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.
Miniature waves of emotion settle in a drop, they roll down reaching out, reluctant to fall. The throat becomes sore, it stings as it pulls back as it tries to freeze the drop so it never falls; as it tries to stop something it can’t stop.
Waves of emotion fall down a steep slope, still warm. A river follows but soon breaks under a skinquake. It shakes off the rest, forcing them to land all over the chest.
Laksh’s note: Skinquake is officially a word.
(via readingme-deactivated20120129)
Twinkle Little StarsI remember when I had this little globe that could project the stars. I would point at the ceiling and lay down on the floor. My read hair spreading before as if fit was on fire. Looking at the stars made me wonder of how small we were. How insignificant we were, my thought not original. We all think this, we all realize how small and non-important we are. How meaningless our life is and how we try to fill this sense of importance through our religion, our beliefs.
Twinkle Twinkle little star
Ahh the stars so giant that it might one day eat me.Spreading and expanding like the common cold.
How I wonder what you areI twist and turn to see if the stars will change. They never do, they stay the same in this projection. Life is so simple. Grow up, go to college, become in debt, graduate, pay off college debt, get a mortgage, and pay it off. A cycle that we created, a symbol only those with enough power can break. Oh my wonder stars please help me. I look at you all and see the wonders that have you to be created, discovered.
We are the plague.
The black holes are our own hearts.
Up above the world so highI guess in a way the stars are our gods. We are made from them, from stardust. They created this universe and everything in it. From us to the aliens everyone is scared to admit are true. Its okay lowly humans will never comprehend. One day I will be gone and the stars will still burn. One day the Earth will be gone and they will still burn.
The human race—destined to destroy themselves.
(via deadfiction-deactivated20130102)
6 I am the sleeping princess. The adorned innocence in the broken mirror, the angel’s heart that was destroyed. The beds of thorns biting into my skin, making me bleed the color of the horizon. Touch me with your scarred fingers, hands that have stolen flowers. Delicately bring me to oblivion,…
(via deadfiction-deactivated20130102)
7 She is so delicate. Everything about her is fragile and sweet, licked with sugar and tinted pink. Her cheeks are rose petals and there is lace gliding down the pale bumps of her vertebrae. She walks on her toes. Her tears form pearls on the tips of her lashes but they never fall, they just glisten and collect ribbons of light like silk. She leaves a light dust on everything she touches, like her fingertips are made from crushed diamonds. She is gentle. She loves from her belly and pushes it up through her throat where it lands and on her lips. It perches there quietly, unassuming, like a canary fluffing its golden feathers on a wooden dowel from an wire cage. She lets it sing, but is careful not to attract too much attention.
But she is strong. She has seen death grip the necks of young children, swept their hair into auburn piles on the linoleum and made wishes on their eyelashes shedding like flower petals. She’s held their hands and sang to them in a lullaby voice while the drip of the IV bag keeps time and echos through the white hallways. She learns their names and writes them rhyming poems, hangs their drawings on the walls over her bed. They leave fingerprints on the plastic of her ID badge and ask her to stay while they sleep.
She is what love is. She is my hero.
Jazzy’s note: so pretty!
42 The Devil was trying to drown his sorrows in whiskey and solitude, while contemplating changing professions.
Initially, he had really wanted to become a rock star, but he lacked musical talent. Oh. He did have a special way of inspiring others to compose incredible songs, which made it more frustrating when failing to produce a hit of his own.
He also tried being a painter, but he was too vain. All he ever managed to paint were lack-luster portraits of himself. Photography proved to be disappointing. In fact, he experimented with several mediums of art, finding no satisfaction in his endeavors.
Although, he never tried his hand at writing. He was a moody guy, but he wasn’t a miserable bastard — which mean that a literary career was out of the question.
So, a bit defeated, he settled for the position as The Prince of Darkness. Which got him laid frequently, but damn it all to hell, if he wasn’t sick and tired of nailing slutty goth chicks.
Plus, it had put a wedge between him and his best friend, Death. He could do with a bit of variety. He needed something fresh and innocent…
Damn God. He always got the virgins… plus all the slutty goth chicks, and other reformed whores. Talk about variety. He lifted his glass to the bartender.
“Can I get another?”
