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.
Irresponsibly and skillessly. Where at all. That was the first sign that something was off, something was off and wrong. He rolled over with an exaggerated lift of his legs. There was no reaction. Looked down. No dog. Looked over. Not anyone. Looked around. Only rectangular swaths of street lamp light reflected in a mirror. The formless shadows of unfamiliar furniture.
9 
Home, for me, is the smell of mom’s cooking. The sort that saturated my clothing, that made me aware of it when I stepped outside, and expanded like a cloud to touch the corners of every room in our little apartment. That sometimes made the neighbours and our smoke detector sneeze because it was…
11 resting-on-the-rings-of-saturn:
knuckles are for collecting stars
so i clench my fists when
twilight bloomsand punch
the decibels of darkness.
(via resting-on-the-rings-of-saturn-)
15 Looking for ways to pain the numb, I sat on the floor and played with the red flag of my mailbox body. I didn’t know how to pretend to be full, so I took a knife to a pumpkin and got up to my elbows in guts, wishing I had that many, wishing they smelled as sweet and looked as ripe. I lit a tea…
26 
“you know how your spine has its own reflexes?
well, your spine reminds me of the moon—
how the moon controls the tides of the ocean—
it controls the tender muscles of your back
to have spasms as i trace the lower part of your neck
and i think that’s my most favorite part of your external,
autonomic
being”
(Source: petrichour)
77 Lips can do
a great many things,
one of which
is whistling,
I would not say
it’s my favorite,
but some find
it quite amusing.
3 I have this problem
(I’d call it a problem,
you might disagree)
where I
fall in love
with every
single name
I collect in my head
and I grow too attached to people I barely know
and I would literally
take a bullet for you,and I know you don’t
know me that well either,
it’s difficult to climb
these great walls of mine,
but talk to me awhile,
you make me feel like
what I have to say
is important,
I would literally
waste days with you,but you’re hard liquor
and fifty-pence smiles
and kicking it on the curb
and laughing at the girls,
you’re cheap cigarettes
and I’m nothing like you,
I’m quiet hesitation
and soft-spoken fears,
I’m chronic insecurities
and political debates,
I don’t fit into your world
one bitbut I’d still
literally
take a bullet for you,
if you’d let me,
I’d
go through pain
just to make you
okay.
J’s Note: This is good!
10 Dearest,
Before you begin with resolutions you won’t keep, you should try starting the new year hungover instead of hung up over someone — with alcohol poisoning instead of lovesickness. You should find a way to belong to yourself again. To inhale and exhale without sighing.
Midnight is where dreams first kissed reality, who now waits at the altar for a bride that won’t come. Leave the ghosts in the past where they belong.
Wake up tomorrow with a headache, to the sun through the missing blinds. Roll over to find that your bed has doubled in size. Find that the light has turned the rooftops into mountain summits, because the sky could only be this clear above the clouds.
In literature, for reasons unknown to you, sacrifice in the name of someone else is always more noble than self-preservation. Pull your bathrobe close. Embrace that being single doesn’t have to mean being incomplete.
Love,
Yourself.
24 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 cal was all bones—edges and corners and jutting angles. people would ask, “cal, why don’t you eat?” and cal would reply, “i do, i just have a fast metabolism.” nobody pushed it.
his faucet was broken. he’d complained once or twice to no one in particular and, as expected, it had yet to be fixed. every night it would drip and drip and drip until the gentle melody lulled cal to sleep, and every morning he’d wake feeling twice as tired as the night before. people would ask, “cal, why don’t you go to bed earlier?” and cal would reply, “i will, i guess i just have a lot on my mind.” nobody pushed it.
on a thursday in november, cal walked in on two people in his parents’ bed, one of which was his mother. the other was a man with thick, chestnut hair (brown wouldn’t do it justice) and a waxed chest. cal’s father probably would have called him a pussy. cal didn’t call him anything. instead, he turned on his heel, sprinted to the toilet, and vomited up six saltine crackers. people would ask, “cal, how’s your father dealing with the divorce?” and cal would reply, “he’s alright, but he needs some time.” nobody pushed it.
