Do Memes Count As Poetry? @domemescountaspoetry - Tumblr Blog

Things You Should Know

Here I am, in my least filtered form. The poems you will find here will vary in subject matter, but I ask that you treat them all with respect. Reblogs are allowed within Tumblr. Please do not share without credit. Please do not reproduce without my written consent.

domemescountaspoetry

#about me #poetry #spilled thoughts #spilled poetry #spilled ink

Life’s A Beach

A grain of sand trapped

In sheets,

In shoes,

In winds,

In glass,

Is a grain of sand that can cause

Restlessness,

Irritation,

Pain,

Blockages

When what the grain of sand seeks is

Relaxation,

Travel,

Fun,

Time.

#poetry #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #poem #spilled poetry #writers on tumblr #original poetry #life is hard #midnight poetry

sourdough-seal

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

arterialtrees

American Originality: Essays on Poetry

By Louise Glück

enchantedbook

'The Days of Christmas' art by Laurel Long.

poppiesandpromises

watercolor tears

falling from sodden lashes

the slowest of fades

feral-ballad

Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “Howl”

we’ve papered over

the graffitied wall

monstera leaf print

hides satanist scrawl.

refinished the hardwood,

restained the concrete,

removed the pentagram

from under our feet.

white shaker cabinets,

white subway tile,

white sage to cleanse

what used to defile.

young maple trees,

on old burial ground.

we can cry out if we want,

there’s no one around.

the fence may be broken,

but no neighbor pries.

no organized watch

just hills who have eyes.

all for a bargain,

less a sale than a steal.

financed our soul

for a hell of a deal.

#poetry #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #poem #spilled poetry #writers on tumblr #poetblr #anti capitalism #women writers #women poets #original poetry #poems and poetry

wordrummager

With a pizzelle Having a pizzelle with my tea. A breakdown held at bay for the moment. Tasting the butter and crisp edges remembering how they’re made. The house is askew, or maybe it’s just me noticing the lack of clean corners with holiday lights, foliage, and boxes creeping in on our regular space. My kids caught me at the cusp of a breakdown, holding me like I held them so often when tears couldn’t be helped. I’m not thinking of circles but patterns. Praying for peace for the week ahead, sometimes difficult to navigate all the elements of a winter holiday. Tasting moments through the day, remembering how they’re made.

two-bees-poetry

i have no words (macduff, a girl)

domemescountaspoetry

Brilliant

pink-heart-writes

inkskinned

i don't know what else to tell you except to be brave and to be kind. take it day by day. go outside and watch the clouds paint the sky. call a friend.

we are still here, and furious. you are still here, and that matters. you can still do and make and be something important. i promise. stay alive. it matters, and you matter. i know it is easy to succumb to anxiety and exhaustion and defeat.

communities can start with tiny ideas. google "dnd meeting near me" or whatever your interest might be. google "volunteering near me." google "support groups near me." start journalling. start a discord. start a book club.

when you close your eyes and hear hamlet, answer his prayer: it's better still to be.

sarahsinferno

I am a specter in the glass,

an echo of longing trapped

in the thin light of morning.

While I dissolve in the quiet of rooms,

a silence heavy with the weight of wanting.

Each moment you pass is a blade,

cutting through my stillness,

leaving a mark that never heals,

an unspoken confession of my hunger.

I am the hollow shell,

the empty gaze that follows,

burning with the cold flame

of what I cannot grasp.

In the mirror, the truth is unspoken,

a color I cannot name,

a shadow I cannot escape,

an endless loop of never enough.

Poem: Envy by S.T. 2022

Painting: Ophelia by Henri Lehman

Oil on canvas 1847-1847

gracebriarwoodwrites

I buzz around the air-conditioned house like a fly in a glass of iced tea, staring at a foggy world through windowpane condensation. If I fly down I'll drown like Icarus. If I circle too long, exhaustion will take me the same way. I need to find the strength to reach for the blue and be free.