tiredfoxes:

I drove inbound on a bad trip,
a potent mixture of crushed lilac,
dust and crystallized sweat that
I inhaled from your hairline.

            I thought you might like to know
            that the planets are exploding,
            somewhere far off where we can’t see
            and that suntan on your shoulders
            is an allergic reaction

            to an emphysemic atmosphere.
            So I’ll send you a medical postcard, from the inbound train.

5.30.12.

14

Daily Routine

davenbypoetry:

You know the balcony,
The one on which you stand to view the sea?
This morning I climbed over the side
and fell.

You know the knife,
The one you use to cut your bread?
This afternoon it slipped and cut my wrist.

You know the bath,
The one that we both use before we go to sleep?
This evening, I went in a bit too deep and stopped breathing.

You know those sleeping pills,
The ones that I asked for because I couldn’t sleep?
I took one or two too many and
then I finally fell asleep.

(via skysaredoorwayshome)

5.30.12. depression,suicide,poetry,original poetry,poet,rejectsccorner,poetryintheraw,exhalingcatalysts,spilled ink,writers of tumblr,WOT,writer,writing,Tumblr writing community,Twc,

21

travestyintechnicolour:

I love it when downpours hit and I begin to see updates trickle in, everyone writing about the way it’s making them feel tonight at the same time. Sometimes, there is nothing more unifying than the primal panic-joy shared simultaneously between a county, a coast, a country at a violent thunder clap or the threat of a home pitched into darkness, we all know we want it to happen so we can spend a night by a different light that makes our shadows more obtuse and the next day more exciting as everyone shares their variation on the exact same story, the only time everyone will listen eagerly to each. 

5.29.12. just talking,thinking,this is nice,

20

kristaa0788:

We melted together into one lovely blur; no shapes could be picked out in the pink cacophony of skin on skin. A private universe with locked doors was born, and only we knew how to get there. Only we had the key.

Discovering this new place was nothing like we could have ever dreamed up ourselves. It’s funny how reality does that, how it can morph into the most realistic, lucid dream in less than a second. It consumes everything and anything it can get its hands on. Stars are born of fire, you know, and an entire universe of flame can be overpowering.

But oh, it’s a drug. Our space, our world, curls its smoky tendrils around my ankles as the flames lick at my feet, and it hurts, but in the best way. It’s a beautiful pain, a pain I was meant to feel right here, right now, skin and bones and blood and teeth all sparking with the newness, the hurt, the pleasure. I feel it from the roots of my hair to its countless split ends. I feel it everywhere, all around me, this burn. This passion. Our world, our playground. Just us. Just pure, carnal sensation. Raw and pure. Beautiful.

Janice’s note: Searing imagery. :)

5.29.12. prose,writing,spilled ink,passion,pain,pleasure,

18

tempest-at-noon:

I have peered up into countless moons
oft in lonely, night-clad skies,
but by far the ones I treasure most 
are thine eyes, gazing down into mine. 

5.29.12. sappy,poetry,writing,spilled ink,

15

Waterboarding

phantomised:

soaked myself in
whiskey-waters
suddenly found
some new sense
and I’d like to
think that I have
gained some insight
but what good
is it in a
nonsensical
solitary
vicious
world
?
 

5.29.12.

8

Attempted.

thirdeyecry:

Correct your vision

You still do not see

No hearing aid can aid your

Understanding of me

I’m flesh and blood

But you still cannot feel

I’m far too far away

This has never been real

Constantly explaining

And never containing

My heart is shifting

There’s no substance sustaining

Concrete is this feeling

And no effort towards healing

My mind is drifting

The truth is revealing

The burden I bear

The toll that’s been taken

Your idea of love consumes

Your ideology mistaken

You cannot imagine

A world without me

Yet you refuse to realize

That we’ll never agree

5.29.12.

9

sailingaugust:

Poetry is the arsenal of damaged heart. It is quite difficult discovering who is at fault. The arsenal or the aresnalist—a seething movement in the wrist as the mind concocts your fingers to write something unperfected. Aware of the limitations of vocabulary and cramps in-between the cracks and lines of your hand. You can feel the blood boil, but all you can do is write, write write and write until your metaphors refuse to conflict with similes or your organs begin to remember how to work against the grinding of your frustrated blob of ink splattered alongside the margins completely unannounced to them that words must stay inside the lines, but what a poor excuse for a bursted vein and a punctured lung strapped in confinement. I know that in the color scheme of American freedom alphabetical order is illogical, but why must blue be inside the border of it’s own color—why must the stars be white because I am only reminded that white is the color of freedom.

5.29.12. prose,poetry,

14

skysaredoorwayshome:

i.

I have these lifelines etched into my wrists; inked tree limbs that pulse when I put my lips my wrist. They’ve climbed me like a midnight sky. My skin is alive with branched pen marks harboring blue-blood ink.

ii.

