ambedo

"ambedo" (n.): a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details

[whalesfall]

btw. your search for the most morally upright and ethical piece of media that has the most correct “representation” will destroy your ability to find the most profound and beautiful and human of stories. and may even destroy the stories themselves before they are created. if you even care.

[pseudomantis]

cracks open a piece of amber and the bugs inside crawl out and walk away completely normal

[incurablenecromantic]

#this is what it’s like to read ancient poetry

[florescentlcvesickness]

[ambedopoetry]

sometimes it's like - I wrote this. I have to share it. I can't be alone with it. This feeling, like me watching myself. I have to air it out because I can't sit with it. it's choking me. maybe if someone understands it they can give me a diagnosis. or fall in love with me.

sometimes it's like - I wrote this. I cannot let it take a breath. I ought to bury it in the garden. I ought to let it starve on the porch. I can't be seen with it; the rank and fetid bones of something I wish didn't belong to me, something I'm desperate to disown. sometimes I'll write a poem like a disease. I always hate those.

- I wrote this, k.e.m.

[ambedopoetry]

tears of glass

red cheeked rage

cut engine

bleeding heart, sore arms

alone without the sadness -

alone like a delicacy -

(fish eggs and snails, songbirds drowned plucked and roasted, die, die, die screaming)

fine china

brought out for me,

the finest of guests.

my esophagus a vase

for screams.

pottery

amongst the fetid garden.

red dust

farm fields

power lines.

maybe the empty here

will fix me.

maybe not.

maybe it can't.

maybe

it just won't.

- healing, k.e.m.

[ambedopoetry]

so often I think of you

as you were

to me -

a collection of soft round stones

and trivia,

facts I can't forget

things I'd like to share with you;

this made me laugh and

that made me smile and

all

these offered up to you

ripened fruits

with rotted juices

staining my fingertips

red.

i like to think of you,

sometimes.

and in the stillness of the night

i send them along to you -

these letters

i hope

that you read,

invisible notes

to an address

abandoned.

- time machine, k.e.m.

[ambedopoetry]

you are an atlas to every sorrow you ever bore.

a map to the aches and pains of you,

a sextant to chart your course.

the blood in your veins boils-

a network of footpaths past all you've lost and all you're losing.

no stars beneath the skin to follow,

just a heart that beats

and beats

and beats

and miles of white bone to walk on.

- maps, k.e.m.

[ambedopoetry]

open hands,

palm up,

skin an untilled garden

barren, cracked and wanting -

the desolation of loving alone.

begging with the silence,

pleading with the dark:

"I promise there is room for you in this soil,

I swear that there's space in the seams."

the ache of tired muscles

the weight a life

spent grasping across empty space

for someone who can never

reach back.

- room at the table, k.e.m.

[ambedopoetry]

I want this thing out of me.

I want life to be fair.

I'm tired of grasping at the the things the world leaves behind,

my starving belly a hollow place saved to house the light in others.

I am so

hungry.

I am sick with it.

My limbs shake and my eyes flutter and my head spins and I

starve.

I starve like trees grow and flowers bloom, like cars crash and lungs expand.

I want life to be fair.

I don't want to watch you suffer anymore.

I don't want to watch anyone suffer anymore.

I'm tired.

- expectations, k.e.m.

[ambedopoetry]

The problem is, I'm walking late at night again and remembering things I shouldn't.

The parts of me I patched up long ago are bleeding again and for some reason you are the only thing that feels familiar.

I could write songs about our trauma bond, and maybe I should, but I'm getting dizzy from the blood loss and I don't know where else to go from here. I don't know how to fix this. Verse feels unfamiliar at best and I am fading fast.

I think maybe it's the things you don't know until after they're gone, like how my grandfather liked fly fishing and how you have a new nickname, or how she moved again after I left.

I don't know you anymore. I don't know anyone. It seems like all I know is how to break things and fix them again, and how to apply pressure just right to stop the bleeding.

I'm tired of running.

I don't know how to stop.

- the things you don't know until after they're gone, k.e.m.

[lonesometrails]

Could you do a poem about loving someone who is averse to love?

open hands,

palm up,

skin an untilled garden

barren, cracked and wanting -

the desolation of loving alone.

begging with the silence,

pleading with the dark:

"I promise there is room for you in this soil,

I swear that there's space in the seams."

the ache of tired muscles

the weight a life

spent grasping across empty space

for someone who can never

reach back.

[lonesometrails]

could you write a poem about having to raise oneself because your parents were emotionally unavailable, basically like being your own home, thank you!!!

when is a person not a person?

when they are a home.

when they are

alone.

when your bones become the scaffolding for something

other.

no man is an island but some

are a mountain.

a river.

an ocean.

some are whole countries

in their own right.

stone and wind and rain

in place of flesh.

bedrock in the cracks and the crevices -

no room for a stomach;

no room

for hunger.

turn your face against the gale,

my love.

close your eyes.

fall into yourself.

know your strength.

there is peace for you yet.

[lonesometrails]

how about a poem about forgiving oneself for the mistakes made as a child or that were made under duress? thanks!

(omg I'm only just seeing this now, I was expecting to see these asks on my poetry blog!)

you are the photograph

and the photo album.

the crooked teeth and the laughter.

the joy and the ache.

all the sunshine you don't remember,

all the moonlight that you do.

every trembling hand

and shaking leaf.

we don't hate the stars

for cradling the darkness.

we don't burn the book

for a single page.

you are

all of you.

every cell and every growing pain,

every blush and every burn mark.

you are

a story to be told.

and a story is not just

the ending.

you are not

what broke you;

you are

what mends you.

they forgive you.

I forgive you.

breathe.

[ambedopoetry]

tell me anything - a secret, who you love, someone you miss, what you long for - and i'll write a poem about it for you!

[ambedopoetry]

not that this is new wisdom or anything, but take care of each other. be kind. tell the truth. tell the truth more than anything else you may do.

[ambedopoetry]

the yes, the no, the maybe. notes scrawled on stained paper, the endless phone calls, prayers whispered within the wires, promises hidden in static. the shifting of shadows. the turning of heads, the spinning of wheels. the screaming of the wind. the silence that follows after.

did you hear me before the end?

- encrypted, k.e.m.

[ambedopoetry]

i hope someday i can write a love poem that is entirely mine.

i hope i don't feel your eyes on my hands, on my fingers, as i test the syllables.

i hope i don't choke under the weight of those new words, then.

i hope there is a me that isn't you.

- perception, k.e.m.