Blue house
Blue house Foundation exposed Brown threadbare carpet White counters fadded dull Wallpaper curled and yellow Still it's theirs Contentment abounds
Blue house Foundation exposed Brown threadbare carpet White counters fadded dull Wallpaper curled and yellow Still it's theirs Contentment abounds
I'm not quite like you
A few words and that's it
The façade fades
Crumbles
The carefully constructed mood dies
Coping mechanisms defeated
The castle is compromised
A strong exterior only goes so far
Each word pulls stones from the foundation
Fragile walls, fragile heart
I retreat to my secret home
Away from the swords and arrows and fire
No one can reach me here
Safe and quiet and in control
Equally secure, equally secluded
Tapped out on my phone in an Uber on the way to D&D. I write about more than love, I promise!
the water laps at the dam
seeking egress, seeking progress
everyone inside so thirsty
life affirming liquid
but the dam
the wall we built to keep ourselves safe
our salvation
our condemnation
seemed a good idea at the time
but all our other crimes against ourselves did too
how are we so smart yet so stupid
it hurts
it fucking hurts
life without love may as well be an empty gift on Christmas morning
but we all do it to ourselves every day
so many boundaries and rules and norms
all because we’re too afraid to get hurt
too afraid to be ourselves
too afraid to realize ourselves
too afraid to give one another the best gift we can
I’m sorry
but
I can’t today
I want to
but
I can’t
It’s not my fault
but
I’m guilty anyway
I’m not understood
but
I’m pressured anyway
I yearn to create, to do
but
I just stay in bed
I want to live
but
I’m too hurt
Put your head over here
and cry all the yearning away
cause thinking will bring you nothing
just thoughts and yet more pain
Sleep, sleep my child
breath slowly that way
cause here there is no more strain
under my loving gaze
In your cotton candy dreams
you embrace with such strength
a cloud above in the sky
sleep, honey, yes, sleep
cause here you're free from time
And there I am on this dream
imagining, imagined
the mark of a want, of a wish
a trace drawn in the sky
don't know if I'm the one dreaming
or if I am been dreamed about
encosta a cabeça aqui
e chora a saudade toda
que pensar não leva nada
só mais pensar e dor ainda
dorme seu sono infante
respira assim devagar
que aqui não vai sofrer
debaixo de meu olhar
em teu sonho de algodão doce
não sei do quê dá risada
e abraça com tanta força
uma nuvem no céu alçada
dorme, meu bem, dorme sim
que aqui o tempo não passa
E nesse sonho estou lá
Imaginando, imaginado
A marca de uma vontade
Um traço no céu projetado
Não sei se sou eu que sonho
Ou se eu é quem sou sonhado
So many wants that never were
But that were mine nevertheless
In the joy of many maybes
Slow evening
Time is cursed, it goes
The body is alive and weary
And stuck in hour a soul — immense
Nostalgia das 5 Horas
Tanto querer que nunca foi
Mas era meu ainda assim
Na alegria do talvez
A tarde lenta
O tempo é maldito e passa
Ainda vivo o corpo cansa
E presa na hora a alma - imensa
Saw in you a trace, a gesture without any end
a phrase with no reticences
a shadow lost in the gaze
A question you have not made
a plot not yet heard
a night with no resolution
be calm, the sun is not late
Gesto
vi em você um traço
um gesto sem fim colocado
vi frase vi reticência
suspiro pela metade
e olhar desencontrado
da pergunta ainda não dita
sequer pinçada talvez
da trama'inda inaudita
que a noite não tarda ou finda
mas calma que o sol já vem
Glowing friend, your light
has given me
everything I know.
To run you require
a sacrificeI click open my knife
forgotten forever in the drawer with the butterfly yo-yo,
the heart necklace of an immature love
and the compass
with the atomic symbol.With the blade I
etch
and cut
and stab
to draw sand
from the glass
long left unflipped.It slides along your surface
sinks in
and is gone.
lost time like grains leaking out an hourglass
lost feelings like love leaving a full heart
lost purpose like a crusader without a cause
all these years, feelings, purpose stolen, violated
an evil I never invited, never wanted
it's not my fault, not my goal
innocent yet guilty
convicted
more like cursed
their hatred is my destiny
never get back what was lost
never recover who I could, maybe should, have been
robbed of a life, of a happy, normal life
I can't even hate them for it
can't even have that comfort
I'd be just as bad, repeat the cycle
almost sympathetic
only path, only cure, is love
creamy center of a cyanide pill
This is a reflection of what building friendships and close relationships is like for me. Mental health makes everything much harder, but I keep trying.
