The Writer's Bloc

a must

donde-esta-mi-mente:

to fall into
your face
is a must 
for me

lights around
your lips, halos
of wind
around your eyes—

to fall in
a pit of lust
with you
is a must

who are
you and where
did you go?
I must know

17

noonecanownyoursoul:

Your love
leaves me with the kind of
warmth
I can only get after
putting on my
sweater
fresh
off of the radiator

You are the
steam heat
of
my
soul.

16

Fitness Program for Poets

insertpropagandahere:

I said “Inspiration is like
A lump of clay - it has to be
Molded. It has to be shaped.”
                      “Inspiration takes time,” You said
                      “Like waiting for a bus.”
Well, honey, I’ve a penchant
            For missing the bus. So I walk
                                                              Everywhere.
               How do you think I stay this thin?
                     A balanced diet doesn’t hurt either
                     Pot of black coffee. Two packs of smokes.
                               Despondency in generous portions.
                    That’s how I stay so thin
                                                That - and walking.

A strong set of legs
              Will get you far. A pretty face
      Will get you farther
                 Which explains why you always
                                                      Have to wait up for me -

-r. miller

48

bourgeoisie:

I put away a pretty page
for you, I’ve dog eared
you.  At least I’m not
old; I can tell you’re
still a kid by the ratty
converse shoes,
you left the prints in
my car. With my
brains and your
lack thereof,
we could go
nowhere. We’re living
for nothing, and we’re
going to die
for nothing. You could
grow up and be happy
and forget me, and then
everything would be
alright. But I’ve dog eared
you, old boy. 

20

grouchomac:

The first time I watched a beheading, I was thirteen. It was an American soldier. I can’t remember if it was from Afghanistan or from Iraq. The video was put online, and my brother brought me into the room when our parents weren’t home, and he pulled it up. The video was grainy and buffered a lot,…

5

how to fall in love with a broken girl

bythestaircase:

i. don’t listen to her when she says she’s okay. pry. make her squirm. make her honest. make her into more than a sample of herself. flood her lungs with promises of a brighter future until she suffocates on false pretenses. show her the difference between being happy and being whole. she’ll thank you later.

ii. kiss her just because. write poems on crumpled napkins and leave them in her shoes and beside her tea every morning. teach her how to ride a bike. travel to cities she’s only read about in grocery store paperbacks. she is going to have a panic attack on the subway. let it happen. don’t worry, she’ll be okay.

iii. remember that she is quietly falling apart. there will be bad days. there will be bad weeks. there will be bad months. count to ten. buy a needle and some thread and stitch her back together where the seams are ripping. offer her a helping hand when she doesn’t ask for one. even if she declines, she’ll aways remember the gesture.

iv. remind her that she is not her anxiety. she is not her depression. she is not her past. she is here and now. take her hand and guide her through the dark until she can see the light at the end of the tunnel. it’s distant, but it’s there. she’ll make it.

v. show her your scars, and maybe she’ll show you hers, too.

118

eulogy no.13

michaelsoltero:

sometimes things work out—
that’s not what i say but
i’ve been drinking haunted houses

i’ve been drinking little lagoons
i need to close my open-wound
mouth,
need to be young, blood on porcelain,
tired and dead before confessing.

i’m no ghost, i have no past.
i look back—
i was so drunk and happy then.

14

Wild Irish Sarah

sarahgawterrwhiskey:

when I long for that purple pout
red smeared lips that smell like my father’s van
looks like I gutted a dog with my dull fangs
& he bled out everywhere but my pert mouth
 that no boys wanted sucking their tongues
 moist like a kitchen sponge
soaking up the empties, the glass table wreckage, the stories you hid
in the bottom of the boysroom toilet
all the creepy crawly toys in the attic winding on their own
Wild Irish Rose breath subverting your smile
cover my moans with your softening boner
grinning like the Joker gone absolutely batshit
I use to smell like oranges when I ate better
 you said I smell like a Friday night spent in a cinderblock cell
you say, “you look like hell, kid”
& I sure taste it
right before you shut the door
 leave me lying there, panties round ankles, skirt up to nipples
I can’t find my cigarettes
dreaming of  unconsciousness in the wet burial of an innumerable amount
of squirmy, slimy prospective whores
that will never come to fruition to see their mother frozen like a statue
but less graceful than stone smirks
less gracious than those perched warbling birds

