Cнroɴιcαlly Poeтιc

Now @Salski This account is not to be used to train AI. This account is more or less just an archive of my old work, and honestly, part of my past. Please follow the above account for new posts.

[chronicallypoetic]

Fuck Your AI

An ode to Tumblr Higher Ups, OpenAI and MidJourney

When you open your mouth; may the shit you spew "we accidentally queried private posts, deleted musings, unanswered asks - sorry, we were too busy on our backs, taking Benjamin up the ass" choke you, silence you: may your users leave again, in droves - may your stocks follow you s i x f e e t below alone; for only those so unloved - even by their mothers - could conspire a betrayal while so unbothered;

a userbase so dedicated, stayed despite ever-changing hands, stayed despite the sheltering of Nazis, stayed despite censoring of queers, stayed stayed stayed. This site, once gave the lonely virtual hands to hold; a safe haven for communities disparaged by the norm - how we've long placed roses within the bones of what once was; how they've rotted, the smell of decay is overwhelming, now.

Fuck your AI. If you support AI using the work of artists and writers like myself, you're in support of theft, specifically theft that often effects underprivileged individuals who use their craft as a means to survive. This post is inspired by Tumblr recently admitting to selling our data to Open and Midjourney without gathering consent of the userbase. They have retroactively added a feature to opt out of this - but they themselves say there's no guarantee our data will be scrubbed. Wholeheartedly, find other sites to use. This has been a sinking ship for a long time. The captain just threw us overboard.

[chronicallypoetic]

moving

Hello loves.

I haven’t touched this blog in perhaps two years due to .. well, everything. The world at large is furthering itself into shambles and Covid in particular added (and continues to add - tis not over) a lot of stress to my life, with certain people I’m living with being laid off for months at a time. It made my mental health drastically worse. I’m still recovering.

I wrote a couple poems the past few months. I drew something and coloured it in Photoshop this past week. It almost feels like I might actually be getting better.

With this, I’ve decided to try posting again to give myself a goal. However, this blog was such a major part of my life for so long that I do not want to really add to it, remove poems or change things. I want this to be something of an archive for my old work, and to look back on and see where I’ve come from with not only writing, but myself as a person.

All that said, my new writing and art blog is @salski. I have reblogged some of my work to that account and will perhaps add a couple more of them. You can find my new personal Tumblr from that as well as some other social media links if you fancy.

Thank you, to the (at time of writing) 855 of you that chose to follow me over the years. It may be just another blog on your account, but it genuinely means the world to me. I have so much love for you guys.

Thank you.

[denim-poet]

“It is June. I am tired of being brave.”

-Anne Sexton

[redlipstickresurrected]

Edvard Munch (Norwegian, 1863-1944, b. Ådalsbruk, Løten, Norway) - Lovers (Mann og Kvinne i Seng / Man and Woman in Bed), 1890  Lithograph

[newrider]

[wamscoastsmoker]

IT’S HALLOWEEN TIME TO GET SPOOKY

[notsocialphobixanymorelmao-deac]

I T S T H E M I D D L E O F J U N E

[wamscoastsmoker]

I T I S H A L L O W E E N T I M E T O G E T S P O O K Y

[pwhyxco]

ok who the fuck got this on my dash it’s still june

[wamscoastsmoker]

get spooky

[tshifty]

how does this appear every june

[azawrites]

if you’re a writblr, reblog this and I’ll follow you

trying to reach as many writblrs to learn from all of your knowledge:) 

[flavoracle]

Mental Crop Rotation

When farmers grow the same crop too many years in a row, it can leave their soil depleted of minerals and other nutrients that are vital to the health of their fields.

To avoid this, farmers will often alternate the crops that they grow because some plants will use up different minerals (such as nitrogen) while other plants replenish those minerals. This process is known as “crop rotation.”

So the next time you find that you need to step away from a project to work on something else for a while, don’t beat yourself up for “quitting” that project. Give yourself permission to practice “mental crop rotation” to maintain a healthy brain field.

Because I’ve found that when that unnecessary guilt and pressure are removed from the process, a good mental crop rotation can help you feel more energized and invigorated than ever once you’re ready to rotate back to that project.

[promptsforthestrugglingauthor]

Just a page a day is something. A paragraph. A sentence. A conversation about your characters with a friend. A few words in your outline. A thought about how much you wish you could work on your piece.

Anything is good. Your word count isn’t the only way to track your work.

[chronicallypoetic]

It's a GREAT day to give a BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD ♡✧( ु•⌄• ) once you get this award, you're supposed to paste it in the ask box of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing will happen, but it's nice to know that someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out ❤ ( ◜◒◝ ) ♡

asldkfshdklfh no u. ily fambam.

[gingerly-writing]

write for the audience you want, not the one you’re afraid of

[ineffectualdemon]

What people think writing is like: careful planning and thought out plotlines

What writing is actually like: being possessed by an idea that you are constantly arguing with

[shades-of-orange]

I have never seen such an accurate description of writing in my life

[chronicallypoetic]

the willow breathes your name, drops syllables in each pastel pink blossom that falls like earth bound meteors; starlight, the earth can only be so lucky to catch you.

inspired by saib, "in your arms", a remix of "fly away" by 장윤주

[chronicallypoetic]

father figure

Your figure splinters off into a fog, saunters through my memory, rows of headstones with stones chipped, dates worn off, moss and mold that crawls past the cracks - you once told me you were a good Catholic.

We were downstairs while you stoked the fire, trying to heat the house you made so cold, so cold that I found entertainment in running my fingers through candle flames, held the hands of pyromaniacs in effort of keeping warm - you once told me you were a good Catholic.

I’ve found religion on my knees, in the church you never attended, groveling at the feet of people who never intended to stay, made a noose out of prayer beads because i kill myself over giving others the love you taught I couldn’t have - you once told me you were a good Catholic.

The last image I have of you is your height, towering, and your eyes, cold and distant, a dead man’s gaze, the colour faded from memory. How you turned away and left, tried to drive through me like I was just a figure splintering off into fog, like a headstone already carried my name in your mind - you once told me you were a good Catholic,

but never once did I see you kneel in prayer, will never see you grovel at my feet, asking for forgiveness - some things, only God can forgive, and you were never a good Catholic.

Rework of "eidolon"

[chronicallypoetic]

until i find somewhere that reasonably compares to this hellsite, me and my female presenting nipples will remain here. not that i post a shit ton as of late anyway but y’know

[chronicallypoetic]

holiday

it’s five in the morning and the weight of the past beds down beside me, wraps an arm around my waist, presses lips to my shoulders. the television chews at the silence, and besides the cats, silent at my feet, we’re alone - you, the intrusions that creep in like disease this time of year, and me, infected.

[chronicallypoetic]

oh my god i fucking did it again

i thought i was on my shit posting blog but here i am on my poetry blog

why am i like this

[chronicallypoetic]

there’s a ghost in my chest, trespassing in the graveyard of my rib cage - how the years have passed, bitter, slow like dispassionate whispers drip from unsolicited tongues. there’s a ghost in my chest, grown restless in its casket, rustles within my bones, noisily, never content to sit with the quiet, to hum along to my heart beat - there’s a ghost in my chest, who keeps me up at nights - thoughts of you amble through my walls, shifts things out of place and touch me, ectoplasmic chill tunneling down to my bones, returning home.