it shines and blazes
such light and warmth
stories told round the hearth
cold nights kept a safe distance away
beauty in chaotic dancing patterns
it promises everything all at once
no regard for consequences or the future
just passion in the moment
no foresight, only enthralling abandon
its wake is ash
empty, cold, dead
no energy
never burn again
it destroys what it loves
what it needs
not because it wants to
because it is
destruction guised as passion
I wanted to write about self-forgiveness because it's such a hard thing for me to do. Past mistakes and trespasses stick in my mind for decades, and it's so hard for me to shake them. This work is an attempt at expressing that difficulty.
Down in the foothills the peak is so perfect
Covered in pure white snow
Nary a tree in sight
The peak carves a visage in the sky
In the clouds
It just is, it exists peacefully in its austere authority
Calm, serene
Impossible
Yet I yearn to climb
To ascend
Down in the foothills among the trees
The greenof the hills
I make my preparations
Breath
Training
Gear
I practiceand I meditate
I meditate upona life
A life of mistakes and triumphs
Each breath preparing and steeling
It's time to begin my climb
Each step and the air, the precious vital air, thins
Lungs emptying and muscles weakening
And yet I continue
Not quite undaunted, but I continue
The views are stunning
Yet I don't see them, eyes ever on the peak
Visualizing success, not the process
It's so cold
Bitterly, viscerally cold
There's no air
Even a yogi must stop for air
But there's no air
The ground slick with snow and ice
Snow and ice with the oxygen I need
Sealed away in the mystery of the bonds
Just as beautiful as it is inaccessible
But I continue my climb
Slipping and falling, the rocks cut and score
Gashes and bruises amass
I take a moment and reflect
Is it worth it?
Shall I ever ascend?
And as I slip into meditation, I slip down the mountain
All progress lost
The world turns around, up and down
I lose my breath
And land, dizzy and hurt, down the bottom
Even further from the peak than when I started.
First, the piece.
I built a fire from the branches
which were missed by the snow.
Drank the water of the cacti
that in deserts still grow.
Found the shade in the south
where the sun forever glows.
Clawed and scraped my way to freedom
of likes I have never known.
.
A starved, abandoned cub
lost in Greenlandic champaign -
I pawed about the lifeless floors
of snow-imprisoned plains.
With wind ill-matted fur I marched
and shivered through the rain
in search of hearts and hearths to
make me home again.
.
A ward of warmth appeared, assumed
to aid my ailing mews.
A securing shawl of summer softened
me from winters shrewd.
A multitude of miracles revealed
rejuvenating news.
I concluded countless colder winds
are warmer without you.
This site has given me so much: peace of mind, freedom of expression, cathartic release, and a sense of care and community of which I, over the last number of months, have deeply been in need.
Things are looking ever forward as I continue on about adult life. However, included in those plans of forward-action are a number of artistic pursuits.
In search of some semblance of belonging and community, I revealed a lot about myself in various posts and comments I’ve left about Tildes; and made the mistake of not publishing my works separately or under a pseudonym.
I would like to publish a book of poetry, release paintings, and create music. However, I don’t feel comfortable continuing to do so under my real name.
I will be well; I’m in a better place now. (Personally, of course. Not like that.) It’s simply time for me to separate the art from the artist, as it were.
Thank you all, so much, Tildes. I love you.
It’s been fun.
Bishop.
Something I wrote after watching a scene in the Apple TV+ "The Morning Show" showing an NYC skyline. I've always had a love for NYC, even though I don't live there, and a love for cities more generally. I've never not lived in a city after moving out of my parents' place, and can't imagine going back to the suburbs. Cities are my home, cities are where I belong. I don't think this one is finished, yet; there are a few rough spots, and I'm not sure about the ending. But, like people have said in a few of the timasomo threads, the important thing is to get the words out, to make the work exist outside of one's head.
the city is awake, alive
lights dance in the dark of night
little lifesigns, each a past and present
each a history and a story not yet told
subways and busses and ubers
the occasional oblivious cabbie
(cancer on the streets)
each moving people to their goals
their dreams
veins and arteries in the city's body
lights for seeing
superstructure in steel and glass
inspiration
aspiration and ambition
passion and drive
these power the pulse and the breath
each person, each cell
shapes and grows the city, the body
each experience shapes epigenetics
no place the same after
the city takes us all in
gives us homes
maybe not shelter, but homes
we are alive and so is our home
an energy ineffable yet indelible
edit: A friend has said that this reminds her of the opening of Murakami's After Dark, and I can absolutely see it. Perhaps a bit of subconscious inspiration?
