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.
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Her eyes are sunken
Like the wreckage of ships
That litter the depths of the blood-red sea,
Reflected in her heart as she
Remembers.It was once a pretty face
That gazed out on the cornflower waves
But now the charred remains
Are all that come to light.
His arm around her,
A kiss; a…
4 
Its not the beach blond hair
The flat stomach
Or the gap
Between your thighsIts your smile,
And your voice,
Your hope
And light within your eyesIts the fact
You are so fucking
Happy, I could never
CompareIts that your entire life
Is fearless
And devoid
Of any despairI want to be you
In the way
I want to be meI know it makes
Little sense
But someday, you’ll seeI want to be me,
In a year from now
Happy
Slim
Alive
Carefree
But I don’t know howAnd not knowing how
To be me, leaves you
And your beach blond hair
And your eyes, so blue
Jazzy’s note: I just really loved this.
(via jaidelespoir-deactivated2012112)
7 I want to find the love of my life, I thought to my thirteen year old self one Tuesday morning, so I can trek with him Kalimantan rainforests and we can hold each other’s nose shut when we run into the Rafflesia Arnold. I want to him to be standing behind me when I build that well in the Ethiopian village where Aisha lives and he’ll play with the children as we get our hands dirty with digging. I want to rest my head against his shoulder when we reach mountaintops and I want to hold his hand before I bungee off of cliffs in Whistler and New Zealand. I want to paraglide South American skies and watch the way he takes in the height because I will find no greater happiness in this world than watching discovery take place in him. I changed my mind when I fell in love with my sixteen year old self. I want Spain, I thought, and nights of dancing with those giant margaritas. I want to move into a Papuan home and teach for a year with children who are supposed to share the same blood. I want to make it to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro and daydream for hours about jumping off and read Mahabharata tales in the outskirts of South India. There are things I want to fall in love with before I fall in love, I thought. I want to fall in love with stories and fleeting passerby who give you a moment of conversation and a lifetime of ideologies. I want to fall in love with Aisha’s whole village and her parents and her future children. I want to fall in love with work and create a path for myself to do all of this – live, I mean. At nineteen, I was quiet. And I remained quiet when there was nothing left for me to want because I learned you could love things and people all at once and in abundance and you could fall in love with Aisha’s village and meet Rahmat and become part of his town too, and some fleeting passerby turn into your best friends and when you fall in love with the love of your life, you can jet off to the other side of the world and he’ll make up his own adventure in Northern BC as he waits for you. ‘I want a girl’ I’ll whisper to him in the rickety car we’re going through Afghanistan in. He’ll smile, kiss me with all his attention and effortlessly transition back into driving. He’s so good at doing that. Canadian mountains had nothing on him, Afghani mountains will be the challenge he quietly thirsts for. ‘I want her to see the world with us’ I’ll edge on as we trek through the great Amazon, swatting off creatures only a child could dream up of. And I believe that when you plant wants in the universe, you water it with each breath you live by. And sometimes they blossom into winds that push you towards a life so beautiful you forget to dream. I’m planting this right here. May this be a safe haven for anyone who wants to plant theirs as well. And maybe we can watch a whole garden blossom into a magnificent storm big enough to sail some of our ships.
53 Sometimes, he visits me in my sleep. And the vividness of my dreams is almost scary, I can see the 5 o’clock stubble mask his jaw. I’m still a little jealous, because his large tuft of hair had more volume than mine could ever dream to possess. I can see him smiling and I notice the crookedness – he is uttering something, his lips are moving, but I am suddenly deaf and blind, and it all falls to nothing.
I can’t remember his voice. I can’t remember the way he used to say my name. I can’t remember his laugh. I can’t remember. My memory stretches far like the melting sun, laid to rest on the grave of the horizon.
And I can see myself now. And I continue to watch as I tug at the long strands of brown, can see my hands ball into small fists and the ferocity with which they make contact with my gut, my face. I can see the tears, I can hear the breaking of hearts. There is hate and anger present in this place we meet. And I can see the confusion enter his face.
The hurt in his eyes tells me he doesn’t want me to be angry – but it’s still there. It will always be there. It’s the bedroom monster that haunted my closets as a child; where ignorance to its existence or fear of its power, only strengthens its hold.
It is such a lonely place. The belief of Heaven eluded me years ago. The belief in his wellbeing escaped from my soul. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he is watching over me.
This anger will not go away. I am angry that I cannot remember his voice. I am angry that I cannot feel him around me. These dreams, they are all I have. And I am angry, most of all, that as my heart grows older, as I grow wiser, I am losing my dreams just as I lost you.
