EKW Writing

☉:♏︎ ☽:♏︎ ↑:♌︎ i like words and consuming feelings. poetry instagram check out my book

[screnwriter-old-deactivated2021]

fuck a break up, have you ever gotten emotionally attached to a scene and then realized it doesn’t work so you have to remove it from your story

[ekw-writing]

the questions that came twenty-four hours later

what am i supposed to do with the worlds i formed around you? what am i supposed to do with the plans? are we going to the wedding together? should i send you the birthday presents that already came? do you have any idea what you’ve done? did you know you’d destroy a city? do you know that there a words you’ve tainted now, words i could never unpick from their permanent poetry homes? don’t you know that there are songs that feel like secret glances, the colour green, and us? don’t you know i’m afraid? don’t you understand? don’t you know me? don’t you see that our once beautiful, anthemic love now feels like a curse i can’t shake? would you say that we were a snowy hillside destined to become an avalanche from the start? don’t you know it was never too much and it never would’ve been? don’t you know i would’ve stayed? don’t you see that i can’t now? do you miss me already? do you feel alone? don’t you know that you left too soon?

[heavenlyyshecomes]

Kuan Tao-Sheng, ‘Married Love’, from Women Poets of China by Kenneth Rexroth & Ling Chung (@atomictangerine)

[ekw-writing]

[ekw-writing]

[ekw-writing]

[inthetags]

reblog and put in the tags a random note from your notes app

[ekw-writing]

“go back and tell it”

I want to start at the beginning but I’m not sure where exactly that is. maybe it was from the first frothing at the mouth messages the precipice of something electric, or that moment you met me on the corner of the west train station the knee high boots I haven’t worn since barely holding themselves up. maybe it was the moment my head became a jungle sat across from you, or when we emerged together on the cobblestones, your hand in mine under the lights, foolishly feeling like i’d just won a magnificent prize.

I’m not sure about the middle. it gets a bit mushy you see, a bit morbid in places too. between the trains I took and you never visiting I can barely remember the good, but can’t tell if it’s just eclipsed by the retrospective bad.

the middle was the kitchen table and the clammy palms pressed into it, unopened love letters stashed in your sock drawer. the middle was climbing over hills and dragging my baggage behind me, walks around a town that took St Swithun’s day away. the middle was realising all the ways you thought like my father, birthday flowers from the reduced bin, and panic attacks in bed with you awake beside me, your back turned, saying nothing at all. the middle was red in the worst way, like red wedding kind of red, like an All Too Well shade of red, red through a camera, but the warm spots were masqueraded as home and the contents of the kitchen cupboards at your parents house was ingrained.

maybe Plan B was in the middle, or closer to the end, along with the £300 suit I bought you on the Christmas you handed me nothing. further along the line are the things I couldn’t tell my mother, the things I told my brother in the car ride home after standing in the car park, things that hollowed me out.

the end was cowardice and spite and what I’m certain now was someone else’s perfume on a gin tasting trip. it was locked doors, my knees up to my chin in your upstairs bathroom and shaving over razor burn. it was isolation and I didn’t even know it. it was texting your family an apology when I had nothing to apologise for, and wondering if there was anyway they knew. the end was realising with a mouthful of stuffed crust, the night that I ended it for you, blocked your number, and added your name to a list of things people shouldn’t say around me, that I didn’t miss you at all.

[ekw-writing]

gift guide: the writer

give her a sordid experience she won’t be able to put down until it’s on the page

use a word that she will agonisingly cut and paste in and out until the sentence around it is enough

leave her a bruise that’s full of love, or mark her with hate if you want to give her inspiration for the 
rest of her life

let her twist the memories you collate together into something tragic or beautiful or more meaningful than you thought it was at the time

bite your tongue when she plays that song for the thousandth time thinking she’s found something in it

hold her hand at the supermarket

kiss her at midnight

refill whatever she's drinking

show her a place, a scar or something you’ve created that you’ve never shown anybody else

don’t question the phantasms of yourself and those who came before in her poems

anything but another blank notebook

[ekw-writing]

to anyone who ever thinks they’ve found themselves in something i’ve written

fuck you or i’m sorry or i hope you’re happier now (you deserve peace) or your existence changed me or no, it wasn’t about you

[neptunemuses]

the sexual tension between me and my 15 half-written poems in my notes app

[ekw-writing]

champagne problems is definitely in my evermore holy trinity, so i wrote this about all the problems i’ve had thanks to champagne (or a cheap but similar alternative) 🥂

[ekw-writing]

QUESTIONS FOR MY NON-EXISTENT THERAPIST, OR ANYONE WHO WANTS TO GIVE IT A GO

when did it start? why did it start? where am I supposed to put the love I had for her? what if I never feel satisfied? is delayed grief a thing I'm allowed to claim? why does my body feel like a holding cell? is my life a one act monologue with scathingly bad reviews? how do I unlearn what he taught me? is it wrong to fear the peace I’m desperate for? what happens if I lose this one too? will I ever be able to let go of the parties I didn't dance at? how do I prove to myself that the days without having a voice are worth it? how can I stop counting? how do I chose between light and dark? am I always going to be a breakable thing? is the starman waiting in the sky? should I stop drinking? should I stop drinking forever? will we ever win? how can I be happy writing happy? is my art any less important when it’s tinted yellow instead of blue? is it wrong that I learned how to take care of myself because of what he did? how will I fix the poetry I’ve had to cut people out of? how do I stop dreaming about his hands? is it okay that I don’t see a light at the end of the tunnel? is it okay that I’ve been unhappy this long? how do I live for now when I didn’t plan this far in advance? am I the villain in my own story? can I be the hero too?

[ekw-writing]

THE POET ASKS YOU TO NEVER GO

you have your heroes your muses so do I

and I suppose if a woman tormented by her own demons can hold a pen in her hand to create worlds with her words, lost beautifully in a stream of consciousness

and if a man so tortured can look into the dark and find swirling possibility, a multitude of light to celebrate with a paintbrush

then there’s some hope to be found in them both

but my love keep the stones from your pockets keep the knife from your ear

lie with me not beneath the elm tree in the Sussex garden not in the ivy covered cemetery on the outskirts of Paris lie with me

You have given me the greatest possible happiness. The sadness will not last forever.

[ekw-writing]

[ekw-writing]

HOW TO COME BACK

drink coffee. contemplate how brave each step forward is. write something down. remember. reflect. let go. // appreciate the patterns of light dancing through the curtains. // actually read the books you buy. put yourself between the lines on every page. //  pick up a paintbrush and put aside your perfectionism. create to create. // kiss your mum on the cheek. thank her for dinner more than once. // write a letter to someone who needs to know they’re worth the ink, the paper and so much more. // call your grandparents. tell them you’re taking care of yourself. // hold hands with people who feel like sunlight. // play your overplayed albums in the car. turn it up loud. pay attention to your heart beat but keep your eyes on the road. // breathe ocean air. let your hair down. plant your feet solidly in the ground. // 

[ekw-writing]

album blackout poems everything you’ve come to expect - the last shadow puppets - part 2