This is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago--not part of Timasomo, but something I'd like to share with folks here. It's becoming more important to me given events in real life and also as I explore yoga more deeply as part of my teacher training program. There's clear inspiration from Whitman's O Me! O Life!, but the message is very modern.
That the powerful play goes on and you will contribute a verse
Why not let the verse be love?
It used to be so easy, so easy, just a simple choice
Choose love
All the conflicts of today and every other time
Not enough love
For one another
For ourselves
Not enough love
All the religions and faiths of the world
All our enlightened leaders
All taught love
The play used to be about love
So many acts ago
Only a few moments ago
Seems like forever
Seems we’ve forgotten the lines
But no one to remind us what they are
And we don’t get a rehearsal
We get one grand opening day
One somber closing night
No matinee
No encore
Why choose any other verse but love?
Love makes everything else possible
Makes everything else worthwhile
Everything else builds on love
That the powerful play goes on and you may choose a verse
Choose love.
note: Posted this with the wrong title first, so deleted and reposted.
A few years ago I got a rather self-congratulatory email from GoDaddy, the domain host, about all the amazing things that their customers do, apparently. Here is a representative excerpt: "One of the clearest lessons we've learned is that the one word to describe you best is 'courageous.' You go after what you really love, you chart your own course, and you create something (often from nothing) that usually makes the world a better place."
I found this rather silly coming from a corporation that hosts fucking domain names. So I was inspired to write the following poem:
1.
Dear Firstname Lastname
earlier this year we embarked on an effort to learn more about you
what makes you so incredibly unique
and the values you all have in common
we learned an equal amount about ourselves
you go after what you really love
you chart your own course
you create something
(often from nothing)
whether it’s
a neighborhood pizza shop
an organization to help those in need
or a company poised to launch a new industry
you believe where others don’t
you have the guts to strike out on your own
that’s courage
and it’s worth every ounce of support we can give
you’ll always be able to pick up the phone and talk to someone 24/7
sincerely
semi-legible signature
digitally scanned
followed by a name typeset in Arial
and a twitter handle
2.
i don’t create
neighborhood pizza shops
organizations to help those in need
or companies poised to launch a new industry
my values are not your values
i have a blog
it has a domain name
which i pay you to maintain
that is the extent
of our relationship
i will go cry in a corner now ok
sincerely
a customer
My phone sits, as I, in silence
In my room – alone.
I hate myself, but seem to lack the energy
To dig into my bones.
When I was younger I was told that
One day God would call me home.
Instead the coffin calls my name in whispers
And beckons the unknown.
.
Why do I feed a body with a
Soul that keeps depleting?
When all my hopes and expectations come up
Short and keep receding – I
Start alternating between plotting,
Thinking, pleading
That I’ll make a rash decision, they’ll
Give my organs to the needy.
.
Perhaps I’ll drive a stake into my head and chest.
No one should endure this mind or heart.
Meditation never seemed to give much value,
All the medication felt a farce.
I’m an incongruent, uncompleted puzzle
Dangling from a bridge; falling apart.
I watch my pieces sink below into the water,
As this letter dances all about the hearth.
.
I carried out important shit in boxes;
Let the rest behind to be thrown away.
I hid and watched as they threw in the dumpster,
A bed now wrought with chocolate and decay.
As the memories flashed in to my brain,
Of how we chose to spend that final day.
(Of how) even on the best day of the end of my life,
I ended up naked, chocolate-covered, curled up on your chest and crying,
Begging you to stay.
.
The devil is a myth they tell believers;
Hell prevents their chasing earthly dreams.
I will not go to Heaven, and there is no Great Receiver
Who will comfort me and silence my screams.
There is no purgatory in the ether;
The earth is this one act’s final scene.
Fittingly, the water isn’t beautiful here either.
It’s choppy, warm, and a putrid shade of green.
.