Jazzy’s note: Just fucking brilliant. I love everything that comes out of her.
56 what is that reticular
tissue between
love and lust?
the webbing of
flesh merged to romanticinclination
the space between a kiss
and the internal combustionof sex
of dying
of hearts & chocolates
what bridges the
gapbetween sparking fingers across
the table
&
tangled legs
shuddering together under
twisted sheets
is love just sex gift-wrapped,
a bastard child of lust
and the romantic idealor
do we load love up
pulling the trigger
& firing candy hearts intoour veins
to purify ourselves?
it’s one hell of
a ride
no matter how it looks
behind glass.
Laksh’s note: I like it very much.
(via lifeencoded-deactivated20120701)
17 I’m sitting here thinking about love and whether it is real or not. I’m not talking about the, ‘does it exist?’ or the ‘can we really feel it?’ type of thoughts; I’m talking about truly being real. I don’t know what emotion is. I don’t like it. Well, sometimes I do. I like it when it makes my heart race in a good way and when it makes me smile. I hate it when it makes my eyes fill up or my face get too hot and red. I hate it when it gives me butterflies. I remember when I thought I was in love, and Hell, maybe I was, but anyway—I remember for the first few months I got butterflies before I went to visit him and I always fucking hated it. I would try to think of some excuse to get out of it, just to soothe those damn butterflies that made me sick on my stomach and made my heart beat way too quickly. I always wondered if it was normal to be so anxious. I always thought it was good to be anxious when you were in love, like it wasn’t even anxiety, just excitement, but that’s not true and I know it now. It was fear, nervousness, and not the good kind.
Is there a good kind of nervousness? Can anything that makes you sick on your stomach and dizzy be good? Alcohol, I guess. But that’s about it. I don’t like love. I don’t want emotion. I don’t want love.
Jazzy’s note: I wonder the same, thought the same…
14
My love,
My lovely, luscious, lusty love.
To compare you to a rose, to provide you with a bouquet and wine, to woo you in the usual manner, I feel, would be completely insufficient. So I will not try.
All the clichés in love have been explored, and I can bring nothing new to this so called “dance floor”, and yet, I will say, I want you to dance for me.
Dance for me. Dance for me in the most private of ways. Dance for me in every movement and every fibre of your being. Through your words and your writing, dance for me. Dance for me with your sensuality.
Dance to the music that is my voice as it chants “I love you” over and over again. As I said, my love, there are no clichés left, and you know I do not believe in wasting words when the world of emotion can be expressed through the singular sigh that escapes my lips when I say I love you.
And I could say I love you in so many ways. I love you. I love you. It is you, you are the one that I love. Not just this day, on this celebration of love but every day.
This is where I fear the clichés will come pouring out of me, in a pool of verbal vomit. I could say that love you more than the moon loves the earth, more than my need for existence, for why would I need to exist if I cannot do so loving you?
But they will not. I will not use those clichés to describe you, or the dance you dance around me. The dance that is evident in the sway of your hips, in the curve of your bottom which you (and I cannot fathom why) so greatly despise. Instead I will describe you in the simplest of ways. In the quirk at the end of your smile, in your insatiable appetite for make love. I will describe you through the strength of your character, for you are truer than true to the being that is you. I will describe you through your power of discretion, through the ink that stains your wrist, saying “let it be”
And then I will continue to describe you. This time with my body. I will describe your beauty through the feel of my hands moving down your neck and through the tickling of the fine hairs on my arms as they brush across the softness of your back. I will describe your perfection through the promise of more as my legs entangle in yours , and we are joined as one. I will describe you by the cavernous hunger I feel for you, not physically, but within the depths of my eyes, as I imbibe you.
Hm, look at me. Returning to my verbal vomit. I fear I cannot be concise when it comes to you my sweet, and so I will stop here. Stop and watch you dance for me, just for a little longer, as the threads that attach me to you grow ever stronger. Until you are completely and utterly mine.
Till then, my love. I can just practice saying-
I love you.
Jazzy’s note: I adore this passion!
