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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Do you remember last night, when you fell asleep on the couch? You had been on the computer so long, I think it was about three o’clock when you decided to shut the laptop down and rest your head.
Well… You were paid a visit.
Actually, he’s always been there. You just kind of… Forgot about him. Left him behind, and grew up.
You see, in the shadow of the halls just a room down, your imaginary friend paid a visit.
4 
today a homeless man,
crosslegged in the
lotus position called
me an Indian beauty
and begged me to
drop a couple of
dimes into his paper
cupa lean blond thrusts
fliers printed on
glossy paper
advertising hot
yoga into my
hands and
tells me i should
connect with
my spiritual
selfa tie-dye clothed
man sits at a
henna tattoo
stall on the streets
and offers to paint
a dragon on my
right shoulder
in scarlet and
blacktoday i sit in
a cold auditorium
learning about the
history of Indian art
oceans away from
home,
from a Bengali with
an Americanized voice
(Source: biocurator)
101 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 I saw you glowing,
pupils wide as moons that bloom
like open palms into your blue garden musings.
I want to cup my fingers beneath your lips.
and hold your thoughts as they drool down the corners
in bouquets
singing, catch me if you can
I would have caught you
if I could.
37 
(Source: peninkbirthmarks)
12 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 (A memory; a dream; perhaps fragments of this and that and the rest, fiction - dreaming about love for ever and ever):
I remember stars dancing
on the tip of my tongue.
Sparkling stars
crossing my tongue
with light yet flickering,
dancing footsteps.
A rosebud caressing
another rosebud.
Kissing and kissing
until our lips were as one;
a single rosebud
the colour of flushed cheeks.
The scent of rose
lingering in the air,
our fingers intertwined.
The maps of our palms
smudging together,
fluid ink travelling down our wrists,
then all over the bare of our universe.
As one we were.
(Source: ode-to-october)
16 When my students tell me I’m lacking real-world knowledge, I remind them that I taught in prison. They want stories. I give them short snippets, because my kids think they’re hard for shoplifting a pack of gum in plain view of the gas station attendant. And I’m not much harder than they are, but I’ve seen futures. They haven’t.
I tell my kids about Jesus. You know, like our lord and savior. Who was smart enough to laugh when I asked him after our introduction, “Wasn’t that a little presumptuous of your parents?” I ask my boys if they’ve ever been jealous before, and let them know that Jesus was jealous. But, Jesus forgot to turn the other cheek. So he was one of my students. In prison.
I tell my kids about the time I was almost hurt by a white supremacist for requesting that he take his conversation to another classroom. This man was not one of my students, and he was also a lot larger when he stood up. And this man loved the word “cunt”. I do too, but not in my classroom. This very large man let me know that I was in “his house” and he would show me what that meant. My other students protected me until the guards escorted the large man to his new cell.
This is usually enough to let my adolescent, wannabe criminals know that I’ve seen it. I’ve been there. I get it. And if they want to go to prison, they can.
But, the story I’ve never told is the reason I teach my kids. It’s the one person who showed me that everybody is human.
Mr. Wilson couldn’t pronounce my name. It’s how I became Ms. G., because he kept shortening my last name to Gum. The only time he interacted in my classroom was to greet me every day. “Good morning, Ms. Gum.”
“It’s Ms. Gomes.”
“Yes. Ms. Gum.”
“Let’s just say Ms. G.”
One of my students noticed this pattern by the end of my first week. “Miss, he can’t say it. We can call you Gum. You’re Chicle! Hey Chicle!”
And he blushed, sat down, and put his head in his hands. Not wanting to anger a man who had already spent thirty five years in prison, I let it go and moved on with my lesson: How to read and complete a job application in English. Did I mention none of my students could read English very well?
And Mr. Wilson never participated. I tried. I sat with him, I modified my lessons, I cajoled, I gave him a peer partner. He refused, saying, “I can’t do it. Just leave me alone, Chicle.”
We wrote poems and stories at the end of each class. Some of my students would hand them in before leaving, some would borrow a pencil and return the next day with narratives that would break my heart. Mr. Wilson came back empty handed. Every time.
My push-me-pull-you dance with Mr. Wilson continued during my time at the prison until I had to move on because there was a hiring freeze.
On my last day, my students came to class with homemade cards. Some had precious moments-esque drawings on the covers, others depicted praying hands. They must have taken hours to complete, and they’re the only cards I’ve saved over my ten years teaching. They are important.
Mr. Wilson didn’t make a card. He sat silently through our last class. I don’t remember what lesson I taught that day, but, last day or not, I did make them sit through a lesson.
When class was over, they filed out, shaking my hand one at a time and wishing me well. I turned to straighten up my papers and erase the board, and Mr. Wilson was still sitting at his designated seat at the head of the table. He looked so small.
There were tears in his eyes.
“Are you okay, Mr. Wilson?”
“No.”
“Can I help you? Do you need a guard?”
“No. I didn’t want them to see me like this. It’s dangerous.”
“I can let the guard know you needed to stay after class. Take your time.”
“Chicle, I need to tell you something. You’re the only teacher who has ever tried.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Wilson?”
“Nobody ever cared before. I’m sorry I didn’t do your work. I couldn’t. I’m fifty seven, and I can’t read. But you wanted me to try. Thank you.”
He was shaking, but he didn’t make an effort to wipe the tears away. He was decidedly human. He hugged me and walked out of the classroom. I packed up and went home for the last time.
