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.
we’re addicts, and we sell the lie
that everything is still
and plastered to the skycanvased in a syrup
while the clouds no longer passby the light of Sunny Disposition’s
broken, beaten high.
As if it all were made to last
to exhale heart and inhale gas
the mother of my child will be
so shyaway from things
45 
In 24 hours, the Palestinians will take a bid for statehood to the UN — this could be the best chance for peace in decades. But key countries are still on the fence and under huge pressure from Israel and the US to vote no. Only we can turn this around.
If the Palestinians win, it could begin to end 40 years of occupation and pave the way for two states living in peace and security, side by side. Most of the world supports the bid, and already, after more than 1.6 million of us joined this campaign, we are beginning to swing governments across Europe, but now we need to ramp it up to win.
Heads of state are deciding right now. In the wake of recent violence this could not be more urgent. Let’s make sure every country commits to freedom and peace in the Middle East on Thursday.
Jazzy’s note: Please go sign it guys. It takes less than 10 seconds.
(Source: optimusparm)
12 If I should disappear from here,
into another time, beyond these planes,
fed only by the flesh of memories,
my revelries will paint you:
an energy of rebellious,
the action of impossible doings,
some youthful magic, the snuffing of sorrows,
the infinite well for my wanton thirsts,
tendrils that sweep across my awakenings,
a trembling of fingertips against my spine,
your wanting to kiss,
my wanting to free,
our wanting to level your bearing with me.
I will remember: the scent of your skin,
our silly tickle trappings,
those fool’s gold masquerades,
the radio towers that you named,
the future perhapses that you proposed
while we ran, ran, ran from the rain;
The raider of my artifacts, the stormer
breaking past these thresholds;
you will not permit only
warn energies. Only kind spirits.
You welcome the biting,
the tangles of decisive atrophy,
the burning heart effigies,
the unknowing crimes,
the beatings that
came with
bliss–
they all make
me feel like
a ghost,
as if my touch
reaches nothing
of this.
And I will not remember them–
those shrapnel-sharpened shell games–
but only that we loved,
god, how we loved;
God,
how we ran from the rain.
(via bendprayers-deactivated20121215)
8 remember that time you told me
you loved me?
yeah, me either.i remember the time i told you.
loving you was like
the first gasping break an infant takes.it was as much instinctual as it was
intuitive, it was as much for survival
as it was for certain.you said you didn’t want it in
quite so many words i had a habit of
stressing over word order and
pronoun usage it drove you crazy.you were right, you didn’t need the words.
it was hidden in the ellipses that
formed my fingertips when
i touched your shoulder.it was evident in the way i looked
at you, from the corners of my eyes
to the wide eyed girl you knew so well.it was on the tip of tongue every
sultry summer day you strolled in every
bitter winter morning you blew smoke
circles in the opposite direction.you needed to be told you were loved
and i was willing to oblige
to trace my lifelines into the circles
underneath your eyes
to whisper poetry into your clavicles
where it would warm those snowy winters
to kiss bruised knuckles with my
chapped lips that always said too much
but never enoughwas love not enough for you?
it was enough to shelter me from a
crowd of forty thousand, to resign
me to my forced choices.it was enough to soften my tongue,
and weaken my knees, to pace my
bedroom floor hoping you had come home
last night.remember that time you told me
you loved me?
73 Don’t tell me I’m beautiful
(There are so many to call beautiful)
Tell me I am growing in your lungs
9 You were
the fire that burned
in the hearth of me,
you were
the threshold I crossed
to know that I was home.
I wanted to paint
brave and violent love notes
on the walls you put up,
I wanted
to open your locked doors
and slip softly inside.
I hold the memory of you cradled inside my ribcage
my heart warm against you
each heartbeat echoing your name.
You were
my safe place.
7 I write because with these words I can be alone with you. I can manipulate your maneuvers and avoid our awkward encounters. My pen can place your hand on my thigh and slip your slender fingers underneath my skirt. I can press our bodies against each other with just a few waves from my weak wrist, and I can create words that carefully caress my curves. I write because in my prose you never push me away. You never kiss me, comfort me, and then cum with another. In my story, Saturdays nights never screw me over. When my pen pulses across the page no words of loneliness are left on these lines. I write because the reality of us makes my chest cringe into chaos and my eyes pulse with eternal agony. I write to filter out your fuck ups and disguise how desperate my bones are for your body. I write to end my deadly desire for you. I write because it’s the only way I can to figure you out of my mind.
79 a man has never told me he loves me
but a stranger has said to me
i’ll probably try to do it again
the evidence of his first failure
bandaged
stared, narrowed its eyes, challenged
me to say something to stop him
clurngh. it was the sound of my bowels
seizing; i was mute, a vegetable
i wasn’t there anymore
massachusetts, february 2012:
one full bottle of ambien, pills clattering,
flipping in one hand; wads of soaked
tissues seeping in the other; door
locked; face melted; weeks of dirty
laundry and undone work in piles;
me in piles
i’ll probably try to do it again
i am a guppy
a plainclothes priest listening
to confessions, giving no absolution
but bestowing last rites
i had all the words in my pockets
but i let him drink his wine and babble
as my mouth dried out
my words flaked away like dead skin
he left — my humanity tasted
like a vinegar-151 cocktail
Jazzy’s note: I just loved this. The details.
