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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We never buried my mother. She’s in a tin can somewhere in my uncle’s house. If I had the money, I’d buy a spot to inter her ashes, somewhere I could visit each year, or whenever the mood struck me. But for now, a small space in my mind and large space in my heart will have to do.
Jazzy’s note: This made me sad.
10 
twenty-nine days
straight of
waiting
for spring rains
that wash away
wintermy beard is graying
faster in these winter
evenings, fraying at the
ends with the fasting
realization that
these transition seasons
serve as nothing more
then footnotes in our
never ending calandercrossing out each day
as if a victory of survival,
twenty-nine times
(via 1therealvagabondking)
41 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 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 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 If I could paraphrase your body language I would say it is an amethyst stone. They say the death of a butterfly could cause an earthquake like the tremor of your knees. My name tastes like toothpaste diluted by bathroom sink water and most days I wish I was dead
or holy.
I am. I was. You are always praying for cigarette smoke, the lines dancing across your hands are cigarette smoke or cigarette smoke rings that remind me of the messiah (I am the messiah and I am the one who raped the moon and I am sorry I’m not sorry because she would not be so beautiful without the sorrow of her dimness)Can you help me please I am falling, slipping, fucking back into my upright position and I am keeping death tucked into the cuff of my sleeve so I can blot my face with it.
Let me eat the robin egg, it is the color of the sky.Step into me, tell me your astrological sign, and slide your tongue down my throat. I am trying desperately to be a poet I am trying desperately to use my eyelids as curtains and to memorize their colors I am trying desperately to remember who I was before I was obsessed with the structure of my own bones. I want to understand the meditative figurative slither
that wraps around
my palms and belly fats and suffocates my pores. I have learned to hate now even the curves of my breasts.
Yasmin’s note: Really lovely.
12 It’s January the fourteenth, and it appears as though God his held his breath for one more winter. I am nothing but toes, pattering their way across icy pavement, hands holding themselves in a white-knuckled attempt towards prayer. I suppose that we’ve all spent some time our knees: when it’s…
17 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 The life you once imagined, seemed to vanish with the lingering smoke of the cigarette you just put out, along with the drink you just finished. As you called for another with the wave of your hand, and lit a cigarette with the other. And you wished you could call for another life with the same ease that you flicked your Bic, or had another shot on command. But you’re stuck within yourself, and all of the bad choices that you’ve made. All the things you regret: the trigger you once pulled in anger, the lovers that you’ve fooled, all the lies you once told, the fantasies you’ve told yourself just to get you through the day. You said you’d never fall in love again, but there she stands, My lady, M’lady, my malady. That disease of love that infects your souls. Though she’ll never know how much she means to you until it’s too late to tell her anymore.
56 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 My hair smells like lavender. There are days I want to tell you that I am worth more than the stem that ties me to the earth. There are days I want to take your palms and baptize them of all their many sins against the holy land of my skin.
The way that I fell for you wasn’t quite conscious,…
16 If you grew up poor, your father was your hero because your parents couldn’t afford comic books. If you grew up poor, your mother was a world-class chef because you’d never tasted anything better than her ravioli. If you grew up poor, you had any number of bad haircuts. You bought your shoes from…
544 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 Among my numerous projects there’s also what a consider a mission: promote Tumblr writing community on Twitter. Why? Simply because TWC is giving so much to me. I created the list “Writers on Tumblr” on my Twitter account but I’m afraid I lost some pearls along the way, so who has started following @FranGWlide and I didn’t include them in the list, please raise your hands (like this post). For those ones who haven’t still followed me, please do it. A very important matter is to allow retweets, they, like reblogs here on Tumblr, are the real vital breath of Twitter. I’m going to get in touch with some editors to spread a nice initiative about hash tags (very important on Twitter) I’ve never asked for it, but please reblog.
Love you all,
Fran
8 