EXHALING CATALYSTS

WIDE-EYED: Do Not Love A Broken Girl: Part I

lessons-in-morbidity — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:07:32 -0400

WIDE-EYED: Do Not Love A Broken Girl: Part I:

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.

shades of us: Waiting

thesealivesinme — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 21:19:57 -0400

shades of us: Waiting:

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.

Do all stories have an ending? Uncomfortable, uncertainty, and those last two lines.

On The Edge, Through The Void.: What is a writer's "voice"?

thesealivesinme — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 22:27:00 -0400

On The Edge, Through The Void.: What is a writer's "voice"?:

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.

Words from one of the most passionate of writers on Tumblr, about writing. SHE has a voice here.

Strawberry Kisses

dimasmoonbeams — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 18:43:43 -0400

sanddollarpoems:

Strawberry kisses for breakfast
From the red headed angle
Who spilled milk down his shirt
When he went fishing for cheerios

Strawberry kisses for lunch
From my masked hero
Who just saved the whole world
with his pillow case cape on

Strawberry kisses for dinner
From a tired little boy
Who doesn’t want to eat his food
But would rather eat mine instead

And I cherish every single kiss
And smile at how a plate of strawberries
Can be defeated so easily by
My angel, superhero, tired little boy

unexpectations: palm sunday

lessons-in-morbidity — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 14:12:00 -0400

unexpectations: palm sunday:

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.

tender shots

lessons-in-morbidity — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 04:01:07 -0400

gentlediatribe:

the house is tired ochre

and little marbles get stuck

in the image like old wiring

that plucks threads from

your shirt as you walk

soul confessions: i am giving you all a part of me

thesealivesinme — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 23:55:00 -0400

soul confessions: i am giving you all a part of me:

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.

I read tumblr for true emotions, like this. The appropriate tag for this AUTHOR is “non fiction” I think. I believe she knows plenty enough about this thing called writing.

rehab

lessons-in-morbidity — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 22:59:40 -0400

v-isceral:

put me on a golden platter
and drink me
from a half empty glass.

if there was a rehab
for love addicts,
i’d relapse every time
i look at the map
you drew on my skin —
the one that says you were here
and there.

you are both the fever
and the painkillers
i dry swallow down.
we could start a fire
and burn down entire skyscrapers.

you glow bright amber
like the wires inside a lightbulb
after a blackout;
you are there and then
gone
but you burn still,
red-hot.

i want you to slide under
my skin
as smoothly as i meet
the grooves and hollows
of your neck
and collar.
my mother would cry
if she could see
your handprints on my body,
but i would let you
wear me
like an extra skin.

even as i write this
thousands of feet above, soaring
through the clouds,
i hope you find comfort knowing
that i left my heavy heart anchored
to you,
wherever you may be.

i can’t hear you voice
but i suppose
the buzz and vibration
of the airplane turbines
will suffice for now.

To Quell the Beast Within: When Life GIves You Lemons

lessons-in-morbidity — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 20:01:25 -0400

To Quell the Beast Within: When Life GIves You Lemons:

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.

Let's.

lessons-in-morbidity — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 15:03:31 -0400

humilination:

Let’s all just get shot,
So the blood from our wounds,
Insures the flowers don’t rot,
With a disgusting perfume.

Let’s all just get drunk,
So our vision is double,
And the stars in the dark,
Come down here to cuddle.

Let’s all just scream out,
And hear our angst-filled echoes,
Bring howls and shouts,
Out of the wolves of the meadows.

Let’s all just forget,
That someone out there isn’t ours.
Let the one we’ve never met,
Think about us for hours.

sashawanred

lessons-in-morbidity — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 12:02:28 -0400

voyeurproof:

They made me wrong
because I don’t
sing the same song
carry the same torch
defy in the right proportion
I can’t hum the same tune
on a shitty afternoon
the world’s closing in
and I’m about to be removed.

