| herlittlebook |

Philosophy, writing, poetry, books

[herlittlebook]

| Welcome To My Tumblr |

Currently reading: n/a ... busy with uni

Search #recommendation for podcasts, books, songs, films, etc. recommendations

Search #review for reviews (obvvviously)

Search #poems for..?? Correct. Poems.

Search #herlittlebook for literally everything else.

[writing-prompt-s]

You are a superhero who is treated like shit by the public. Yet you save them time and time again, because letting people come to harm, no matter how they treat you, makes you feel bad. You are secretly jealous of villains and their disregard for human life.

[herlittlebook]

One day you get a chance to speak with a villain. You ask them why they are the way they are. They look at you strangely and say, “I was never the bad guy. I take the bad guys out, but humans are too blind to the true evil. They don’t even realize it’s them.”

[herlittlebook]

If you keep unfollowing me because I have gaps in posts then kindly unfollow me forever. I don’t want to see your username everytime one of my poems benefits your page.

[herlittlebook]

It must be the little things that break me,

Because every time you don't look at me when we speak,

Every time you don't reply to read texts,

Every time you forget something I've said,

I feel as though I cease to exist.

You said to trust you when you say you love me,

Yet still I wait and brace myself for the build up.

You keep telling me these lies that I wish to believe,

But then the pain creeps up on me like a slow ache

Until finally I collapse.

Until finally it's too much.

Guess I knew that this would happen,

And so I take the eraser to the ink and try

And try

To make you fade away from my story.

Somethings last forever that I wish I could take away,

Like the words you told me,

The lies you spilled that seep into the pages.

Words that will never disappear,

And I hate you for it.

[herlittlebook]

There is space here.

There is space here,

From the tip of my fingers to the breath of G-d

Let there be light.

There is space in-between and all around,

For you and I and him and her and all.

One breath and suddenly the stars are closer,

Exhale and the sun has risen,

Blink and the world is gone.

There is space here to:

Create, love, dance, laugh, explore, live.

There is space out there,

Where time flows in directions unknown,

And where life still exists.

There is space here:

In my heart, of course.

[herlittlebook]

There is water in my cupped hands, slipping between my fingers;

No matter how much I try to hold onto it, it will keep falling through.

Grasping at the last of my salvation, thirsty for its essence,

Gasping for it to quench this need.

I grab at it, claw at it

But it keeps slipping through.

Without it I will die, and so I search at the edges of the world for more now that all of it is gone from my cupped hands.

Every drop and every ocean will never be enough,

Because I cannot hold onto something that cannot be held.

It is not mine to claim.

It could drown me if I try too hard,

So I am content to watch it slip through my fingers until one drop is left.

Then, I can taste the sweetness in the palm of my hand

Knowing I can finally appreciate what it is I want too much of.

[herlittlebook]

[herlittlebook]

Today the sky turned grey and the rain fell,

And all the world kept moving.

Across the ocean stood a woman made of stone,

But her head is gone and her children, too,

All because a man said, "I want you."

Tomorrow the sky will be blue and the sun will come,

And all the world will keep moving.

Across the ocean a woman of stone will be gone,

Replaced with another whose head is foreign,

All because a man said, "I am you."

[writing-prompt-s]

You have the ability to see into the past. You can only observe past events, not change them. You’re helping the police solve a murder. As you’re describing what happened, the killer suddenly turns around and seems to look you straight in the eye. “I know you’re watching”.

[herlittlebook]

You look behind you to see if someone else is there, hoping the killer is not speaking directly to you. *How does she see me?* But when you turn back around to look at her, she is right there in front of you, smiling. "Wait for me," she says, and you shudder as she reaches up with a bloody finger to trace it along your jaw, and nearly scream as you feel her touch you. *How is she touching me?!* And then she is gone like a whisper, and you are staring at the officer, a line of blood across your jaw where she had traced her finger.

[herlittlebook]

Forgive Me

Forgive me, I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

Most days I write too little and sleep too much, and this is all because the paper gets too wet from tears.

Ink and tears, they don't work well together, you know?

I miss you and we never really spoke, but that's because we never really had hope.

You and I never trusted anyone to hold our hearts, and while we passed through eachothers lives like a summer breeze,

I wish you were here to watch every sunset with me.

Forgive me, I don't really understand why anymore...

Why am I still here thinking and breathing and crying and not really eating?

Why are you gone? Is it because you felt like you didn't belong?

I don't feel like I belong, either, but I remain here because...

Because...

I guess I see that by being here I have this opportunity to exist,

and that beyond existing I want to live, truly live.

For what, though, I am still trying to figure that out,

Which I guess is what keeps me here.

Forgive me, please.

I don't really want to be here, but if I'm gone then who will be there to tell the ones that feel as you did--and I do-- that the world is good?

Even in the darkness I have to be the light.

Forgive me for not joining you.

[sharp-tender-shock-deactivated2]

This is a comment someone appended to a photo of two men apparently having sex in a very fancy room, but it’s also kind of an amazing two-line poem? “His Wife has filled his house with chintz” is a really elegant and beautiful counterbalancing of h, f, and s sounds, and “chintz” is a perfect word choice here—sonically pleasing and good at evoking nouveau riche tackiness. And then “to keep it real I fuck him on the floor” collapses that whole mood with short percussive sounds—but it’s still a perfect iambic pentameter line, robust and a lovely obscene contrast with the chintz in the first line. Well done, tumblr user jjbang8

[headspace-hotel]

I hate that my aesthetic sense agrees with this but everything you just said was correct

[headspace-hotel]

I went back to dig up this post because I was thinking about poetry.

