The Writer's Bloc

a must

donde-esta-mi-mente:

to fall into
your face
is a must 
for me

lights around
your lips, halos
of wind
around your eyes—

to fall in
a pit of lust
with you
is a must

who are
you and where
did you go?
I must know

17

takethetitle:

midnight poems
are like
unidentified animals
silhouetted against
the sojourn
streetlights and
roaming headlights,
evading eyes,
flashing under
the wheels,
vanishing in
the hedges.

40

noonecanownyoursoul:

Your love
leaves me with the kind of
warmth
I can only get after
putting on my
sweater
fresh
off of the radiator

You are the
steam heat
of
my
soul.

16

how to fall in love with a broken girl

bythestaircase:

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

I Don’t Ever Want To Leave

subtlestbones:

I want to hide
in the shadow
of your smile
(when the night
has been bestowed
upon us
and your heart
has fallen
so lonelily.
The soft hum
of your thoughts
in the silence
of your home
after the creek
of the floorboards
have gone quiet )
Dream of me,
something so sweet.

(via bonesaboveandveinsbelow-deactiv)

12

jesusfigurine:

One wet round scream,
tomorrow called pill can
a canister close itself
upon itself?
Dad told me about
the most awful video
today,
not again parodying 
Led Zeppelin in the shower!
I will not,
sprouting up 
through famished earth 
be speaking.
A shrivel of gum
wheezes on a 
petal in the
morning.

14

#39

c-l-a-i-r:

i broke myself
to see if you’d fix me

experimental dabbling
with cold, fixed hands

eyes set

(record the data in neat hand,
the words like windows opening
to embrace each potential dawn)

i broke myself
with a hammer
with a saw
with fingers (mine)

i broke myself
and i made you watch

i broke myself
and i waited,
clipboard in hand

Sonja’s note: This <3

27

grandfather;

mitesco:

I moved back with my parents when I was six. I’ve forgotten most of the things that happened around this time, but I remember my grandfather taking me to his workplace in the summer—a parking toll both. I remember sitting on his lap and fanning the two of us with punched parking tickets, watching them quiver in the heat like pale yellow kites. I decorated his dusty windows with mixed dates from his red time stamp, smudging them with my tiny finger prints as he folded paper cranes for me out of bleached parking receipts. There were photos of me peeking from behind the cash register, transparent stop-motion frames that casted pastel silhouettes onto his cluttered desk in the harsh sunlight. He smelled like sweat and steamed rice and it was so hard for me to understand him because he always mixed Cantonese with Mandarin, but I remember being happy anyway.
* * *
I gingerly pushed open the heavy screen to the balcony, watching dust bounce off the black wire and fade into the air. The sky hung heavy and lavender and the cars flashed over the highways like a broken string of Christmas lights. I climbed onto the railing and stared at the peeling paint, trying not to cry.
We were helping my grandparents move into their new home, an apartment for the elderly downtown near the border. My father had outgrown his tolerance for company and kicked my grandparents out. I watched my grandparents pack their belongings into two suitcases in thirty minutes earlier that day, ready to cram seventy years of living into a claustrophobia-inducing one-bedroom apartment on the twenty-third floor of a building called “Oullette Manor”—which was hardly appropriate. The place looked like a high-rise prison and reminded me of Tetris blocks of newspaper print.
“Eileen? Do you want some peaches?”
My grandfather was standing on the balcony with me, holding two peaches wrapped in dampened paper towels. The baseball cap I bought him in second grade was hiding the wisps of his silver hair. He was shrunken and crippled underneath his coat, but I saw him gargantuan and whole in his love for his granddaughter.
“I’ll change dad’s mind. Please.” My voice cracked and was shredded over the roar of rush hour traffic.
“What?” My grandfather was seventy years old and almost deaf. “Come inside for peaches, Eileen.”
I clenched my eyes shut and shook my head. I waited for the door to slam shut.
He couldn’t live here. No, not my grandfather, not the man who sliced kiwis for me in the spring when my eyes were crimson with allergies, not the man who taught me how to properly fold dumplings by their creased waves, not the man who cut out every single one of my newspaper articles and had them laminated even though he didn’t understand them, not the man who sat patiently for hours in the library as I read the Nancy Drew series, no, not in this place that stunk of cat food and abandonment and cigarette smoke and disease and claustrophobia and factory smog and my father’s polluted heart. Not here. Never.
I later begged my mother to talk to my father. She swallowed silence in the face of his onerous tyranny.
“It’s your own father!”
She turned away and left me alone to my newfound hatred for my father in the bedroom that used to be my grandfather’s.
I burned the dregs of her awful surrender until there was only my crude, black resolve to never sell myself to anyone ever—not even for love.

Janice’s note: I don’t have the words to express how poignant this piece is.

