This blog is a dedicated space for poets of all kinds. Our aim is to share the work of those hidden in the writing community and of course some from our favourites. We try to find new talent, as all of the staff members have different, diverse taste. Thank you for visiting -- Let the inspiration flow.
We track the "poetry" "prose" "spilled ink" and "creative writing" tags.
I haven’t seen an anon writing contest in about a year and a half now so I thought it would be fun to host one. I hope a bunch of people enter oh god.
- week-long feature of your writing
- or I could write you a poem and mail it to you
- or I could draw you a picture and mail it to you
- will consider making you a member of the club
- if there are a lot of excellent pieces there will be more than one winner
- if a lot of people enter I’ll probably come up with better prizes
- you’re following this blog
- you’re not listed as a member in the blog’s left hand column (this contest is like a way for me to kick it with this blog’s followers)
- no theme—write about whatever you want!
- anonymously submit a piece of poetry or prose before April 10 @ 12am EST
- for longer pieces: type a random number after your first ask and begin your next ask with that random number
POST 1: I fell in love 1489
POST 2: 1489 but he didn’t.
- one entry per person
- Glacial thoughts will kill you from the inside out. (via poppyflowerpoetry)
- jsp, Disposaphobia: the fear of letting go and getting rid of things. (via namaste-rbate)
in your bluest eyes
the smoke from the end of my cancer stick
hold your breath baby, you won’t like this
you blink and that’s the most i’ve seen your face move in the last hour
but then you take a breath
we have until the embers are out
that’s about the most sense you ever make
but that’s okay
we have until the embers are out to fix you
and i laugh, low and raspy
because what i have
isn’t a sickness that can be passed on like lice
but a lifestyle
that’s every bit as mad and empty as my promises
you’re not making any sense, i’m not broken
we have until the embers are out and i’m gone
with that i take one last inhale
before the fire hits the filter
and my cigarette extinguishes itself
and i look up
to laugh at you again
but you’re gone and i’m stuck staring at my yellowed fingers
Tell me now. Humour me, my dear. In all your wickedly profound and dignified days, have you ever felt it burn between your thighs with such ardent insistency? Has it ached enough that the mere effort to even move causes you great pain? I often wonder. In what language shall we communicate, where words and brushes of thought make spines shatter like the sudden burst of broken glass. I remember one dark evening I kissed you against the mantel of our fireplace and like dripping wax you melted beneath me, my lips grazing your arm. I painted the blush in your cheek. Matchwork and candle lit fires licked my flesh. We were deep, carnal, and rich. I’ve tasted waters miles stretched and still I cannot get enough of you. Twisted little thing, do you know? The only tap shoes I am wearing now are those nailed to the floor. I’m concrete filled and I can’t move while you’re burning against my tongue. But god, wouldn’t you know, this dance is enough to shoot the moon and I’m swallowing every last eclipse against your lips, seeing the tenderest of stars.
- dear Adam - Tapiwa Mugabe, tapiwamugabe.tumblr.com (via tapiwamugabe)
next year you’ll cut off all your hair
and stop talking to everyone you
you lied you said you had to
stay home and write a paper but
instead you went and you saw
a movie alone. you can’t
remember what it was about
you go from ten thousand miles
an hour to moving in reverse so
quickly, why do you have to be
you’ll come back in the fall with
bright red hair, but is that really
what you want
My friend rented us a convertible
so we can drive to Vegas in style
and I’m ready for the sun to warm
my skin and get rid of these blues
but I don’t want to have to go
through his bags when he leaves
the room and check his arms
whenever he comes back.
How could he?
I want to show you the city on
fire at night or I want to melt with
you into the crowd or I want to
watch the wind make your hair
dance on the long drive down
but you won’t be there.
Do you remember when we
drunkenly became blood sisters
one night when my apartment
was so hot it warmed our toes
but melted the ice in our drinks?
The whiskey wasn’t sitting well but
we pressed an old kitchen knife to
our palms and you flinched when I
didn’t but that’s okay.
I can never make your weaknesses
into mistakes but touching you
since feels like a sin and you
smile against my mouth
like you know.
This is me twisting my fingers up
and in and this is you never
stopping me like you
How could you?
There’s a place off the strip with lights
that flicker and tequila shots strong
enough to knock you off your toes
and I picture you there with my
hands in your hair and your lips
specked with salt.
We’d bite down on limes and then
each other all over town.
I’d tell you about your blood
settling in my veins and
how it makes me wild
how could I?
My friend will ask what it means
when I don’t say anything.
I will shake my head because
he likes my silence since so many
of his secrets have made their
beds inside me and I will do the
sign of the cross in the passenger
seat like it will save my soul.
I go so many places
hell be the last stop?
My soul is somewhere
In valleys and streams
Reading your face
Like I did
The first time I’ve
And learned of your
Calms— the way
Good poetry contains
crisp images, bursting in
like sharp gold light that shatters glass-
romance, between a voice’s caress
and a misunderstood archetype’s
f r a c t u r e d g a z e
and bittersweet endings, melancholic
amid translucent shrapnel
carpeted floors to lean your elbows against
sun streaming through clouds like
elementary school pillow fights, laughing through feathers
the way music sounds, the vibrations of your tympanic membrane
realizing that the same lips that say hate can say love
(if they wanted to)
blood flowing through your body
your body flowing through space
space enveloping you like a warm cocoon, like a yolk inside an egg
warm baths where your body
is free to be a body
every type of hand
holding on to things, always holding on
stomping in puddles as hard as you can
rain boots and
and spaces between breaths
and breaths always taken.
(adj): 1. two lulling syllables able to whisk you into memory.
2. the descriptor of every emotion one feels following loss.
Synonyms: the beauty of the soul
- of ancestors
are the backbone
- of our world.