The Writer's Bloc

I can’t shake

ampersandthenwhat:

the way you shake me.
I keep holding on
to the way
you hold me.
Now teach me
to forget the way
you forgot me.

7

vagabondlanguage:

We built birds’ nests from onion grass
on broken tree house bones;
the jungle gym was our castle
and the monkey bars our throne.
We used to climb trees
to see if we could see the world,
me in my slacks,
you in your purple dress,
and even when it was rough as knives
we knew we could pass any test.

4

Things not worth telling

misthoughts:

I.
You wrote me a letter about looking in to my eyes. The first time I read it I didn’t understand, the second time almost brought me to tears.

II.
Sometimes I wonder if, even after this past month, you still don’t really believe you know me. You called it ‘familiar and foreign at the same time,’ and you hit it spot on.

III.
I thought after two-and-a-half years I’d never feel breathless again. I was wrong and I think last night we fell into zero-gravity.

IV.
I’m leaving in three days, and we’ll be miles and hours and worlds apart. And I want to make this work, which I said last time, which didn’t work. So maybe if I don’t tell you I can keep this promise to myself.

V.
I still love you, but you shouldn’t love me.

15

remember

atalantasings:

remember the summer?
those hot, sweet days
that barely cooled
into sweltering humid nights
when you held my hand
and we walked through town
humming songs about
absolutely nothing at all

remember innocence?
those fragile kisses
that suddenly swelled
into waves of rolling flame
when we made promises
honeyed with sincerity
and became for one moment
everything we’d ever wanted.

6

for lovers who stay because without them, we wouldn’t.

five—a—day:

To the girl with the green eyes
and the freckles at her hairline, thank you.

I know I am a lion full of roar;
I am a river full of run;
I am hard work.

I imagine loving me is like finding
a beautiful dress that fits you just right,
only to discover it is threadbare in places;
it has holes at the elbows; it is worn out.

Still, you take it home. You hang it in your closet
and you admire it from your bed. You stroke its
waist of velveteen. You try it on and twirl.

It is mesmerising to look at,
but heart-breaking to touch.

You touch me like I am made of glass.
You have held me for so many years the way
the bedrock holds the ocean even when it is
trying to get to the moon.

I am always trying to get to the moon,
but it is so far from the warmth you keep
between your hips that I think I fail on purpose.

I think I satisfy myself with the notion that
the moon will always be there, but you are
something so much easier to lose.

Sometimes I’m not sure
why I haven’t lost you already.

All those nights I have kept you up worrying.
All the letters I haven’t written. All the ones I have,
only to contradict every ‘I love you’ inside them
by refusing to look at you when you cry.

I am not sure why you stay, why you hold me
instead of hating me, why you read me poetry
instead of writing me goodbyes.

I am not sure what has kept you,
but believe it or not, you have kept me.

Kept me from losing myself,
in the roar or the run.

126

mermaidsandearthquakes:

There’s a poem intertwined in the stray strands of your beard, and a story tucked into the tears along the gem of your favorite ( and only) jacket - you know, the one you love to loan me when I’m shivering.
I hear a song between your eyelashes and I can’t help but him along.

Can you hear what I’m singing to you?

10

tongue in cheek

robertschwartz:

Lips can do

a great many things,

one of which

is whistling,

I would not say

it’s my favorite,

but some find 

it quite amusing.

3

micador:

Sometimes I wish that you understood that there are two sides to love, One that’s always forgetting and the one that yearns for you on a warm Friday night. The side that waits awake thinking of you at night, with my red dress on and the lights dim, waiting for you to sweep me away and make me your own, Only to see the moon light grow clearer and the door stay closed, locked tight. I wish you’d lay your hands on me like all of those crazy times just one year ago, when my body was electrified with your pulse against my skin, you’d say you loved me over and over so that it was like a stamp imprinted in my past, present and future. It’s something not even I could forget. The tan ripped leather in your pickuo and your hand resting on my thigh driving down that dirt road on the 5th of December. The way you left the window half rolled down and almost ran the red light when you looked over me. The cold nights in the old tin sheds when you’d be working late and I’d come in, your hands would be dirty with grit, but I didn’t mind. You’d grab my waist and pull me close and whisper sweetly that you’d missed me. You had every piece of me. That first Christmas when I woke up next to you wrapped up in sheets against your skin, You were truly the most magnificent man I’d ever seen, your brown eyes, they way stubble slowly crept up upon your cheeks when you hadn’t shaved in a while, that certain untidiness that made you just so much more handsome. And now I wonder if you even remember what that was like, and how marvellous those nights and days we spent together were. I wonder if lay in bed and if a passing thought is ever about me, because all of those memories are still abundant in my mind, and I can’t get rid of them. There cemented down like a footpath into my past. I wish that you would come back. 

(Source: micador)

5

inhaletheinsanity:

things to remember when eyes are sad.


1) do not be ashamed.

2) wrists have birthed crescents la luna is jealous of.

3) your mother saw a future in your tiny bones. she splits open a pomegranate with both hands in a sun lit kitchen, head thrown back in laughter, hoyoo is always a vision. she is counting on you.

4) your skin is riddled with scars and stretch marks are stars that connect to form constellations bright with stories that you will one day share with a wet tongue. the freckles that scatter your shoulders and dip like the ocean down your back is fairy dust, sprinkle it in breaking’s wake.

5) thank god your mouth is a full mouth.

6) there are books carefully collected that line shelves in your room and library’s and quaint bookstores tucked away in forgotten corners that you can escape into. a cup of coffee and your favourite chair, you spend hours cherishing every letter.

7) the sky, the air, the lonely nights, the path that veers off course and into the woods, the spaces between conversations, cheekbones, the way a soft voice breathes your name - all love you.

8) hey Sad Eyes, i know that you drown sometimes.

9) and it’s okay.

10) it’s okay.

Michelle’s Note: Beautiful, beautiful

(Source: balanbaalis)

67

angelamphetamine:

Her name is Mary
I met her as a child,
One could call it love at first sight
She’s been my partner for a while

Her opaque vapor consumed me,
A head rush that left me breathless
Choking from her green caress.
For a few moments of carelessness
To forget how cold the world can be

Sometimes I…

(Source: dis0rder-ed-reality)

7

burningclouds:

Beauty is
a Northwest beach, speckled
with pebbles, clay, china caps,
and wine colored jelly fish that
aren’t poisonous, I swear!

Beauty is
the view from my breakfast table,
adorned with reflective frost, orange
skies, and hundreds of whitened spider
webs. They must’ve taken all night.

Beauty is

7

I’ve got you trapped in a corner

gretas-notebook:

I’ve got you trapped in a corner, and all I can think about is dust, about tear gas and split skin and moving across oceans. There was never any grit between our teeth when we kissed, no substance to the bruises you left running down my neck like a purple archipelago. I keep holding onto the syntax of your eyelids, how your hair looked beneath the soft cafe lights. Did you know I’d write poems about you? You must have; I was candle wax in your hands, one inch away from flight. In the pocket dictionary of places I have been that I keep with me in my spine, underneath the word home is only a description of your arms. I still have you trapped in a corner. I still can’t let go. There’s a shrine in my bedroom for every poem that has ever made me ache, and you are folded between pages like a razorblade.

I’ve got you trapped in a corner, and all I can think about is mushroom clouds, is bone fractures and roadkill and chapped lips. Your mouth is the place I want to go to when I die.

10