Jazzy’s note: This made me cry.
31 Joy’s note: some one needs to feature this, now.
I am trapped
In a body I never asked for
In a world that takes no prisoners
A head that still needs answers,
I am trapped —
Every second
Of every minute
Of every day,
My ankles bound by shackles,
I am trapped —
By tears shed
For lost causes
And love that
Was never meant to be —
I am trapped,
Please
Send
Help…
(via poeticpeaceofmind)
70 If it were up to me
I’d be inheriting a
house full of pets and
spending half of my income
on the autographs of my
words’ inspiration.
If it were up to me
I’d be traveling to find people
whom I could be with
when they see snow for the first time,
people who need to be saved
because their beer can collections are
beginning to outgrow the house.
If it were up to me
I’d be smiling at little things,
like a pebble, rivers that dance,
butterflies, trees that shake,
and ideas that have learned to breathe,
simply because they will also
notice me.
As it is my center is
unreachable,
uncalculated,
unwanted,
made in the form of a rosed gem
that tells me
there is no lock
to break and set me free.
9 I have learned
to see the world
in the gasps
of your breath,
the stance
of space,
that hides in you.
18 My father believes
a whale could live
inside a jar. My father
believes in things,
in jars, in tails
that are also fins, that
are also hands. My
father believes in hands
and believes in whales.
My father thinks about
the whale, the small
Ahab who has lost his
query along with his leg.
The small animal
that would never feel the
strange elusive pull of a tide
inside her fragmented
glass home, filled with
water brought in from the well.
How
this would become a house
when we could not build
ourselves a home.
Amy’s Note: Just. Wow.
15 I would like to walk around in underwear, braless, careless.
Selfish, I want people to want me, to want to feel me; I want everyone all at once.
I want the softness of necks and cheeks without expectations. The feeling of being gripped, pulled, held.
Nothing more.
8 I’ve often read poems,
and many a times prose,
about how love makes you happy,
or leaves you morose,
it takes away your breath,
but also breathes into you new life,
it can give you immense strength,
and can also cut you like a knife,
but, man has not learnt,
that love is a tricky game,
once you’re into it,
there’s no one else to blame,
he keeps wondering what will happen
after another year,
will he be happy,
or will he be shedding a tear?
love can be as hot as the sun,
or as cold as an icicle,
love is a great invention,
but so is a bicycle.
Jazzy’s note: This!
(via midnightrants-deactivated201212)
17 Amy’s Note: This is all too familiar. Sometimes it seems like we’re not crazy until other people convince us we are.
I’m spinning in a chair across from him, listening to everything he says with what feels like a blank expression although I know it’s dripping with my insides. There’s a diagram in front of me and he’s pointing to a place in-between the words “manic” and “depressive”.
“When you fall here in the arc… well it means you’re not always high, you’re not always low… but you hit those points in, lets say, a different fashion than most.”
“So you’re thinking I’m bipolar,” I say. Cut the shit, doc.
“Yes. You’re bipolar.” Does this mean I’m sick? I don’t feel sick…
“Well, what exactly is ‘bi’ about it?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“When you use the word ‘bi’, you’re implying two right? Like bi-sexual people? ‘Cause I’m telling you right now, there are not just two fuckin’ emotions I go through.”
“It’s just the term. We know there’s a spectrum.”
“It’s a little outdated,” I tell him. “Just sayin’. Maybe you should revolutionize it. Call it like… tri-di-sexa-centi-quadringenti-polar.”
He sighs as he beings to write out a prescription and ask if I have any questions. I go through the important – will I gain weight? Can I drink? Will it kill my sex drive? Can I sell them? – then ask the question haunting me most.
“I won’t become a shell, will I?”
“What, like a zombie? Oh. Yes.” I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Zombies are what we strive for,” he continues. “I like zombies. They do my bidding when I ask, file my paperwork. It’s really quite convenient.”
Is he serious? The secretary did look a little out of it…
“Um,” I don’t know how to respond.
“I’m joking. You won’t be a shell. It’ll just help keep you level.”
“Okay. Level… level sounds nice.”
“So what’s your next move?” he asks.
“Honestly? I’ll probably milk the shit out of this. Go off on people for no reason then say ‘sorry – just had an episode!’ Or when people start to piss me off, lean in real close and whisper… ‘you don’t want to do that. You don’t know what I’m capable of.’”
“Um,” he doesn’t know how to respond.
