These hands,
worn and sculpted.
Within the labyrinth of scars,
each telling a tale.

Your fingers,
treading softly,
caressing lovingly,
intertwining with mine.

Our hands,
destined, we embrace.
Interlocked, woven,
hand in hand, we walk.

Side note: This!

avant-que-joublie:

i don’t have
tomorrow -

i have today
spun around,
twisted,
reshaped,
rehashed,

given to me
in a different frame,
telling me that
time has moved on,
telling me to
make it what i will -

i have no tomorrow,

i
have
today

again

Side note: This is amazing. I love it. 

thediamondsinlucyssky:

It was sixty-five days ago that your life hung like a noose around your neck. Sixty-three since I last saw you. It’s strange how I never noticed you were gone until we chanced upon each other one strange summer night with the full moon pulling us closer. I had told myself, six-hundred-and-two days ago, not to get tangled up in your ashen features, looking away from the cigarette burns that kissed the lines you’d carved on your wrists. They were faded, but they were still there, covered up by the nervous pulling down of selves and half-hearted smiles. The world feared you, but there was a certain something that intwined me around your finger. Maybe it’s because you were a time bomb and I was fatally attracted to promises of saving people. I don’t know. I don’t think either of us knew.

We were from different worlds, but even so, you fascinated me. I was young and scared. You were a serrated edge. I drew daisies along the margins of my veins. You drew flames around each burn. You were in society’s bad books, known for your wrong doing with big red stamps on your record. I had never even had a man in my bed.

Eighty-one days ago your flames swallowed me whole. You scribbled secrets in my notebook’s ripped margins and slipped them into my overturned palm. In turn I read them, feeling your poison seep into my bloodstream. You poisoned me and I saved you from falling into the dark. You told me a jumbled story and in return I gave you smiles.

And for us, it was enough.

You had been born from locked doors and slapped cheeks, and you showed me which locks held which secrets and which doors hurt the most to open. You traced the lifeline on my across with your finger and transferred it to paper, slipping it into my tshirt pocket when I fell asleep. I remember waking, feeling your heartbeat beating through its graphite line.

“It ends too soon,” I wrote to him.

“Don’t worry,” he told me. “I’ve already lived through death.” 

Side Note: I love the imagery of this. Every single word makes your imagination its playground. Such rawness.

courtingthelarkspur:

I love the numbers that are written
on the rim of your bottom lip.

I could taste them when you spoke.
It was like you were spitting them out to me, when love words caught on your tongue like a fisherman’s hook
and wouldn’t escape God’s will.

Now…

You chew them off.

You spit them out when
I’m not looking, when my back is turned, my guard is up.

But they surface in a tiny black procession, wearing your family
on them like snow,
cumulus clouds,
the dahlia dew, sour apples wrinkled in a backpack.
You spread them around now,
ashes on the ground,
they tear open the earth and drop paint cans towards the core,
hoping to perhaps paint the days darker,
to ruin the refuges I made for you when I called you darling,
licked at the wounds on your feet,
extracted “home” from the dictionary down the street
and cut the letters out of magazines
and the pink navels from dead babes
who didn’t see names
and taught you how to raise your kids for when you grow old and crow
and cobwebbed in your head.

Now…
you offer your bones to keep
the wonders of the world numbered at eight,
I don’t taste the ink anymore,
you’ve sparked till you’re worn
and want to drive into the mountains
and cut your lip
off with what you’ve heard
and want to see

everything

you’ve already seen and cut yourself
till you’re alive.

You just don’t see,
that it will destroy you.

Side Note: My word. Amazing.

pseud0nymph:

[A]labaster skin to yours, not dark
enough to [s]hadow the burning
flame[s] rolling through the tunnels
of yo[u]r constricting veins, and
didn’t you know that [m]oving lips
are always s[p]eaking something,
sending stut[t]ered messages and
wh[i]spered pleas, no matter what
silence beguiles the m[o]uth crushed
to yours — and did[n]’t you know, just
because something[s] are said, they
[are not always colored a shade of truth]

Side note: Brilliant, as always. 

lifeencoded:

the zen
of old forgotten friends
remembered in short bursts

the white hot
desert heat of painted
faces glancing over martinis

small phrases
uttered between closed
eyelids in cool air conditioned hours

wishes written
in marker on bathroom stalls
coated with derogatory comments

the flickering lighter
silhouetting a body against
the cool creeping night

empty bottles
sprawled across porches
ashtrays overflowing on coffee tables

cool skin
waking with tar pit coughs
throbbing heads and pulsing bodies

these are warm
fond places to reunite
disparate souls in happy embraces

Side note: This is absolutely gorgeous. 

thegirlwithyellowhair:

we are burning, 

fuelled by graphite,
mercury boiling within
syringes, plagued

by nocturnal images,
mesmerised.

down by the ocean,
mermaids lay sleeping
breathing in dreams of
valium and pleading
with the clouds to
save them.

magnesium glowing
white, creating spectrums 
in our godless minds,

find our breath milk
white with fog
and our fingers frozen,

death is coming.  

Note: Just this.. THIS.

strawberrypiesforbreakfast:

My mouth is heavy-
filled with the words 
I’m dying to say to you
They are rupturing 
my cheek cells,
bruising my gums,
& cracking my teeth;
with their rusted bits
clogging my throat;
choking me-
killing me.

I need
to find a way
to convey these
words to you.
So I try
spilling these bits
of what I feel
for you
into a crumbled
paper boat -
& I push it nearer to
the brink of your eyelid-
hoping you’d notice my words,
hoping you’d notice me. 

But you don’t.

You let my boat
sink into
the ocean of your eyes-
& left me drowning.

So I give up.

I swallow my words
and let you
slip off. 
I 
   l
      e
        t
            y
             o
               u
                 s
                  l
                     i
                   p
                      o
                        f
                        f

(Only because
You didn’t give me
a reason
to stay.)

Note: This piece is simply beautiful.

razielswhisper:

My reflection and me are the same,
though in a world where everything is reversed,
where my virtues are his vices
and his greatness my defects.

You, the self made omnipresent observer; 
in which reality do you stand?
taking pieces from both sides,
looking for love for love and time for time.

I trust you understand the meaning
of ominous disappearances
coupled with unexpected presences
of clean opportunities to walk towards him.

Do not be surprised by the gaps in the mirror,
cracks, can you still see my face through them?
or are you looking at the pieces in another,
more beautiful, more complete facade.

It is all a matter of perspectives,
everything is quite simple if you stand my place:
You are seeing me as the reflection
while you stand by your realization.

~Dawling