(via notsospiffywhat-deactivated2012)
10 I followed the sun this morning, waking up to blankets tangled in the shape of my silhouette and a warm body turned away from me. Arose to adjust the thermostat and reminisce of summer skin sticking to the sheets of my mattress. A sore pussy and thighs still stained from last night. A lovers paste. Perhaps the promise of cold pillows and bagels with vegetable cream cheese beckoned me from the comfort of plush slumber. Prematurely unlocking the door so the staircase won’t seem so steep. My finger bare, my lungs still coughing up smoke. Friday night lights kick starting headaches as the memories of cherry brandy and orange peels bite at my shins. The smell still pungent in raw nostrils.
I wait a while, smoke a few cigarettes as he wakes up, careful not to disturb the mistakes of the night before. A flask broken in pieces next to my leather ottoman. I have pins and needles where my legs should be. Bruises where skin was once hardened and thick. And I will stalk the moon later, chasing ghosts beneath it. Reminders of what I once had, and quickly lost.
Jazzy’s note: love it
(via claritea-deactivated20120304)
30 Sallow cheeks and sunken eyes search listlessly for the source of the noise, that incessant tap-tap-tapping at the edge of perception, threatening to break the fragile grasp on sanity to which his mind feverishly clings. The room is darkened and dim, like the pallid shadows which adorn his features and mark his state of being, a tenuous existence that, like a candle aflame, threatens to snuff out upon the whims of an errant gust of wind, unwelcome and uninvited, an intruder from the outside world, beyond the confines of these walls and the hazed cloud of smoke the clings to the air, plaster yellowing and cracked under it’s cloying breath. He rises unsteadily and, with a drowsy gait, ambles to answer the door.
Jazzy’s note: the prose is so vivid!
9 As she opened her legs, he sighed. As he slid inside her, she moaned. As he wrapped his hands around her throat, he moaned. As she dug her nails into his arms, he shrieked from delight. As she passed out, she started thinking bad thoughts. As he bled, he strafed her half-dead corpse with his cock. She awoke to the life blood flowing through her and came in tidal waves. As he passed out from blood loss, he gushed across her stomach. She licked the knife, tracing the blood from his neck with her teeth marks. They peeled his face off and she wore it as a mask as she slid her plastic fury into her. Her face contorted in ecstasy as her/he fucked the last moisture from her. Then she growled fiercely, a wolf in heat under his guise growled fiercely. Their skin merged in a nuclear fusion of sweat and lust. Their energy fueled a thousand black holes.
jazzy’s note: wow!
(via lifeencoded-deactivated20120701)
14 My colors bleed into one another and as a whole, I am fading. I remember being vibrant and unstoppable, a canvas of sensory pleasure that would always catch your eye.
I remember, but I do not remember clearly enough to sustain any happiness.
I am too trapped in my current state: sapped of energy and dwindling in my own halfway attempt at living.
It would be nice to see myself through your memory.
Jazzy’s note: love it!
(Source: awholenewnormal)
14 i look for him still.
much like i do the diamond earring that is one half of the pair my parents gave me when i graduated university. vacillating between heartache and acceptance. forgetting and then remembering. doing without and then lifting a couch cushion or opening and closing a drawer. just in case. moving forward and then looking over a shoulder or peering into the rear view. just in case.
i look for him still. because that’s what you do when you lose something you love.
Jazzy’s note: it tugged at my heart strings.
(via small--stories-deactivated20121)
90 Let death come in a pencil dress, sling back heels, and a pair of cuban toe stockings or a sun dress and a pair of chuck taylor all-stars. Let her come in a tailored pin-stripe suit and black Louis Vuitton’s or with a rose pinned in her hair and a switchblade in her teeth. Let her come with her hair teased to the heavens, a pair of black Wayfarer’s, and hooker red lipstick or in a pair of black Ben Davis’, a skin tight wife beater, and black suspenders hanging at her waist.
Let death come wearing strawberry lip gloss, neon green bangle earrings and an acid washed jean skirt or with eyes lined in kohl, a black velvet corset and an ankh tattooed on the swell of her breast. Let her come with blue eye shadow, peacock feathers in her hair, and barefoot or with coke bottle glasses and a grenade in her hand. Let her come wearing a long shirt, sheer black leggings, and huaraches or with her hair dyed purple, a danzig t-shirt and ox-blood doc martins.
Let death come with a smile on her lips and a sickle behind her back or with her legs open and her eyes closed. Let her come with a whisper on her lips and a murder in her heart…
3 