They made me wrong
because I don’t
want their ends,
I don’t admire the liar-
sucking flames from fire
no one knows the score
I can’t be here anymore
the clouds are closing in
and it’s about to pour.

allen-vc: Romance,name given by two,has placed us togetherlike the most intricate jigsawIt pulled...

lessons-in-morbidity — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 08:01:59 -0400

allen-vc:

Romance,
name given by two,
has placed us together
like the most intricate jigsaw

It pulled our souls
from the pools of our past lives
siphoning our spinning bodies
into a singular form,
manifesting serenity
in a spiritual world

Romance…
is what holds us together
as if we were in the hands
of gods,

were we gods in mind,
and I hold yours in mine

Close the door when you leave.: Taste what is left of me.My mouth feels like an ashtray on the nights...

lessons-in-morbidity — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 04:01:16 -0400

Close the door when you leave.: Taste what is left of me.My mouth feels like an ashtray on the nights...:

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.

you might as well go mad: This Isn't The Life I Ordered

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 20:01:28 -0400

you might as well go mad: This Isn't The Life I Ordered:

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.

Carpe Diem: Oxygen.

s-emi-colon — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 17:07:47 -0400

Carpe Diem: Oxygen. :

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…

Emily’s note: absolutely wonderful, and with incredible strength throughout the poem, especially in the last line.

I miss(ed) you.

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 16:02:57 -0400

sinandserotonin:

we say
I miss you
when we
barely touched

when we really
just wanted
to collide.

Poetically Profane: Dirge With Three Words {I Miss You}

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 15:26:12 -0400

Poetically Profane: Dirge With Three Words {I Miss You}:

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.

Belong

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 12:02:29 -0400

k-speaks:

There exists a strong
urge  in me. I long to
see the world,  but
not just the beauty of it.
 I want to see the
real tragedies. 
Broken cities.  
Broken buildings. 
Broken people.  
Connect with strangers 
who seem to have
no  idea who they are
or  what they want.
And  perhaps I can
finally feel like I belong.

I won't admit that this hurts: 131.

lessons-in-morbidity — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 10:15:24 -0400

I won't admit that this hurts: 131.:

Sunny’s Note: This was such a lovely read.

swimminglessonsfordemons:

The way that whiskey tasted on your tongue was synonymous with guilt, and when you wrote your name into the lining of my lungs, your hands were shaking with regret. I should have known better than to let you keep promises to me on your bones when you’d already dug your grave. I don’t think you ever kissed me with the intent of keeping yourself alive, because when we made love, we both came away more hollow than we were when we went in. I shouldn’t have been searching for keys in empty beer bottles because glass is fragile and I cut my hands too many times trying to open bathroom doors when the water had been running too long. It was exhausting loving you, but I loved all of you, even the parts you hated. I wish it had been enough to keep you breathing “you’re good enough” against my lips.

yethhounds: Ghost hobo

thesealivesinme — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 01:20:00 -0400

yethhounds: Ghost hobo:

coltstooth:

In the back of the patrol unit he is quiet
He looks straight ahead
his eyes devour every detail
It is uncomfortable
He is not an arrest stat
Just a transient to be moved along
To the next county line
A silent strange man who spent too much time on our street corners
No crime committed
Just an uneasy presence
A ghost hobo
That lingered amid the normal
ebb and flow
People stepped aside
With no explanation as to why
He was not your chaos filled drunk
Or your needled carcass of the latest drug
Not a shell shocked vet
No he was not the normal night warrior
His clothes were old but clean
His Long hair pulled back tightly
His backpack held little
Yet one sensed he had been on the road for a long time
You wonder what his eyes had seen
What layers of life he filtered through
At the edge of town
you let him out
He stood for a moment then offered his hand
A simple handshake
And though you normally would not do so
You accepted
And let God be your witness
You will never ever be the same
What passed to you
Tore and split each molecule
And chased your soul
You are forever changed.

I read this two days ago and couldn’t get it out of my head. A common practice, at the edge of town, at the ER, the county line, captured so well here. It made me wonder if the author had real experience either driving the car or riding in the back.