pitseleh @apromisethatimade - Tumblr Blog

#poetry #confessional poetry #literature #writing #confessional writing #prose poetry #poems and poetry #actually ocd #original poetry #mine #poems on tumblr #contemporary poetry #prose poem #original poem #short poem #tw vent #tw mia ed #tw mia #tw ana #spilled writing #spilled words #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #€d mia #sylvia plath #simone weil #poet #poets on tumblr #girlblogger #girlblogging

velshivered

derek jarman - blue (1993)

sorry angels i keep posting and deleting and reposting poems because of diction and formatting brainworms ⋆⭒˚.⋆ also im always in search of writer moots if anyone ever wants to workshop poetry or prose together!

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geared-way

never in my life do i feel more like a teenage boy then when listening to elliott smith in the middle of the night in my room for hours on end

Mayflower Cistern I Feel My Pilgrim Worry - Gabrielle Calvocoressi

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soracities

Emily Skaja, from "I Liked Myself Better as an Exquisite Skeleton", pub. The Offing [ID'd]

“jump!” (2005)

meditations in an emergency - cameron awkward-rich

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soracities

Emily Skaja, from "I Liked Myself Better as an Exquisite Skeleton", pub. The Offing [ID'd]

ruraltears

misswallflower

“Visible Light” series by Alexander Harding

Hammond B3 Organ Cistern by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

The days I don’t want to kill myself

are extraordinary. Deep bass. All the people

in the streets waiting for their high fives

and leaping, I mean leaping,

when they see me. I am the sun-filled

god of love. Or at least an optimistic

under-secretary. There should be a word for it.

The days you wake up and do not want

to slit your throat. Money in the bank.

Enough for an iced green tea every weekday

and Saturday and Sunday! It’s like being

in the armpit of a Hammond B3 organ.

Just reeks of gratitude and funk.

The funk of ages. I am not going to ruin

my love’s life today. It’s like the time I said yes

to gray sneakers but then the salesman said

Wait. And there, out of the back room,

like the bakery’s first biscuits: bright-blue kicks.

Iridescent. Like a scarab! Oh, who am I kidding,

it was nothing like a scarab! It was like

bright. blue. fucking. sneakers! I did not

want to die that day. Oh, my God.

Why don’t we talk about it? How good it feels.

And if you don’t know then you’re lucky

but also you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop.

Let the whole neighborhood hear. Come on, Everybody.

Say it with me nice and slow

no pills no cliff no brains onthe floor

Bring the bass back. no rope no hose not today, Satan.

Every day I wake up with my good fortune

and news of my demise. Don’t keep it from me.

Why don’t we have a name for it?

Bring the bass back. Bring the band out on the stoop.

Hallelujah!

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eesirachs

god loves losers. god loves the failure to thrive, the wrist checks, the negelcted, the thin, the risky. he is tiered, he is rooting for the least of you. his charmers he lifts from nothingness; his kings turn out fruitless. he loves the fruitlessness. he licks wounds, he's into that. he recalls the forgotten. he's telling his refugees to garden in foreign kingdoms. he's telling his prophets to tie themselves in rope and remain on the ground. this god is the god of losers, lovingly, thrummingly, nostalgic like that