8 When I was 9 years old, I visited Viet Nam for the first time. I remember most my great grandmother’s home, a small house on a huge expanse of land. To a child that was used to a different country with large buildings, many houses, and shopping malls, the quiet hush of open earth intimidated me. I avoided exploring for three days before succumbing to my natural childhood curiosity. By then, I already knew more information about The Viet Nam War than children that were years older than me. Burdened with the weight of this hefty knowledge, I went off on my own one day, walking through the lush trees. Within five minutes of walking, I was far from the house. The only sound I could hear was the rustling of leaves under my cheap sandals, and slaps as I aimed to kill the thirsty mosquitoes that constantly landed on my arms. I remember looking back only a couple of times before I braved forward.
I walked and walked and walked, imagining how the war tore through the entire country. I tried to imagine my great grandparents and their family— my family— seeking solace in the cover of these very same trees during the night.
I was a peculiar child; a peculiar child that grew up into a peculiar young woman. I stopped walking at one point to look at a tree. It was dying. In fact, it almost looked as if all the trees were in a halfway state of living and dead; it’s branches were yearning towards the sky, but only halfheartedly, as if they were too tired to reach any further. I remember wondering whether or not the screams of people who had long since died or been killed were imbibed into these poor trees. Maybe that was why they were dying. I had squeezed my eyes shut as I thought of the blood that once soaked this country, blood that has been absorbed by every tree in sight. I didn’t know if it was beautiful or disturbing. In hindsight, I think it’s a bit of both.
Tired from my walk, I laid down on the ground to catch my breath before the long trek back. I laid there for quite a while. It was quiet, the ground was cool, there was a breeze, and the sky was a vivid blue. My little heartbeat had slowed to match the slow thrumming beneath the earth. After so much bloodshed, the country was still recuperating from its wounds, and I could hear it groaning underneath the dirt. Though the war was long over, there were still scars. And I could feel them; jagged keloid scars that refused to heal and smooth. Suddenly, Viet Nam wounds were my wounds. Viet Nam’s history was my history. I nearly crumpled up on the spot, so crippled by the sudden onslaught of foreign, yet familiar emotions. By lying down, I had absorbed the blood and the screams into my little 9 year old body. The trees had sighed in relief. My soul, too old for its young occupant, flew free among the land. When my heartbeat was finally back to its resting pace, I stood, dusted the dirt and leaves from me, and walked back to the house— forever changed.
It never really returned to me, my soul. Some of it did, but most of it remained behind in Viet Nam, a country where my soul roams free, laughing and crying among the half dying, half living trees behind my great grandmother’s house. It’s why I can’t hold back tears whenever I think of my country, it’s why I cry every time I write about it.
I’ve long since forgotten the name of that ocean-side town that was tucked into the crook of Viet Nam’s elbow, but when I close my eyes…
I can hear the tide.
33
- Avoid using the word “heart” or concepts of “blood” when describing love, at all costs.
- If you desperately don’t want to write something down, write it down.
- Never use phrases like “as you already know”.
- Write first, edit later.
- Say a lot, simply.
- Make boring things interesting; find the profound in the mundane.
- In the same vein, make things that make sense not, and vice versa.
- Don’t relate love/infatuation/obsession to addiction.
- Read aloud.
- Read a lot.
- Write without music to see what you’re made of; write with music to see what you can be made into; always edit without.
- Edit vindictively.
- Endeavor to make your readers fall in love with the ones you love; not how you love. For a writer, love is cheap; the lover isn’t.
Jazzy’s note: This made me giggle. I’m guilty of a few.
(Source: johnnypitt)
134 One of the things I’ve learned through taking creative writing courses at university is that (for example, in the case of workshops) readers will always want different things from your story that aren’t there. Less mystery please. Fill in the blanks. Tell us more. They may want you to add something to your story that is completely different than the direction in which you want your story to go. That’s okay. Respect their opinions but, as a writer, respect yourself and your writing. Know when to not listen to their advice on what to change about your story. Only you know what you want your story to be. Don’t change it because others think you should.
If, in a workshop setting, people give you advice on how to improve your story that fits with your intended direction, then take their advice into account during your editing process.
But stay true to yourself and to your writing. That’s the only thing to do. Stand by your writing.
Jazzy’s note: THIS!
6 mqnn:
The walls surrounding my heart does not protect me as much it imprisons me. And as much as I want to to blink my eyes for just a second to see who will climb those walls, it’s not that I’m keeping you out; I’m keeping myself in.
(Source: qn-milli)
8 Laying my head down to sleep
reminiscent of fingers clutching
for another’s. In the deepest
depths of my innermost ear I
hear the Siren song that your
soul plays for mine. My mind
is playing tricks, or it must be
but please leave me lost in this
brief reverie and let me rest in
peace or pieces in the absence
of holding you the closest, my
dearest, my love, my life, and
all else that is in between.
21 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 