The Writer's Bloc

Mexico Rape

stefansir:

not even the compass knows
that I peel an Aztec boy,
his poinsettia humming
to the heartbeat of the plain.

6

maza-dohta:

A tree grows inside
of me; I can feel it, 
the way it branches
in my veins;

words spill out
as autumn leaves,
in bits and pieces,
as if trampled under-foot;
they pile up like dying
foliage in the backyard of
an old widow’s home. 

I try to clean them up,
arrange them into piles to
throw away later;
but the rustling of my tree’s
leaves distracts me
from my goal,
and the last sigh of spring
freezes the water in my veins.

28

Day 345

straylovers:

sky high

if i were to objectify you,
could i use balloons?
helium filled highs and
touching the sky, floating
out of the atmosphere
into the starlit centre and i
stand on the ground, swaying
with my feet walking in circles.
could i use bouquets of
red and blue, the way gravity
relentlessly pulled the
strings from my fingertips,
could i mention the ribbons
tied around slender wrists?
and up
up
up and
up
and you are gone. 

9

encircular:

we are ripping each other apart
he and i
in the best way

who tore us apart, really
you tied us together

he (we) splattered the town red with my lipstick
smearing slattern as he went
and two can play at that game
in the same vein

(we are cutting each other open
don’t tell me to stop
you don’t know what you’re saying
you never
listen)

you are my
best
friend, you don’t understand
we are in love
we deserve this
each other

9

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.

37

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

amethyst

lopesided:

a young virgin,
a god’s object
of wrath,
helplessly
turned into
a white
shimmering
stone,
till the tears
of the
rueful
god
spilled
a goblet
of wine
drowning
the stone
in a color
so deep
the setting sun
failed to rise,
and cut
the month
short.

17

February

therealvagabondking:

twenty-nine days
straight of
waiting
for spring rains
that wash away
winter

my 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 calander

crossing out each day
as if a victory of survival,
twenty-nine times

(via 1therealvagabondking)

41

seven7seconds:

How simple it is
to think that a North by Northwest shift
may alter the current of the leaf upon the wind.

How precedented it is
to believe that one
may succeed in committing the unprecedented.

How common it is
to dream that revolution
may turn the tide of misfortune for good.

How like a fool it is
to hope that the written word
may make a difference after all.

1-28-13

Michelle’s Note: Welcome back, and I am loving your words.

14

bourgeoisie:

I put away a pretty page
for you, I’ve dog eared
you.  At least I’m not
old; I can tell you’re
still a kid by the ratty
converse shoes,
you left the prints in
my car. With my
brains and your
lack thereof,
we could go
nowhere. We’re living
for nothing, and we’re
going to die
for nothing. You could
grow up and be happy
and forget me, and then
everything would be
alright. But I’ve dog eared
you, old boy. 

20

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