Someone use my hands to write a sonnet.
Someone use my eyes to see a better day.
Someone use my legs to climb a mountain;
Use my tongue to find the words to say.
They’ll use my lungs to feel the oxygen.
Use my kidney when theirs is in decay.
They’ll use my heart to feel in love again.
I’ll rest easier that way.
I keep on my journey when the world's asleep,
searching you out, like a bewildered sheep.
If you'll come to my aid when you see me-
with my knees bleeding red on these cobblestone streets.
It must be the price of my earthly sin,
that I've no food or water for nourishment
that I crawl alone, in the dark, hoping.
I am the moonlight masochist.
..
So hear me cry out your name, whoever you are.
Bring me the moon, and make me your star.
Protect me like mountains and be my guard.
Help me sleep sound when the noise is harsh.
Be the hearth for my fire; the warmth for my heart.
Get me into a home, and out of the bars.
Can you hear my infantile, crying heart -
My moonlight masochist matriarch.
..
I cough as I choke on the poisoned air.
No one around who seems to care -
Save for two beady eyes who approach and glare,
a thin coyote with a hungry stare.
I only hear howls in monotone
as two other dogs come sniff my throat
But at least when they carry off my bones,
I can kinda say I never died alone.
..
Hear me cry out your name, whoever you are.
Bring me the moon, and make me your star.
Protect me like mountains and be my guard.
Help me sleep sound when the noise is harsh.
Be the hearth for my fire; the warmth for my heart.
Get me into a home, and out of the bars.
Can you hear my infantile, crying heart -
My moonlight masochist matriarch.
it's kinda silly
kinda nothing
but i was thinkin
kinda wondering
hey.
if i asked.
would you pick the loose string from my sweater
bring a blanket in cloudy weather
go with me on an adventure
give a little hug, a little pressure
would you grab a little snack
put my favorite towel on the rack
hear me sing, and try not to laugh
or light a blunt, hit twice, and pass
help me dye my hair
tell me i look cute in underwear
text me just to say you're there
snap your cookie just to share
or rub my neck soft when it hurts
tell my i've a way with words
walk to the park when wind's absurd
just to sip a tea and watch the birds
tell me that you like my lips
pick me clothes out for a trip
head to the lake to skinny dip
and blush a bit because you like my hips
could you
sweat with me at the gym
fill our popcorn to the brim
say that this shirt makes me look slim
and maybe love me limb from limb
instead of him
.
.
.
I was a kintsugi bitch
A dull, forgotten, broken pot
And then you fixed me up
.
You lined me with your own
dweomercrafted brand of gold
Lac, Mel, et Saccharum
.
And when you’d starve me for attention,
Fed me more from your breast
Til you filled me up
.
And then I’d look you in the eyes
Sugar broiling in the stomach
Am I pretty now
..
Lost, full, and quite ignored
When you had leapt onto the floor
And said we’ve got to go
.
I grabbed your hand and followed blind
My stomach churned I lagged behind
You were the love I know
.
You said we’re going to the sea
My dear you’ll spend a life with me
We’ll make the waves a home
.
And I smiled ear to ear
Cheeks were blushing like a deer
Am I pretty now
..
And then we made it to the bay
quickly climbed into a boat
They never have to know
.
We headed south for centuries
They cannot take the memories
I never hunger now
.
And after weeks of solitude
A stranger came into the view
There was another boat
.
My stomach burned, concerned,
Not a soul had stood astern
You produced a rope
..
You gave a gentle kiss
And slid the twine across my wrists
And tied them into knots
Dipped my legs into the water
Either hand tied either helm
Stretched into a cross
I looked up at you in fear
Just to see you’ve disappeared
I started crying out.
My stomach burned under the water
And the sun was getting hotter
And I’m all alone.
I pleased come to feed me
Don’t leave me weak, depleting
I got no response.
The fish were getting curious
Flies buzzed something furious
They knew what I did not
That if you leave out milk and honey
In the heat, in weather sunny,
It’ll start to rot.
.
Months had passed in sickly motion
Head leaned back, my eyes were open
I died long ago.
The bugs ate at my open mouth
My skin was yellow, wrought with drought
My throat housed a mold
The waters smelled of sulfate
As the serpents ate my stomach ache
My blood has washed away
The rope gave up on hope and
Threw my purple, molten corpse into the ocean
Am I pretty now?
