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A Waltz for Zizi , "Letter to November"

a sort of survivor's bias of literature causes a lot of people to believe that novels "used to" be of higher quality, greater originality, greater 'effort', greater literary-ness, greater inspiration, &c., than they are to-day

and it's like, well, that is because you're pitting a book published 150 years ago that people still talk about and read to-day, against your average aeroport written-to-spec romance that probably will not be being discussed 150 years from now. if you read the mass-market Grub Street hetslop of the Victorian era I promise you would not like it.

scorpionlafemme

sanddollarpoems

Ancient spirits

standing tall,

standing watch

over their quiet home.

How many storms

have they weathered?

How many revolutions

have they witnessed,

of moon and sun

and stars?

They stand silent,

but gently sway

as if to say,

"It's good to see you too."

followcb

It's in our Bones

writers write

it's what we do

despite life's . . .

tribulations

we ignite our lights

shine amid blackness

fueled and powered

by new moon darkness

we understand shadows

because it's a place

we've called home

it's in our bones . . . our soul

our urgency to express

creates artistic friction

dynamic poetic tension

it's an act of courage

to choose fearlessness

bravery in the face . . .

of those who oppose

attempt to . . . try

. . . to silence

try to quiet us

hush us . . . make us

tell us to go away

"they" only incite

the fights we fight

help us get unblocked

thanks to the haters

our motivators . . .

. . . and naysayers

we cannot be stopped

it's in our bones

It's what we do . . .

writers write

☆☆☆☆☆

©️ @followcb ☆ September 22, 2025

beforeyearning

elegiesuponyourgravestone

this poem… it asks to be felt first before it writes itself.

and maybe that is the curse. that a poet must feel everything first, all at once, like being dropped into a storm with no name.

i turned it into metaphors, into strange little mazes that even i could not find my way out of.

and maybe that’s why it hurts more. because i had to bleed first, to shatter quietly, before i could understand that we were never meant to stay.

you let me feel everything. as though this was something, as though we were something, before giving me your answer, so bare, so simple, while i stood there holding poems in my hands that would never be enough.

you were clear, i was fog obscuring what's been clear all along.

you were answer, i was question circling myself until this became a riddle.

and this poem — it still asks to be felt first. and maybe that was my mistake, to cradle these feelings like newborns when you had already told me they were never meant to live.

— jv orongan, "and maybe this is the poet’s curse — for giving too much meaning to what hurts."

facebook page: Elegies upon your Gravestone

elegiesuponyourgravestone

photo retrieved from: https://pin.it/3boK5kghH

my mom told me that every time there’s a forecast of an incoming storm, i should never forget to bring an umbrella with me.

i should make sure to go home safe, to go home early. before the heavy rain catches me, before the wind grows angry, before the streets turn into rivers.

but no one ever told me what to do when the storm is inside the house. the kind that cannot be forecasted, the kind that comes unannounced.

when the storm is inside my head, inside my chest, under this skin.

when the rain does not fall from the dark skies but through these hollowed eyes.

when the wind does not shake the trees outside but ravages my throat in the sound of my own deep sighs.

when the flood does not swallow the streets but fills this room with everything i cannot say.

when i am the one clawing at the walls, tearing the curtains down, wrecking the only place where i sometimes find the calm.

when the storms in me come without mercy, without warning. tearing through everything, until there is nothing left to ruin but me. tell me — where do i go then? what do i do then?

— jv orongan, “what would you name a storm that ruins itself?” check out more pieces here: Elegies upon your Gravestone ᝰ_

stupidlytender

“She peels an orange, separates it in perfect halves, and gives one of them to me. If I could wear it like a friendship bracelet, I would. Instead I swallow it section by section and tell myself it means even more this way. To chew and to swallow in silence with her. To taste the same thing in the same moment.”

— We Are Okay, Nina Lacour

beforeyearning

annori

Hanya Yanagihara, from A Little Life (2015)

gaming-beast

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blackpenwritings

@agateskittles

What is the point that lies in waking up in the morning?

_

The soft sunbeams scatter across the floor, half eaten by the shadows. But you’re not looking at that, are you? You’re looking at your hands. Your half chewed nails and the skin that stretches over your knuckles when you close your fist. You haven’t slept all night, wondering what it would be like if you could just sleep and never wake up. If you could just lie on your bed and shut all that reality outside your head. Sometimes you go weeks just sleeping it off. You call it “focusing on my mental health”. Sometimes you spend so many nights wide awake, wondering how your body doesn’t seem to fit in your skin. We could all be simulations. A galaxy in a bottle. A little experiment we never wanted to be a part of. What is the point of waking up in the morning when you could just sleep forever. What is the point of doing all these things I don’t like, pleasing all these people, working my ass off to be heavily taxed by capitalists who are only using all of it to increase the disparity between the poor and the rich. If we’re all just a simulation, what is the point of having to go through all this pain?

You still wake up. Maybe you brush your teeth. Maybe, if you have a sister like mine, you’ll be forced to shower regularly because she says it’ll make you feel at least a little clean. Maybe you’ll eat too much. Or too little. Or not at all. How does it matter anyway? In the grand scheme of things, nothing seems to matter. All that pain and misery that clings to you like a second skin can’t be washed off with ‘distractions’ or yoga. But a good friend once told me that none of it matters. We’re right. But it does get better. We’re the first ones to see every bit of the life that’s been splayed beyond our feet. And if we can stick around and watch the planet burn down in flames from solar flares, we’re seeing something no one else has been able to. All this pain is an opportunity to feel something. Our lives are just a cumulation of emotions we develop from different stimuli. Circumstances, things we choose to do, decisions we make, the lives we lead. Maybe there is no point in waking up. But since euthanasia isn’t legal yet and there’s no other way to live this life, maybe it’s worth a shot to do new things and see how they turn out? If we’ve already made so many mistakes, it’s worth going through a ton of another set of terrible ones only to see what the outcome would be like. If we’re constantly so afraid of change, we’ll never see what we can become. It can’t really get worse, can it? The worst possible outcome is death. Maybe heartbreak. But we’re not afraid of either anymore. So maybe the point in waking up in the morning is just to see the sunbeams on the floor, the shadows they create. Light against dark. You don’t have to do much to see it all. You just have to wake up.

blackpenwritings

Can y'all ask me questions I can give profound, emo, poetic answers to? Like “Where do broken hearts go?”

I just honestly need stuff I can write poetry on. I’ve been on static for too long.

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