I don’t know why Mr. Wilson was in prison.
But I know why I was there.
Sonja’s note: packed full of emotion, this is beautiful.
(via mustangkate)
18 let my fingers
be the stubborn
edges, where your
clothes cry “caught”;
and tug gently,
while I whisper:
“stay awhile, love”,
dreams won’t last,
so let’s lay
until they do.
(Source: chandtora)
49 I pushed open the emergency exit at the end of the hall. Propping the door open, I let my flip flops fall from my feet. I made my way past the ventilation fans. The cement was still hot from the beating of a June sun. The heat ate at my heels. There were broken cinders as the roof climbed, and I tip toed my way over them. When I reached the top, I pulled off my shirt, and pushed my buds in. The world fell silent below me. Blue October began to swim through boiling veins.
The orange lights taste like tangerines, I wish you could taste them. I really do. The moon is super glued to the dusty velvet sky, and I know that it has the best viewpoint of the city. Las Vegas is glorious when seen from above.
The wind caressed my bare shoulders, and I dug my toes into the cement. The world was still so hot. My phone told me that it was almost midnight. I called it a liar and pushed it away.
There was a frozen yogurt shop within jumping distance from me. The little people inside scrambled to wipe up spills, and ring up orders. So very mediocre. Humans seem to be infinitely lost. Forever searching for something that they know, deep down, they’ll never find. Chains of cars leave the lot, and I picture the type of people that might sit inside of them. What kind of music do they listen to? Who do they love?
How lost are they?
No more than I, for sure. The connections I have spent my life creating suddenly seemed so pointless. Right then, all that existed was the wind, and the bright churning world at my feet. It didn’t seem so strange, then, to imagine jumping. Just to see if I was capable of feeling anything anymore as my bones struck asphalt. But it was more than that.
I wanted to know what it’s like to die. To bath in my own hemoglobin, and to know… for the first time… that I am beautiful. That there was a point to the madness. A point to cardboard flip flops and stolen lollipops. Rescued kittens and gentle kisses. Shattered bones and bruised hips, or maybe all of those slaps on the wrist.
I’m tired of trying to justify myself to everyone I know. I’m so tired of arguing.
People tell me that I’ll find someone who understands me some day. But I feel like my clock is ticking down, ready to fall. I’m tired of looking and waiting.
Maybe I should just accept that I’m all there is.
(via whisperingofdawn-deactivated201)
7 My father would bring my mother yellow gladioles every Friday. I observed this ritual for years, yet her surprise and smile never waned. They had a passion for each other I have not witnessed again. Even when they quarreled, it was with such intense fervor and conviction, but so was their reconciliation, where they would usually end up laughing hysterically and declaring null and void whatever instigated the upheaval.
He is gone now, and it took my mother a long time to fill the large void in her heart my father occupied, but I knew she was beginning to heal when I came home one Friday and saw a bouquet of gladioles on the table. I asked my mother where they came from, and she responded, ”I bought them for your dad. He showed me his love in so many ways, but bringing home my favorite flowers every week always meant so much to me. I want to begin doing the same for him. His body is gone, but his memories will never be and neither will my love for him.” We hugged and cried for what seems like hours. Once I regained my composure, I took one of the flowers, kissed it, and placed it in my hair, just like he used to do. I looked at my mom and said, “You are right mom, dad will never truly be gone.”
I proceeded to go outside in the garden, where my father spent endless hours reading, looked up at the sky, and smiled. I knew he was smiling back.
112 you were a first breath
after a comabut now
I dust off my wings,it’s time to go.
63 I want to kiss the years of rosy scores,
where your socks fashioned stains upon your ankles.
To inflate the dimples of your calves with my mouth,
and smooth the puckers of your knees
with my flush tongue-
whittled prim to the valleys of your cheeks.
And I rain to taste the strain of muscled weeks, bleeding out
as effortless bends into my hips.
Taut skin pillowing in resignation
to languid lungs, swelling flesh beneath your chest.
When a touch and a half ago
you were chewing up bruises
and grinding grit between your molars.
I will submit to the pallet
of your midnight exhalations
to assuage the fleeting blister
that is beating sanguine rays of weight (they split your ribs),
And align the gapings of your breaths
to the fluent shelters of my own.
(Source: younghabitats)
41 Amy’s Note: Dripping with tension and longing and emotion, and tying it all together with strength. Awesome.
I am strong enough.
I am sitting on the floor of my unlit room, trying to summarize my mind; I want to say the right things but I don’t really know what those “things” are. What I truly know is that I am so very close to the edge and my foot is already tasting the richness of the void has to offer, but there is still enough time for me step back. I could save us, I have stopped the last few seconds before the fall. And this is it, this is the time I decide if you’re worth all but I don’t know what “we” are. I want to be the crazy in the sane, the fun in the banal, the stability in the wandering but I’m uncertain because it takes two, doesn’t it? I can’t be the only one wanting, the only one trying while you go out and wander because that’s who you are. But I’m ambiguously transparent and my mind has already started shutting down to save myself the hurt and the troubles. I truly want to think you’re it but I’m so afraid of hurting you and ultimately myself because we’ve both been broken too greatly. But I think I’m strong enough to anchor your doubt, your jagged heart. That’s what I’m ultimately scared of, because I think we both know I’m strong enough to create something phenomenal, we’re strong enough. We’re just too afraid, too uncertain, too broken, too young.
But I’m strong enough.
54 