.
.
.
i have no idea where i am
who i have been
i have the slightest glimpse into the present
a wavering image of a time long past
my soul sits on siain heights
above the fish and birds
where we know endless comfort
and a burning desire for wisdom
this version, far away from the peaks
that I am so accustomed to;
yet drawn to the body of man,
who screams in agony as he is raised to the heavens.
one day
i will die
one day
so will you.
the pictures on the wall
will end up in the trash
or old and tattered
in an attic.
our greatest of great-grandkids
won't know our faces or
how deeply we were saddened
to never see them grow
to never learn the world they know
to never speak their modern language
or watch the trees around them
grow.
for we'll be dead in the ground
and we'll never hear a sound
for what comes next ain't only silence
it ain't blood and it ain't violence
it just
ain't.
so for now we're killing time perhaps
we'll get laid or
learn to paint.
but in the end, it all goes out
into the trash
into the dust
and rest assured
into the ground.
.
if you choose to abuse me
i'd rather hear threats for ever than
hear no sound.
because if you're still here to hurt me
i can say that someone
stuck around.
.
.
.
before i'm buried in the ground.
THE EARTH keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.
I've always loved this poem. To me, it's about a man, loved by many, that recognizes his responsibilities, but can't help but forgo them to go and have fun with friends and loved ones (in short, anyways). The first line, however, has always intrigued me, and I can never land on a meaning for it. I think it's basically saying that in your heart is your true character (your soul), and that will never change. Or maybe it's saying that everyone has that "vibration" in their heart that yearns for enjoyment. What do you think?
Longest piece to date?
Last night I saw a beast
four different heads with blackened eyes.
Not black in metaphor, but from
the blood that dried inside.
Each of seven legs was mangled
and the beast was blind
but she could fly.
.
Once upon a night so dreary,
and so dreadful I
came across a weathered bar
a woman stood inside.
She sat me at a table, there was
not a soul in sight
but I felt fine.
.
Then she brought a glass of dark with
something new inside.
Leaned in close and whispered to me
"Baby, close your eyes."
I parted my lips and drank as
her hand guided mine.
My guard resigned.
.
She said "I know a place where you can
truly feel alive.
Each one of your problems fall
defenseless by your side."
And she wrapped her arms around me
I contently sighed
as she took flight.
Her wretched and misshapen legs
held me close to her chest.
She let out her warning cries
i inhaled every breath.
Her claws were creeping out I
fell upon them like a bed.
I laid to rest.
.
I fell into a home so oddly
shallow and recessed.
The walls were made of rock,
a water drop fell on my head.
There was no single light,
the ceiling lowered as she led
me to her den.
.
As I looked around the room birthed
questions in my head.
So opposite the warmth that she
had first on me impressed...
She stroked my cheek, claws on my chin
my heart fluttered, digressed.
I was possessed.
.
She laid me on the floor and stood with
five legs for each end.
One aside my head and feet
another at my hands.
Then she gently laid a blanket
down over my head,
"Shall we commence?"
I still feel it so vividly
each night I fall asleep,
the fused infatuated fear I felt
at a monster's feet,
when that heinous eldritch horror
drained my blood from me,
took me for libation, prayed a tithe
she poured me out.
Her heart could call the kettle as it,
too, went black in drought
She bore her fangs and lowered,
took my body in her mouth.
She then carried me cliffside, like a dog
she threw me down.
My corpse then fell so far, on
impact, no audible sound.
The final earthly thing I heard,
her shriek, "The Gods are proud."
Now upon each night so dreary, she
crawls out to find
a source of poor, defenseless blood
that she can sacrifice.
She'll lure them in with gentle kisses
and sapphire eyes.
We all will die.
Epilogue.
On my way to death, I was met
with a choice instead.
I could end my life or help
ensure the gods were fed.
In the heat of fear and pain I
then nodded my head.
The halls of purgatory filled with
screams and smells of death,
as my eyes dried from the inside
and I then begat
five extra legs.
So what’s the deal with offices, amirite?
What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on the way here? Yeah what if they just gave us that for free, and we made them pay for parking!
I know, I know, fantastic right? But listen, it’s not over yet. What if we also made the work pointlessly constrained to a particular 8-hour block in the day, five days a week so that they never have any personal time, even though this is all work they could get done in four hours a day and is fully capable of being completed on their own?