You’ve stopped breathing. Your chest is heaving against my side, and your lips are hovering over my shoulder; your forehead pressed against my neck and I feel a surge of warmth. You are unmoving, except for the gasps.

iii.

I let you cling to my skin, direct your lips to my wrist, and tell you to breathe just one last breath. But you cling too hard with hungry teeth, and you break my bones so that my bones break. They’ve bent away from soil, and the tree roots hidden beneath my wrists pulse have been cut by splintered bones.

iv

I’ve stopped growing, but you’ve begun breathing.

Janice’s note: Amazing.

5.28.12. prose,exhalingcatalysts,writing,spilled ink,burning muse,burningmuse,

14

Thank the sweetest stars,

stealingneverland:

The window in the sky that whispers late at night has finally come unlatched for me; the vista on the farther side is unmatched by any other sight I’ve seen. A world, like our own but not quite to the tee. The sky is coloured purple and the sun is shining green; the seas were thick like jello and the waves painted trees with sweet molasses colour like candied apple leaves.

I’ll never forget those sights I saw that night among the stars, it was the sweetest dream I ever dreamt, the sweetest lie by far. 

5.28.12. prose,creative writing,spilled ink,musings,thank the sweetest stars,

6

kissingtherivermouth:

my breastbones are perched on lungs, 
ready to fly away, 
distengrate;
I might just
let them.

sleep slips into us like a boat, and cuts a path we walk on with tremorous feet. 
watch me, watch me, 
watch as my arms stroke and cut into glass water
and how it cuts my arms too, watch the blood crawling towards my hands. 
I want these to end but I need sleep
and so I swim in black waters
and let them wrap their arms round my legs, 
pull me further, and further, 
as I leak red.

they told me to count my fingers and open doors with my eyes first.
“watch me, watch me,
watch how I cut into my dreams like they were glass
and I sauter all the cruelest bits together. 
better to carry them on my back, 
better to shatter them all at once”
and they slice memories into your skin—

but you leak oxygen.

five fingers, each hand.
my bedroom is bright and clear, 
unfamiliar, but perfect.　

Yasmin’s note: She always has the best imagery.

5.28.12. this is... I don't know,halfhearted and halfstarted and then given up on,lol,poetry,writing,spilled ink,

15

to find him.

blankpagesandinvisibleink:

she folds love letters
into paper planes and trusts
the wind to find him.

5.28.12. poetry,haiku,queue,

84

I’d like to go back, but I can’t go back

shakespearneverdidthis:

In a Karaoke bar in Saigon I watched as a Vietnamese girl was pulled into a room by her hair, screaming.  My Vietnamese friends told me not to worry about it.

Upstairs in our private room we chose our women and mine sat on my lap and fed me because I didn’t know how to use chopsticks yet.  I’d chosen the girl I’d seen being pulled into the room by her hair.

The girls had lined up in front of the four us sprawled out on the U shaped sofa and I’d been told to choose first.  The girls stood there looking bored.  I knew they were used to this, but the idea of ‘choosing’ a girl was alien to me.  I chose my girl because her eyes were red from crying.

I sang ‘Born in the USA’ because it was one of the only songs in English I knew well enough, but mostly I just sat there drinking Heineken in big glasses filled with ice.  I sat and listened to the others sing sad love songs in a language I couldn’t understand and I smoked Marlboro cigarettes.

Afterwards my friends encouraged me to take the girl back to the hotel, but I said no, and she started crying again.  I gave her two million Dong and she stopped crying and was happy again.

My wife had been dead a year and I hadn’t slept with another women in that time.  It was something I couldn’t really imagine doing.  I was thirty one and I believed my sex life was over and done with.

Back at the hotel I tried masturbating in the shower but nothing happened.  All I could think about was that girl being pulled into that room and the way her eyes lit up when I put the money in her hand.

***

There was an Australian bar in Saigon and I went there to watch the Rugby League and drink myself stupid in the company of overweight old white men.  In a lot of ways it was like being home, except I could smoke inside and all the girls were Vietnamese.

On some of those nights I called my brother because I knew he was watching the game too.  But I was always too drunk and when I woke in the morning I always had text messages asking me if I was okay and telling me to come home.

You’re scaring me, one of these read.

***

One night I ended up on the roof of the Rex Hotel.  I just sat there looking out at the city depressed thinking about what a mistake it was to come here.  My wife and I had come here before she was my wife, when we were still just friends, but I remembered it so clearly.

I’d wanted to visit the Rex because I knew Graham Greene had lived there for a time, but my wife didn’t know who Graham Greene was.  She liked the view though.  At night the city looked gorgeous from up here and we took pictures of ourselves, the city behind us.

I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with that girl.

I was wrong, I guess.

Yasmin’s note: Interesting read.

(via shakespearneverdidthis)

5.28.12. prose,fiction,

59