45

bruised—feathers:

you’re addicted to cigarettes.‘“i love you so much, i’ll quit if you ask me to-” i laughed at that. i told you that you could continue, do what you pleased. who was i to stop you from slowly killing yourself? that’s a choice you have to make, not me.

i’m sitting with you on this smoke-scented early morning, watching you burn the days ahead of you like the ignited tip of an unfiltered cigarette, still saying no words. you put your head in your hands. you say,”i have no self worth”. you’re lying to me between those blackened lips of yours. you know you do, it’s me who couldn’t stand in the way and bite your fingers for you.

(via veyil-deactivated20130615)

19

Cheap Excuses

opaquefury:

Talk is cheap.
It is the poet’s words
written alluringly on paper,
coffee stains and
tears
lamented on it,
but not the poet
himself.

It relishes like a New Years resolution
in lucid remembrance of past mistakes
and new beginnings,
bleeding holes in a lifestyle,
otherwise the same person,
a promise made,
but not kept
for more than three months
at most.

Talk is speaking those words
in your mind or heart
out loud
in a hopefully coherent slur
of emotions
that make sense no other way,
but it is not always the best way
to communicate
in those situations
of despair
and heartache.

Talk is the cheapest excuse.
It is
the absolute most
selfish,
dry,
uncreative,
lifeless excuse
for not wanting to take
action—

Even for the
speaker.

5

smell the flowers;

eluviese:

I am my worst addiction.
I set my hands ablaze
with forest fires
dancing trails up 
my cigarette joints, 
spitting ashes out of 
the words I tried to plant
over broken skin, like
the rose-petal phrases 
and lily dreams 
I wanted so desperately 
to grow, 
but made too flimsy, 
too weak for
the lies that shrieked
past my heart
dressed in dandelion leaves and
poison ivy smirks,
weeds eating holes
into my bones,
roots clawing 
tunnels through my veins
until the two were one and same,
and it was only me,
rotting from the inside out. 

So I burned.

22

it’s the kind of tired;

mitesco:

It’s the kind of tired that weighs you down like leaden guilt,
that sinks you like the Atlantic icebergs shrouded in arrogance,
that drags you to the earth so you taste the kisses of corpses.

It’s the kind of tired that you measure with automation,
that you count in dulling shades of monochrome,
that you estimate by all the deaths your soul has died.

And it’s the tired you see flickering red on the lonely drive home,
the tired you hear peddling the unkind streets of apathy,
the tired you taste brimming on the cheap alcohol of escapism,
the tired you smell crawling under greasy, deep-fried lies,
the tired you feel caking every inch of your skin with another layer of dust.

It’s the kind of tired you can never sleep away.

Michelle’s Note: Simple & quiet and words are chords in this symphony.

11

flashes

veraci:

let me tell you about the boy i’m with. his mother drunkenly asked me one night why i loved him and all the words i’ve written for him in the past several years boiled down to a simple “i don’t know.” it’s true. i don’t know why i love him but i know i do.

he picked up a stupid, annoying habit recently which is to say “motherfucker” at the end of every fucking sentence. i have fun with him, but his jokes are not the funniest. he yells a lot when he’s frustrated, similarly to the way my father yells at my mother that i hate so much. and i think he plays video games way more than what’s good for him.

his favorite book is one he’s never finished. he read it to me this afternoon and it’s a story about a boy named louis who would become a soldier in the second world war. i fell asleep to his voice and woke up when he stopped and closed his book. “you were snoring,” he smiled. also, “i love you.”

when i was preparing breakfast for us once, he sprawled his limbs out on my couch and had a conversation with himself. it was the strangest thing, although i know what it’s like to have conversations with my own self. he also complimented my eggs.

there are days when he is too nice to everybody and days when he is spitting sharp words.

“i want to fuck you,” he whispered and it was the most seductive thing. fuck. the word sounds so alluring when he whispers it and, at that moment, there was nothing i wanted more. his hands fit nicely at the crook of my hips and his lips are addictive. sweet and aggressive. i always want to be wrapped in him completely but god made him with only two arms to remind me he doesn’t have everything i need.

the thing is though, he is way more than enough. he’s dangerous and soft at the right and wrong times. sometimes, i feel like i’ll be stuck with him even when he’s long gone.

16

mykingsinthebackrow:

she pole dances around lightning bolts

and swears that love will never die,

“cross my heart”; or better, nail it to a stake,

carve the million stars into it. it will bleed

holiness.

.

you know she ate flower petals and laughed

when they withered inside of her?

“i am so sad”

you who has no army.

.

she has birds in her hair

and an anchor down her throat.

…

…

…

Janice’s note: The last two lines are so poignant. As is the rest of the poem. I really like this.

(Source: blueinkpoetry)

23