Fabulous!
——
So yeah, I don’t have free time. That means I’ve got a few half-ass pieces that I’ve been wanting to finish up for awhile.
Apparently bars are open today, so I’m gonna get sauced and get to it. Prepare for a small dump today. (Also I got some dummy minor news imma share in another post. Stay tuned if you want. Or don’t ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ all’s well.
Anyway here’s that piece now.
——-
I remember that time I forgot your
birthday
And that time was today
At 12:08 in the morning
And for a moment
I felt great.
.
My dear that was the first sign
That you were
Slipping on out of my mind
Today I’m sober in the morning
Feelin okay.
.
Well well-butrin what a surprise
When it done
Come on back to my mind
Now it’s 12:09 in the morning
And ain’t shit changed.
.
And in those 60 seconds
Girl I swear
I learned a lesson -
Depression is a woman
With your name.
fotózás
i wonder what it must be like
to remember your life.i wonder what it must be like
to record it with a flash.i wonder what it must be like
to pass those memories down.i wonder what it must be like
to be normal like that.
nyáj
in the shadows of a great unrest
stand hallowed halls
yet undisturbed by
collapse.
to be untouched by
revolution
is a lucky fate
for a place like this—
so stable in lives
and yet
always received
with such hostility.oh, to be a church—
a great meeting hall
for those of
the faith—
is to be us,
the people of this place
who dare to
keep their fire alive.we are but a
little congregation,
coming together
once in awhile.
giving praise to
what had been;
remembering what
our time had lost.we bear upon our weary backs
a legacy
and hope one day
to restore it.but
we must rest now,
and resign to our dreams
what could be again.
A free form poem.
You sing the devotion song and
your people drink from your font
of well-meant falsehoods.
They sway in the breeze,
roses ripe for cutting,
so you reap. And I deal with it.
Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
that I'm not enough.
I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
"Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
And I deal with it.
The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
Heads shake and hands pray,
repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
nothing.
And I deal with it.
The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
Our future dances and plays in the light.
We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
against me.
This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
And I deal with it.
Dark nights, dark thoughts
in front of a washroom mirror.
Lightning thunders, they come and go.
Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
And I deal with it.
i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged sufficiently that i categorize them firmly in the "intensely mediocre" column with everything i ever do. unfortunate, tbh. anyways here's stuff:
bűnös
UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
or i'll shatter your bones
and crush your heart—
to dance with me is to dance
a fine line that wrenches two worlds apartfor on one side there is a hall of saints—
on the other
the brimstone of hell—
and to stay on the side of the hall of saints
is something you'd best do well.and brave souls that dare toe the line—
that cross it
are mighty thin—
and their ranks are made of anarchists
who commit most grievous sin.UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
state your allegiance
to the vaunted line—
or soon you too shall join the ranks
of those who deserve malign.
fáj
when i was seventeen
the panic attacks began.
the nightmares.
the violence. the violence. the violence.violence is a funny little thing—
insidious, slithering in through one grate
and out the other.
it always begins with little things,
little fantasies in one ear and out the other.
dreams here and there, manufacturing terror and hurt.
invasive thoughts, marching to an intensifying drumbeat.
one offs.it's not normal to
want to hurt so bad.
it's not normal to
want to cut yourself everywhere,
is it?
to feel those feelings,
to bear them like a cross shackled on your back?
to wish some days you could cut to the bone
even though you're afraid of blood?
to mutilate yourself until you can't feel anymore
even though you know those feelings are irrational?
to wish you could die violently, publicly
even though you're afraid of death?violence isn't a very funny little thing—
terrifying, inescapable and ever recurring
one night after the other.
it was the little things once,
the little fantasies that used to be but now
consume the dreams, the
waking thoughts, becoming a great crescendo.
every day.when i was nineteen
the panic attacks were normal.
the nightmares.
the violence.
Burnt!
You embraced me with your apple-pie grin
as I tumbled through the door caked in sun,
and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George
behind us are snuffed with the slam of the castle gate.
We are alone in the fragrant silence of our shared universe,
your heartbeat against my cheek nuzzles
like the murmur of some public radio presenter.
I float along helplessly like a kitten held by its scruff
until the slasher-scream of a Janet Leigh smoke detector,
brutally gored by the twirling swirling aerial dancers,
beckons you away to some Burning of Washington, 1814,
its desolation likewise impeded by a timely sprinkle.