This is one of those non-poem things that are among my favorite poems.

As the OP stated, the use of alliterative consonants is aesthetically just great, especially the placement of the strongest use at the end: “fuck him on the floor.” The use of “chintz” is indeed great word choice.

Because I’m insane, decided to scan the poem:

Not only is the second sentence, indeed, perfect iambic pentameter, the entire poem is perfectly metered, though the first sentence has four iambs rather than five.

There are further things I love about this poem, though: I like the casual connotations of “keep it real” juxtaposed with “chintz.” It causes me to interpret the “chintz” more strongly as meaning something fake, a facade. There is also of course the coarseness of “fuck,” which is a contrast with “chintz” but a different kind of contrast, gutsy and carnal where “chintz” is flimsy and inanimate.

And then there is the storytelling: there is SO MUCH storytelling in just these two lines. To break it down: The speaker is having sex with a married man, in the house he shares with his wife, which is “filled with chintz”—something that here connotes fakeness, in contrast with “keep it real.”

The illicit encounter in the poem takes place within a house filled with facade, the flimsy construction of the wife’s marriage and domestic sphere, but the encounter itself is a taste of something “real.” That’s a story, and it’s just two lines.

This is EIGHTEEN SYLLABLES, y’all. The amount of meaning condensed into these eighteen syllables is stunning, and it is so elegantly done.

From a technical standpoint (and ive taken 300- and 400-level poetry classes so I can say this) this is damn near flawless as a poem.

[agent-octopus]

Kept thinking about this ever since I saw it and had to do something

[headspace-hotel]

there's art now

[jetlaggingbehind]

[world-heritage-posts]

world heritage post

[writing-prompt-s]

You’re pretty sure your boyfriend was replaced by an eldritch being that can barely emulate being human. Weirdly, you enjoy a better relationship with them than your actual boyfriend.

[herlittlebook]

You watch him eat the spaghetti he made for the two of you. The noodles sit on your fork, twirled around the silver tightly, cold and untouched by your lips. He seems to forget to chew, and when he looks up briefly from his ravenous endeavor to inhale the food, he freezes.

“You’re not hungry? What’s wrong?”

You slowly look down at the plate of spaghetti, unsure of what to say about the pile of raw, doughy pasta and sauce made completely of peanut butter and diced onion. Your watery eyes look back up at him as you take a forced bite and he studies your reaction. “Mmm,” the sound is choked, but he seems satisfied and goes back to stuffing the food into his mouth.

At least he made dinner.

[writing-prompt-s]

Many people believe that the royal family and their court of lords run the kingdom, but in actuality, it is their messengers who do as every time their masters give them an order to be carried out, the messenger dispose of it and deliver their own orders with no-one being the wiser.

[herlittlebook]

The messenger opens the door to the room in which the Crowned Prince sits with his studies. “What did Lord Famici say to my message?” the prince asks without turning his head. The messenger clears his throat, “That you should really work on your grammar.”

The Crowned Prince turns slowly around to stare at the messenger and grins, “Go on.”

“He also tells you to kindly shove it up your ar-”

The prince waves his hand to silence the messenger before standing up and stretching his arms up. “Suppose that answers it. He means to tease me. I will go now and show him what I think of his response.”

The messenger watches the Crowned Prince leave the study room, a crumpled letter from the Lord clutched tightly in his right hand. The Lord’s letter had showed how oblivious they both were to each others charms, and so the messenger had taken it upon himself to help them along.

[herlittlebook]

I am halfway home tonight

And I remember you.

In the darkness and the rain,

Through this winter and this pain,

I remember you.

It hurts me now than when I lost you,

Because when I held you,

Goodbye was never than,

And goodbye was never goodbye until right now.

Halfway home and I remember you;

I remember you but you are no longer here,

And suddenly I am crying,

And suddenly I am screaming,

And I remember you.

Except this night is too cold,

And the rain keeps falling,

But I hope it never stops,

Because these tears keep coming.

You are gone, you are gone,

My friend.

I miss you, I miss you so much.

There is no halfway now,

Because my home was you,

And you are gone,

And tonight I remembered you.

I just wish I could say goodbye.

[writing-prompt-s]

Your immortality isn’t the result of any curse, or blessing, for that matter. No, it’s just that you pissed off the God of Death so much he can’t stand the sight of you.

[herlittlebook]

You visit him anyways, and sit there talking philosophy every morning as part of a routine. He begins to enjoy these mornings so much that every time you show up he has coffee ready for you.

One morning you ask him, “I thought you hated me?” As you sip on the coffee he made.

“Hate you? Oh, no. I have loved you for as long as you have existed. I was just pissed that you thought I was Plato when we met.”

You offer him one of your charming grins, because you know exactly who he resembles, but you hush yourself with another sip of coffee. How infuriated he would be if you had called him Freud.

[herlittlebook]

[herlittlebook]

most are unaware of the things they say

and that is why i prefer the company of the mountains

where i only hear the wind and rain

and my conversations are written.