“I’m joking. C’mon doc – you taught me how to do that.”
I leave the office to find my boyfriend waiting in the car, like he’s been doing for the past two hours.
“So, how’d it go? Did you get some meds?” he asks.
He thinks I might be clinically depressed because this is what I had thought. He handled the news of having a sad-sap for a girlfriend well… but this was different. I was now a sad-sap-happy-yap-all-over-the-map kind of gal. I look over at him almost in pain, wishing there was anything I could tell him besides what I was going to.
“Yeah… but they aren’t anti-depressants.”
“Okay…”
Jesus I’m about to get dumped…
“I have mood stabilizers… I’m… fuck. I’m bipolar.” Does this mean I’m sick? I don’t feel sick…
Nothing changes on his face.
“Sam, your girlfriend is bipolar. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“I’m Mexican. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”
He says this like they’re lunch buddies, like culture and disease can sit in the same waiting room. They may both manifest from genetics, but to my knowledge no one has to be medicated because they’re Mexican. At least not while Obama is in office.
“It’s not the same,” I say. “Doesn’t everyone just automatically associate ‘bipolar’ with ‘crazy’?”
“Who cares about everyone? You’re too concerned with being ‘normal’, Carly. Like what is ‘normal’? Who decides that?”
I know he’s right. ‘Normal’ is one of those terms none of us can define although we all strive to achieve it. There’s no Old Testament scripture, no laboratory test, no infallible equation to map this idea. It’s a concept we define ourselves, leaving us to strive and meet our own standards (or as I like to call them – the hardest, harshest, most impossible standards to meet).
My standard never included a daily mood stabilizer. But now here I am. A twenty-three year old chemical reaction.
“You know what’s cool?” I ask him.“What?”
“I can totally milk the shit out of this.”
“…How?”
I smirk. Devilishly. The way a child sociopath smirks right before he blows up a frog.
“With fear,” I reply. He widens his eyes and gives me a sideways whatthefuck.
“You… what… how the fuck are people going to fear you?”
“Oh. Just you wait, honey. Just you wait.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeahh… I feel like that name will come up a lot when people deal with me from here on out. They’ll go – ‘Jesus Christ, woman! Are you insane?!’ And I’ll get to look them dead in the eye and say – ‘funny you should mention that…’”
30 and i was sitting there on the bench with my head in my hands,
trying to cram the entire night
down my throat
even though i was full of so much everything
i didn’t think i could swallow
i had already told three people that night
i was going to die and they had laughed
and i saw you loping over:
you pulled me up, saw me home,
guided me up the spiral staircase with your hand
in the small of my back while i wobbled,
unsteady as the calf who refuses to learn
that love is something you can also receive
and standing together in front of the mirror
you silently filled a mug with water and handed to me.
i was fiddling with a bruise
on the side of my neck
rosy as a plum.
“i can’t,” i said. looking into the depths.
there was a glimmer of light
at the bottom
and i wanted to catch it without
doing any of the work, the gulp, the hard swallow.
“please,” you said
and so i tried.
(Source: shutl0w)
11 of your tangled hair,
can you please remind me
what the sun feels like
on my skin?
if I ever do speak
on my defense
and testify as a main witness
on the trial of your lips
can you promise me
that your sentence
won’t be as sweetly worded
as mine?
If I do doodle on your notebooks
and sketch a building on your page,
I hope I don’t scribble out
the blueprints to your blues
in a way that the next person
won’t be able to bring you out
of your depression
And if by some miracle
I escape the circular shaped prison
behind your pupils,
may I have the wisdom
or lack courage
to never wander
into your sight
Jazzy’s note: So beautiful. Love love love!
(via ninhe-deactivated20130520)
7 Take it,
The grip of two fists clasped on the end of the baseball bat,
Eyes forward, blinking only when necessary,
With long eyelashes falling down across the edge of rosy cheekbones.
“Keep your focus on the ball”.
Embrace it,
Standing in the rain, arms wrapped around opposing wet bodies,
Smiles spreading across faces, water droplets trickling down
Dimpled crevices at the creases of both mouths. And whispers,
“Don’t let go.”
Treasure it,
A family heirloom, passed down from the mother of your mother,
A speck in the scheme of existence, but your speck,
Your part of eternity, the history of your lineage
And a part of the memory of how you came to be.
Live it
To the fullest, in all forms of the cliché,
Move forward in chronological time,
Leaving behind what pulls you backward and down,
Learn to love it.
Live.
Sonja’s note: there’s something in the way this is worded.
7 