In the black ash-pile is the monomania of the Cosmos,
circling like a hyena for any vulnerability
to consume everything it touches
so that we all might become dark and vacuous like it.
The cosmos and its baggage are swept away,
its might and vastness no match for a love as true as ours.
This was my attempt at writing a poem in the style of Pamela Miller, a feminist and often zany poet from my native Chicago.
Please let me know what you think.
Today I found a girl
Who was pretty nice
To me.
She made me stop and talk
And rest
and breathe.
She said your stomach growls,
Your legs
Are weak.
How’d you like to come
And sit
With me?
.
And my how time it flew
And passed
Us by.
Lunch turned into tea
Turned in-
to night.
The way her body curved
It shaped
My mind.
And then her laugh,
Her smile,
Her eyes.
.
Would you mind if I stayed
For an hour or two
Or three?
We could sit and talk
And laugh
And crawl between the sheets.
And maybe I can stay the night
Or two
Or three?
And you’ll hold onto me.
And we can spend forever
Cus talk
Is cheap.
And maybe nights will
Slowly carve a curve and crash on
Into weeks.
Maybe we’ll be cuddled
On the couch or sipping
Sex on the beach
Maybe I could stay
For life, just
You, and me.
i got fire in my blood
Wild Turkey and the nicotine
might just call my doctor
have him put me on amphetamines
driving past the memories
i'm pushing on 100 speed
crossing single-white lines
with a blade til my bones weak.
cold-brew hipster
gothboi fantasies
hard to think straight when
my thoughts are attacking me
here i let the voices out
inner demons writing rhapsodies
before i go and swing from
a noose and a dramatic tree
.
can't decide what i want between
freedom and consistency
i say i want it done
but i think i want her missing me
last week i bought a gun*
this week i went to therapy
when will i be free from all the
thermo-manic tendencies?
.
drowning in my bed
breathing wild turkey
i couldn't feel if i were dead,
but i like the way she hurts me
i've come to know the pain
it's like a second home to me
liquor novocaine
im falling from autonomy.
if mecca was a bedroom
girl you were a God to me
and laying here alone is
a wicked act of blasphemy.
never knew you were a snake
feeding hate from an apple tree
I'll chop it down, and build a tomb
so you can hold me,
as an effigy
(* didnt actually buy a gun. me no like. literally 0 plans to.)
short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it.
either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time.
then again, do i plan half the shit i do? or am i just constantly fumbling my way up through life.
either way here's some shit about math.
enjoy.
You said I was the one
But that was only when you managed
To get some rest, and breathe, and
Keep yourself from going rabid
But must of the time you
Wore your claws out like a savage
So if we’re being honest I‘m the
.08 on average.
i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar burst.
I. űrrepülés
having once been the dreamer of many things,
having once been an eternal creator,
having seen the birth of great star systems and galaxies
and life itself
only to be snuffed out
with ignominy
i feel compelled to explain why i too must
inevitably follow themhurt
is a funny little word. it seems so easy to come
to a common agreement on what it means and yet,
if i told you it hurt
would you really understand that?would you understand the feeling
of hopelessness,
the vast indignities of having to see
your every piece of art,
your life's work
snuffed out
like the stars?II. űrlény
you can't play god
with the people in your life,
but that never stopped me from trying,
from creating those great star systems
that people care about.
from creating life where there is none.and that never stopped me from failing,
and the stars becoming great cataclysms—
black holes destroying the life around them
without regard for its beauty.you might say it is callous
to try to move the heavens and the earth
and to die when they don't arrange the right way,
but,
i would rather die than be that hurt person again
watching the stars go out one by one.
In the shadows
Like a ghost you hide
In the single most foreign
Corners of my mind
Therapy and pills still
Can’t subside the angelic choir
Of your pretty lies
Promises you made,
The bones I broke
You once took my breath
And now I choke
Jesus let me breathe
Is there hope for me?
.
Now I desire
The obscure
All that reminds
Of being yours
Your oils, poison
My waters, pure
Your love is cancer
There is no cure.
.
I watched my grandfather take his final breaths as he kissed my head and you held my hand. Not two months later you foresaw our end, and decided not to keep me, even as a friend.
And now you’re off, marriage in the plans. I pray your time falls like the sand and hits the bottom of every glass as fast as it can.
