This blog 100% supports platonic soul mates
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titsay

if i look back, i am lost
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
noise dept.

@theartofmadeline
One Nice Bug Per Day
wallacepolsom

Kiana Khansmith

★
Sweet Seals For You, Always
hello vonnie
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styofa doing anything
Game of Thrones Daily
will byers stan first human second

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h
almost home
Sade Olutola
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@estelinalicorice
This blog 100% supports platonic soul mates
𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘆 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲
ring around the rosy they go
the ceramic girls with broken noses
swing on lead, burst a heart
they go where their little brain pleases
where it's light, where it's dark
a rippled frown on their face—
in this little grey place.
they clambered Mrs Puff's House
made of cards and clubs and aces
and on her porch they sat and drank
hibiscus tea and ginger biscuit
and all is fun and well, soon gone
when a gust of wind drew uninvited
and the old lady lost, her forever home
so she built a new one made of little girl's fragments
where pedestrians pass by and they stop and admire
their small-crawl deaths, a beauty displaced
never seen anywhere
just on this little grey place.
the town looks embracing and neat
𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘥
how i fit like a glove,
walk the streets with the nerve
to overtake such a place
what a dream it would be!
but the alleys i hid in, are made of monotone sweets
and the mountains i grappled falls calamitously.
i have come just to feast
now it 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 me.
and the shade of grey
is washed away,
Mr. Diddy sweeps the streets
with his sweater patches
in red-stained blotches
i leave the town,
he smiles at me.
- z, 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘢 -
artwork: At the Concert Europeén, Georges Pierre Seurat.
the wind blows east, along with my arm
flaying across the fields
if it ever reaches you, please pull me back.
and take me where the heart is, say home, say here.
there's a spirit underneath soil when its washed,
it lifts onto the air, long enough for the clouds to come and kiss it
you were standing in the middle of something that feels like earth
you're here before, you've danced with me
from dawn till dusk
the smell of youth's all over us—
when the downpour has filled the window sills, you were soaking
screaming, devotion looks like downpours
your mother says. “clean, holy, barely human. believing in something against them is what they often worship.”
the breeze broke my wrist, you looked over
your lips caught the salt of the ground, you bury yourself in water, pulling me.
you said home. you said here.
- z //𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶. //
i caught the grief on the air,
it twiddled on my thumbs—
a firefly wing carried by flight
of my mother's carelessness
she left the window open
she stained a water worn mattress
and illness creeps to her window sills
i had a hard time keeping still.
I. //wooden boys and cigarettes, inspired by the first track, Tokyo :D//
no lies makes it out alive
from the sighs of little wooden boys
they fall short, right under noses
of skeptics and their pessimistic wishes
that lads who scrape their knees cant rebuild themselves—
just enough, just the same
like love and hate.
So they fall back
to september autumns, running through dusk.
no two cigarettes are ever the same.
fresh youth, second-hand souls
those who wont burn for the glory
dies in its lows.
for skipping stones are not trivial for waters rivaled
and with each bit of neverland, is every dream crippled.
so looking back to the lakes now,
there are shadows i wished were never us
and bones i pray, were never dust.
So he falls back,
to grave like mattresses and swing-sets clad in rust.
there will always be a place for crows,
in the splinters of these shoulders
all hunched and burrowed,
all wretched and aching.
but if this is the only way to plunge in deep
underneath pillows of parents lying through their teeth
will i still be able to hold your hand and say
tomorrows are not how theyre drawn to be?
when over the precipice feels like home,
of starry eyed boys hidden in knights and castles.
run over the cycle they go
for blighted sunrises.
And they fall back again,
to all these love
for lifelines that dies when found.
And we fall back once more
to all this hate
for the boy i once said i owned.
- zi.
mono retold is a poetry project i started in 2021. as someone who have always been deeply enamoured by RM's mixtape “mono” i thought i would make an entire poetry series revolve on the spirit of each track. i loved every bit of making poetry as much as i loved every bit of Namjoon's music. looking forward for your feedback everytime! also if you're interested in mono, please do give it a listen.
RM · Album · 2018 · 7 songs.
