Come What May

My name is Stephanie and I like to write. Search #coolbeans for my work!

[howsey]

'You're so soft,' they tell me. 'What happened to you?' It's not a good thing. Or at least, they don't want me to think it is.

There is power in being soft. In adapting to the weather, in swaying gently in the storm instead of breaking at the middle, crippled in the name of stubbornness.

No, I am tired of standing tall with my chin held high, a tight grip on my sword, my armor weighing me down. Who am I watching out for? What is there to fight?

No, I would rather sink, gently, into the warm waters of his arms and the cool comfort of his palms, weightless as his tide rocks me to sleep and tells me it's okay to rest.

'You're so soft,' they tell me. They sneer, gawk, laugh at my bare, bruised shins and shaky, weaponless hands.

'Love made you weak,' they warn, 'Love will make you sick.'

And yes, perhaps it did. And sure, it will eventually. But I'd rather know what it feels like to love, to be loved, than die with spite in my hair and smoke in my lungs. I'd rather hold him softly than fight to protect what is already his to keep.

[howsey]

love songs

It's funny, looking back on it now. I think you could have torn me apart crisp and clean, like the loudest silence after the show ends, and I think I still would have thought it was love. And yeah, maybe it was, but the thing about new music is you don't know where it's going until it ends, and you don't know how much its gonna hurt until it does and you'll jam out through the first two verses and the chorus will make you scream, will make your eyes close with pleasure, before the bridge brings you back down to earth and the harmony resembles a siren's hymn-- you recognize it because you've been eaten alive before--but just like the last time it feels too good to let go just yet. So I let the bass hum through the floor, I let the drums set the rhythm of my heart and hold on to that last verse, the one the poets are going to remember, and sink into the water with you. Looking back on it, when you first played me that record, I should have known that all bloody wars start with a beating drum and good lyrics. I should have known that all good songs end with a bang.

[howsey]

temp

3am secret “don’t tell anyone, but...” and I held on to it  all night

not sure why I wear my heart on my sleeve but I’ve started keeping my jacket on until the sun goes down

I don’t regret seeing you naked, with all your clothes on, but maybe I wish I hadn’t said, “forever”

I miss the sweat from holding your hand in the summer and the chill of walking you home in the winter too bad these things are temporary

[yasamdan-deactivated20200724]

05:30

[cair--paravel]

John Austen, illustration for Tales of Passed Times by Charles Perrault, 1922.

[larmoyante]

She wasn’t happy, but then she wasn’t unhappy. She wasn’t anything. But I don’t believe anyone is a nothing. There has to be something inside, if only to keep the skin from collapsing.

John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley in Search of America (via larmoyante)

[lifeinpoetry]

My cousin painted the walls of her house, the house of her mother who is now dead, with six shades of purple: sonic plum, purple legacy, gentle violet, sweet violet. While she is painting the rooms, she tells me she becomes kind of crazed. It’s like I’m eating the colors, she tells me, it’s like I’m becoming them.

Stephanie Cawley, from “Spectrum.” published in DIAGRAM (via lifeinpoetry)

[bruwho]

@booksandpeonies

[sunsetquotes]

But in that moment I understood what they say about nostalgia, that no matter if you’re thinking of something good or bad, it always leaves you a little emptier afterwards.

John Corey Whaley; Noggin (via sunsetquotes)

[ervainvisuals]

todays view from my desk

[howsey]

War Crimes

We read poems that say we were meant to last, or that say, on the battlefields of our hearts, you tore me to pieces in ways only lovers can.

What the fuck does that mean?

It’s true that love has swords across its back, knives hidden in its boots, and flowers tucked behind its ear, but baby, oh baby, the poets only talk about pressing into bruises and ripping out stitches; they don’t look at the tombstones and trace the names etched into silver linings. It’s true that love leaves graveyards in our chests but in a war like this the only crime would be to forget.

[septembersailing]

g r e e n

[lord-halloweeny]

Fiery steps light the floor Laughter and melancholy in the air To pain I’m bound no more It’s not supposed to be fair I am kissing you now It feels very much right Your arms resting at my sides My chest goes up and down Lover? Feels quaint Kisser? Better suited So happy I could faint Ambiguous, I smiled. Time goes away The first and the last I chose this path Doubt sometimes fade by the day. Kissing you has a fine price to pay

Backbiting/Mordecostas, an Apollon-inspired poem about my current situation at love. May Apollon and The Muses bless you all. (via lord-halloweeny)

[thunderstruck9]

Paco Pomet (Spanish, b. 1970), La brecha [The Gap], 2014. Oil on canvas, 120 x 160 cm.

[saddened-stars-deactivated20191]

one hundred sixty-nine

i’m not hurt, i’m angry

i’m angry that you ever told me you loved me

and i’m angry that i let myself believe that

i’m angry that you stayed quiet for so long about what was bothering you

and i’m angry that you still blamed me for it

i’m angry that we didn’t work out our problems

and i’m angry that neither of us wanted to

i’m angry that you seem fine while i’m still suffering

and i’m angry at myself for even thinking that

…

i’m angry. and it’s controlling my life.

— 13.05.2019

[33113]

[whatintheactualworld]

In my mind, I know what history has taught me about passion and intuition. It is either a subject fine tuned by the breaking of false assumptions or fueled by a capricious spirit. What I mean is mine has been so wrong so many times that I see how porous my insight really is. So in my mind, I realize you are probably the shot in the dark that divine providence won’t guide to me. But the sweet sounds of warm ballades and the heavenly sights of autumn twilights and the very words articulate visions of a love crafted by the gods have encapsulated my passion for just this. That small spark that set me on fire so quickly by the winds of the small words you spoke to me. But even so I will admit the futility of this hope for such a dream, and I know once that faithful moment comes I will fall apart all over again. And life will click into place on the rock bottom shores of reality and fact and correctness.

Here’s my compromise: I am not ready to face a dark reality. Maybe after this heartbreak I won’t have the stubbornness to rise to the occasion and life will be allowed to unfold without any strategic gesture on my part. Because I swear that there is a logic underpinning to my longing for a voice so sweet, just as true as there is an inscrutible spirituality to it. It is the greatest feeling and the most certain drive. It’s the focal at the eye of the wandering philosopher and the starting point of the enterprising entreprenuer. The very feeling that grants us humans a reason to want to create, to give, to love. It’s the beautiful, ressplendent side of things where the body, the heart, and the mind find balance. And now that I’ve seen you, I feel it. A crush, a small crush. Plain and simple.

Now I’m so ready to tell you of my transgression. I’m so ready to embrace the idea that life does indeed get better in one of these ways. So ready to enlighten the bitter, cynical monster that tells me never to wish for these things. I want to believe in the romantic words of the poet, and I hope the rest of the world will hear it’s verse and believe too. So here it goes.

Here I am, standing before your gate. Hoping my heart and all of my mind’s endeavors could posssibly earn something as simple as your love.

<3