I have no home. I’m lost and cold. You promised me a home would grow. We got a dog, and had planned for more. Mouth of this world, a fish at shore you took my breath and killed me slow.
I’m suicidal, I have no hope. I’ve not a gun, don’t have a rope. The only reason I’ve not a note, I’d end it all, I’d end it all.
I just want to feel pretty.
Pretty loved and pretty free
But for now I keep to getting
Pretty drunk, it isn’t cheap
But I can afford it/‘s kinda sweet
Too bad you’re not round
To drink with me.
I’d fill the bottle
We’d watch the office
Instead I scar
Until I am solid
An ugly rock
A useless object
I’ll break my stones
And build a coffin
And die in your name
Die in your name.
tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love.
i hit my cigarette
like an abuser hits her wife
because i'm a fucking coward
to afraid to take his life
i've felt love before
i beg it through the strife
but i only find a heart
at the wrong side of a blunt and useless knife
.
and it's only mine
at least there's proof
that i can feel
when blood protrudes.
but that's not "work appropriate"
so i get tattoos
what a shame i can't get paid to die.
i got a job
i got on meds
i got a car
still wanting death.
still here at night
alone in my bed
still hear her voice
ring in my head
“why do you look like i abused you?”
.
i bought a bottle
i bought some cards
can’t kill my thoughts
my god it’s hard
just make it stop
“i don’t think i love you anymore.”
.
anxiety’s
taken over me
every interaction
i worry
did i act weird?
what do they think?
i guarantee
they laugh at me
can’t beat it all
can’t bear it all.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
..
don’t want to live
don’t want to die
i fantasize
(that) it’ll be alright
she’ll cuddle close
and hold me night
and pet my head
and kill the fright
i can’t escape
don’t want to fight
god let me die
god let me die
Pretty.Pretty good.
Pretty cool.
Pretty smart.
Pretty cute.
Pretty kind.
Pretty eyes.
Pretty warm.
Pretty witty.
Pretty artistic.
Pretty talented.
Pretty cultured.
Pretty traveled.
Pretty-faced.
Pretty loved.
But fuck me,
Life’s pretty hard.
I used to work at Amazon, and one of their internal "chatter" mailing lists had a tradition that every Friday people would write haiku, often about how their week went, or something in the news, or just something random. Going to try to resurrect that here.
If you want lines to color within, the "normal" requirements for a haiku are:
The essence of haiku is "cutting" (kiru). This is often represented by the juxtaposition of two images or ideas and a kireji ("cutting word") between them, a kind of verbal punctuation mark which signals the moment of separation and colours the manner in which the juxtaposed elements are related.
Traditional haiku often consist of 17 on (also known as morae though often loosely translated as "syllables"), in three phrases of 5, 7, and 5 on, respectively.
A kigo (seasonal reference), usually drawn from a saijiki, an extensive but defined list of such terms.
But of course often the 5-7-5 syllable structure is the only part used in Westernized haiku. Feel free to follow the guidelines above as narrowly or as loosely as you want.
@cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This one is a little more conceptually involved, but I think it still has the potential to be a good time like the last one.
Rather than going with a strict word or line count, instead I am creating a restriction based around personification:
Challenge:
Your poem must:
An example might be an automatic door that is bored to tears from opening and closing ad nauseum. Or maybe a watering can that is excited to tend to its garden.
In trying to come up with a model I decided to channel a resentful milk carton:
It's fine
I get it
You don't have to justify yourself
Lots of better things have come around
Since you first chose me
Just know that I'm still here
If you need me
Waiting for that blissful moment
Where you light up my world
And take me in your hand
And make me feel like I'm flying
Before you lower me down
In a lover's embrace
It's fine
I get it
Until then I'll sit here
In the cold, cold dark
Trying not to go sour
Next to the slowly molding cheese
And forgotten grapes
It's far from perfect but hopefully it gives you an idea of what the assignment can look like. While I saved my "reveal" to the end, don't feel obligated to use that tactic unless you want to. You don't have to hide the identity of your object, just don't name the object outright in the poem.
Feel free to make your poem as long or short as you wish. Feel free to make it as meaningful or silly as you want. Above all else, have fun!
If you need help with ideas or just want the challenge of writing to a randomly selected specification, you can use this noun generator for objects and this adjective generator for sentiments.
Four words, no exceptions.