tide caller

krista k | '94. 21 & always exploring. welcome to my piece of the sky. ❂

[clementinevonradics]

Hey y’all,

I’m entering this contest for a chance to go to Brooklyn this March and compete at the Women Of The World Poetry Slam. All you have to do to support is click here and vote for me.  

This has always been a dream of mine and I really need your help, please go vote, and encourage others to vote as well! Thank you so, so much. Click here to vote!

[flythevinyl]

On land, I am always drowning.

[meanwhilepoetry]

You have always been more forest than girl, and everything inside you is wild, free and alive. That is why it is hard for you to find someone who loves all of you. You need someone who doesn’t just survive when they are in a forest, you need someone who can thrive.

Nikita Gill

[blythebaird]

Female poets are judged with an entirely different set of criteria than male poets. Men are routinely rewarded for expressing vulnerability and are free to be angry in a way that women are not. Men get extra points solely for having the emotional capacity to write a poem at all. (Go to your local bookstore. It’s hard to find journals that aren’t embossed with butterflies or flowers.) So, women are expected to write poetry, men are rewarded for it. This is not a male poet’s fault – it is, simply, a side effect of our culture’s perception of a male and female’s roles in this here patriarchal American society. Studies have produced neurobiological evidence that women have a better brain capacity than men when it comes to censoring their aggression and anger. I believe female judges often look down on a female poet’s inability to “control” her rage (whether it be through the actual text of the poem or onstage voice control) and men view it as overly hostile. Men and women do NOT get rewarded for the same things in slam. A male poet can co-opt a woman’s experience by having a female proxy (i.e “my sister was raped”) and is considered magnanimous and enlightened, whereas a woman’s personal account of first-hand rape or abuse is often considered cliché.

Rachel McKibbens, from The Male Slam Experience vs. The Female Slam Experience published by Radius Lit, aka one of my all-time favorite essays.  (via mythaelogy)

[flythevinyl]

hello loves,

i know it’s been a while... but i’m still alive and thriving! 

or at least pretending to.

recently, two of my best friends had the brilliant idea of creating a zine to showcase the talents of our creative tribe. so they came up with the theme “IN LOVE ALONE” and filtered all of this incredible content. there’s 50+ pages of prose, visuals, and poetry (including a new one by me).

we’d love it if you’d give us a chance. <3

—

http://flashthrive.me/

http://flashthrive.me/

http://flashthrive.me/

w/ all my he(art),

FLYTHEVINYL

[flythevinyl]

Do you remember the taste of my lips That night I stole a bit of my mother's perfume?

[flythevinyl]

hey :) when did you start writing on tumblr?

hello love! i started about two years ago, at the beginning of my freshman year of college. i haven’t posted in a while, but i’m being swept up by the educational system right now and also focusing more on visual and graphic design as of late. <3

— ❂

[kdecember-deactivated20161201]

Revolution is not pretty but I don’t care about looks. Set the dumpster on fire. Break the windows. Don’t kiss me like they do in the movies. Kiss me like they do on the emergency broadcast system.

Daphne Gottlieb

[lora-mathis]

I want to write poems about everything. Get it out in an attempt to have it all make sense. I want to talk about the nights after high school graduation, when I spent a week reading On the Road till 3 a.m. and my journal entries were replaced with strict travel plans. I want to talk about eighteen, when we ran in the snow in just our underwear and laughed about how they had shot fireworks at us, even though it terrified us at the time. I want to go back to drinking for four days straight in a snowed-in cabin and falling asleep cacooned beneath three blankets that my friends piled on-top of me. I want to get it all out, but no matter how many poems I write, no matter how many stories I start, no matter how many crumpled up pieces of floor litter my bedroom floor, I can never quite capture all of it. Maybe someday I’ll spit up this lump in my throat. I will spit out, after years of choking, and it will plop on the ground as a giant glob of ink from lost words stitched together. All of the things I forgot to include in conversations. The “can I kiss you”s and “would you still be my friend if I left them” and “will we talk in five years”s and “why did you leave me sitting on that stoop drunk” and “what is this thing we’re doing? Is this romantic or are you just very nice?” Maybe someday all of the things I was too afraid to communicate will come out and I will be lighter, sharper, and wiser because of it. 

Until Then I Am Young and Unsure | Lora Mathis

[viceroygirl-deactivated20160815]

[pigmenting]

My second grade teacher liked to ask us, “How do you feel today, on a scale of one to ten?” Ten always meant I’m super, thank you and one was always not today, Mrs. MacAuley, not today. But I never liked numbers, they would always twist and rebel against my mind so I chose to speak in colors instead. January third - I am the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream but I’ve eaten all the chocolate chips. I am calm. February seventh - I am a bruise of blues and violets today. I think it would be best if I sat by the window. These are unhappy colors. April eleventh - I am turquoise, I am magenta, I am every color in the rainbow. April thirtieth - I am gray, I am silent. May first - I am orange, the color of melting creamsicles on a beach in July. June twelfth - I am as yellow as the school bus that will bring me home to summer. I am free. Twelve years later, I still use colors. The winter makes me feel cobalt blue, the ocean turns me a seafoam green. Violets and purples leave me uneasy and scarlet is a fever of fury. Some nights I drown in shades of navy, denim, and cornflower but other nights I meditate in forests of harlequin and shamrock. But you, you leave me a blinding white followed by a soft yellow: the color of sunlight after a period of darkness.

Kelsey Danielle, “A Diary of Colors”

[flythevinyl]

Still believe in magic? Yes I do, of course I do.

[visual-poetry]

by sean landers

[girlvswhale]

She was the kind of girl you couldn’t hold. She was an experience you had to witness—a wave cresting during a storm with its head barreling toward you white and angry, ready to devour the sand and erode the shore. If you turned your head at the wrong moment, you could miss it and it would never happen again. If you turned your head too fast, you could miss her and that would be your last chance. "Those kinds of girls can dance," he said. "Those kinds of girls dance away with your heart." He could taste her in his mouth. She tasted like pennies and lemons. She was sour blood. She wasn’t the kind of girl you held against your cheek to melt slowly into your tongue. She was the kind of girl you pressed into the back of your throat. She made your face twist like you’d been thrown into a wall. She left your head shaking violently from side to side in an effort to rid your entire mouth of her taste. She sent waves of heat down your esophagus. She set your stomach on fire. She left your knees weak and your blood thin. You always wanted more, even when you knew you nothing good could come of it. "Those kinds of girls make a man fight," he said. "Those kinds of girls make a man fight his own shadow." Still, when her hips were finally within reach he spread out his arms, pressed his fingers into her skin, and held on. When he finally made contact, all he got back was a shock, a sting, a volt to his heart that almost left him dead. In her wake she left pink scars that looked like roots of a tree, of a life once felt, across his torso and his arms. She became a legend eventually, a story he told to his children and their children when he finally stopped waiting for her wave to crest, stopped trying to swallow her acrid taste, when he finally settled down. "They say electricity is an event, but once I held it in my hands," he would tell them. "Once upon a time it was mine."

Kristen Fiore // Electricity is an event. 

[posthawk]

Her (2013)

[claudebussy]

Visit Original Link

[flythevinyl]

we are shining, and we will never be afraid again.

[2013yearoflettering]

[flythevinyl]

thank you everyone for your overwhelmingly positive response on my latest poem!

here are three of my favorite tags from the lovely m.k. wilde, nautilusheart, and thesongoffireandiceandrage! chalking up "having my writing compared to arctic monkey lyrics" on my list of life accomplishments now (: 

original poem if you'd like to read: (x)

— ❂