sometimes I want to look like damaged goods
relive the glory days of being coveted
baked so hard I was fried like an Easy Bake Oven muffin
(they used to call me Easy Made Cummin)
smudge my eyeliner around the lower lashes
rouge on the cheeks to look beaten
like a retired boxer’s wife
like I’m drifting from outer space to populate your planet
meet me out in the middle of another territory’s orbit
I’ll be the one with the overfilled challis
&  jack-o-lantern face skulking in the wreckage
of ships I warbled at
two ships that should have just passed right by each other
 in the guiding lighthouse of the cruel, cold night

when I dream that way
when I notice I’m paused for more than thirty seconds time
daydreams of pipes & laughter &glasses full of amber colored ice
 (I’m a broken record in any given setting & all I hear is “Oh my my”)
Oh, and my God says
I just cover the broken chapped places with lipstick
moisten the tip with lemon water
grip the bottom of my dead brother’s sweatshirt
with white knuckling fingers that use to grip life with the same stiff posture
it’s sweet like rotting fruit in summer dumpsters
Oh, and my God says

i’ll never have to smell like roses again 

45

cheapchai:

I write about not wanting to be in love. are you jaded if you can pinpoint the parts that turned to stone? I can draw you a map, if you like.

I’m at the part after the fire. have you ever seen the ruins of a burnt suburban house? I’m picking the ash out of my hair. I’m sleeping on the blackened…

(via cheapchai-deactivated20130121)

12

drowning

pomegrains:

i am struggling to inhale what was once known as oxygen (now sadness). we reek of it, and i shut my mouth and try not to exhale, knowing i will have to breathe in, out, and exist.

(i don’t want to, sometimes.) all the time.

my thoughts weave themselves into chains of water, angry tides crashing against the confined spaces of my skull, moaning for me to feel it. darling, i do.
you can spend weeks, months, and years, carefully and diligently placing the bricks, one on top of the other, making your wall. i will not flood.

i will not flood.

but still, nothing is sempiternal, and things erode & decay. what a beautiful waste. if these seas will wash over me, i will willingly walk down between the tides. if this sadness is weighing me down, i will not be buoyant.

 1. walk into the sea
 2. and tell the moon hello,
 3. stick your head under
 4. and breathe.

(via lemonvines-deactivated20130409)

20

#39

c-l-a-i-r:

i broke myself
to see if you’d fix me

experimental dabbling
with cold, fixed hands

eyes set

(record the data in neat hand,
the words like windows opening
to embrace each potential dawn)

i broke myself
with a hammer
with a saw
with fingers (mine)

i broke myself
and i made you watch

i broke myself
and i waited,
clipboard in hand

Sonja’s note: This <3

27

talkswithmonsters:

This windowpane loneliness
has devoured too many stars
making love to ocean beds.

Janice’s note: Short, vivid and powerful.

42

death and lavenders

wewereajigsaw:

There are flowers died
                  tied 
to a lamppost next to the highway
(this is about fourty minutes
out from melbourne)

    left without water (and in the m
     iddle of summer) their stems
   drying into husks     le ft
out for the dead
the youngest dead

    i was headed to a lavender farm for the day,
       these gorgeous pastures of brilliant purple
     and bees so friendly
      (without any deathwish)
          and all the lemonade was delicious

he was probably dead before he hit the ground

     kept on driving
   trying to imagine his name 

20

His shirt was buttoned unevenly.

grouchomac:

Irresponsibly and skillessly. Where at all. That was the first sign that something was off, something was off and wrong. He rolled over with an exaggerated lift of his legs. There was no reaction. Looked down. No dog. Looked over. Not anyone. Looked around. Only rectangular swaths of street lamp light reflected in a mirror. The formless shadows of unfamiliar furniture.

9