christmas came and went like a flurry even though cal had secretly hoped for a blizzard. he went to a party and drank far too much and a pretty girl with a blood alcohol content of 0.2 stood on her tip-toes and kissed him under the mistletoe. sometimes he still wonders if it hurt when she was ejected from the passenger seat of his 1996 chevy malibu. people would ask, “cal, did they ever get around to fixing that guard rail?” and cal would reply, “i’m not sure, i don’t really drive much anymore.” nobody pushed it.
cal was 6 foot 3 by the end of his eighteenth year. he felt awkward and gangly and wrong in this big man body that was surely meant for someone else. the doctors said that cal needed to gain weight; they claimed that 118 pounds was too thin for a boy of his height. who were these strangers in white coats to tell cal he didn’t meet their standards? he was pretty, and pretty was thin, and thin was good. people would ask, “cal, are you eating breakfast?” and cal would reply, “sometimes, if i remember.” nobody pushed it.
his mother moved to colorado because she wanted to take up skiing. besides, the man with the waxed chest had a nice place in the mountains and fiscal security, whereas cal’s father was a lazy alcoholic and didn’t mean it when he gave cal that black eye last month. cal continued to forget about breakfast and his parents continued to forget about cal. people would ask, “cal, are you okay?” and cal would reply, “no, i want to fucking die.” nobody pushed it.
cal’s father accidentally slept through the first half of his funeral while a handful of his former peers sat in the third row from the back and clung to one another like leeches. his mother wept for three weeks, wiped away her sorrows with an embroidered handkerchief, and hit the slopes once more. “it’s what he would have wanted me to do,” she’d said. the man with the waxed chest didn’t remember cal’s middle name. it was joseph, by the way. calvin joseph.
people would ask, “cal, are you in heaven now?” and cal wouldn’t say with a goddamn word.
nobody pushed it.
Yasmin’s note: This is such a great piece of writing, truly incredible. Watch her, she’s something special.
14 things to remember when eyes are sad.
1) do not be ashamed.2) wrists have birthed crescents la luna is jealous of.
3) your mother saw a future in your tiny bones. she splits open a pomegranate with both hands in a sun lit kitchen, head thrown back in laughter, hoyoo is always a vision. she is counting on you.
4) your skin is riddled with scars and stretch marks are stars that connect to form constellations bright with stories that you will one day share with a wet tongue. the freckles that scatter your shoulders and dip like the ocean down your back is fairy dust, sprinkle it in breaking’s wake.
5) thank god your mouth is a full mouth.
6) there are books carefully collected that line shelves in your room and library’s and quaint bookstores tucked away in forgotten corners that you can escape into. a cup of coffee and your favourite chair, you spend hours cherishing every letter.
7) the sky, the air, the lonely nights, the path that veers off course and into the woods, the spaces between conversations, cheekbones, the way a soft voice breathes your name - all love you.
8) hey Sad Eyes, i know that you drown sometimes.
9) and it’s okay.
10) it’s okay.
Michelle’s Note: Beautiful, beautiful
(Source: balanbaalis)
67 a weight has been strung around me
like a burned out string of Christmas lights
constricting desperate air that flows
in frantic earnest
it elucidates the popping emotions, the
painful zeal of color that bursts in violent
and ephemeral shades - but i am ill at
ease and drowning in fields of scarlet irises
one by one, ornaments are strung upon
the broken wire like anchors; i float
through shades of watery numbness
coming to rest beneath broken stars
7 I will hold my breath
Until my limbs sprout into love letters
And replace the velvet petals of the magnolia tree
I will hold my breath
I will wait for the sun to find its home in the sky
Where you live in the clouds
I will wait for the stars to hide in the light
So they do not…
3 