RM · Album · 2018 · 7 songs.
my hands are calloused with a midas touch; a place where blades of grass never get in
tough skin and soft hair landing
besides a soft pedalled bike
where my mother's training wheels have been lying—
for long this is the place to be
rough red on flesh of ivories
where my sweater tears are left to die
legacies are laid besides my broken hearted bike.
because they call me,
young one,
never weep when things
turn to stone.
“every girl must be something”
must be filmed,
must be one-shot stars on fair woven silk.
and i go over a hundred ransacked rhythms i keep on playing
past my pulled hairpins, is there growth?
from maryjane flaws to amethyst stones.
i burn it til my skin succumbs
to where the paint bleeds on a little girl's arms
oh mother, lost over words
she never found until
they pass through these scars
like a prayer for mercy
when silver linings breaks down—tarnished.
burns breathe through fire
“every girl's got a wish”
and she calls to them,
oh she calls to them now.
the first of plenty; I never know
how poison ivy grows from my ill-bitten lungs,
careful climber, circus artisan
crawling like every whim-turned-dream i clutch from a lover's perfunctory plans.
it knows of a breath worth holding back
til it stretches far beneath these
cautious dreams
with a calmer magic, i believe.
that these hands are sculpted with a midas lust
worn down by first loves that wears fast like butterfly wings on a little girls hands at summerdusk.
this is a commissioned work for a friend, mini.
I was in magazines.
brushed off margeurites,
plucked stalks of sweet scent.
slipped off the cradle, fell on the dais
deer on the headlights
prey for the eyes.
peppered kisses
are salt to scraped knees
puffed and powdered, there's someone through the looking glass
some carved out fantasy, out of leather trimmed lust.
and this skin has been open for faults
and short-gazed frowns,
and apologies after another,
for matters that goes beyond four summers.
I was on television.
roughened up russian doll on dried cornflowers
crawling within, for something similar
than the child sitting in a boudoir
choked in eat-me cakes and poisoned apple pies.
Mother how far does heaven go?
away from spray-tanned marionettes in three inch heels
away from dolled up lies; tongue tied
from beauty queen wishes
that these dreams will once belong to a little girl
How far does heaven go away from you?
I was here and there,
in vegas hotels and glittered up houses
I was up and above
scatterbrained and beyond
diva in the runways, jaded and shrewd
loved in the highways, ran over muse
Its all so pretty, but its miscontrued
Mommy i look beautiful
But i dont feel so good.
- z //tainted tiaras//
artwork: The Dance Class | Edgar Degas 1873
“Prom queens are meant for funerals, or else they'll never be”
i have my teenage heels buried halfway on softly dug skin.
Picking apart stream lines of flowing red flesh
against the disco bathroom light.
In rosé wine and sweet carcasses
civility and recklessness,
And the halls would scream, but they'd often cry—beauty is blessed madness
just
nicotine lost
just
short lasting fire.
Speeches are done religiously,
amongst the few broken mic stands
shimmering bright with stolen jewelry
from my fathers scornful hand
and the last words drown out on drugged up howls
fired up diamonds in wonderland grounds
juvenile ears never seemed to care about
the sacred years, the filthy crowd
the foul headed thieves on my dirty crown.
creams dont ease up strawberry cuts
not my past time paper dolls, or the lavishing lust
to carve out each and every stardust
as indiscernible as my cosmic rough up.
the night smells of decay under alcohol mouth.
and my mother's prom dress would look good without,
my stitches overdone on the seams
just
lilac when fading
just
a fickled woven dream.
- zi /fifteen bound!/
photo: primadonna/ marina and the diamonds
wars do not make lovers.
nor look back before they leave a wooden gate that creaks
as kisses do when you breath in between—
we break it, before your head falls into the gutter
and my shoulder bones cracks at weight
by gossamer hair and school buses
that never leads us to any escape.
down goes picket fences;
they planted themselves back in the soil—
to grow is to never know
how much of my father's heartbreak
could send him home
to paint the wood fresh milk as he liked it better when the lawn's cut—
the stain runs thicker on your own blood
ive peered into smoke that swells
like the butt of his cigarette before crash
he sleeps, with chest a flowerbed
ive became too careful getting past.
never go for foot wings on the run
they burn near shooting fire
before wishes reaches a hundred centigrade, they dissipate
with the sun
radios active yet i hear frequent
scream, they glow
as they saturate
on this land's distant dream.
i wouldnt want to skin trees
to put debris on alexandrias shelf
i held onto freedom
til it parted me
way far from suburban stories that dies unspoken
with resiliency.
the nature of mad men
on clandestine
kills a flock of birds that'll never sing.
- zi | we
-Sylvia Plath