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Poetry is dead and so am I

Poetry is dead and so am I my pen had a stroke, my well ran dry, poetry is dead and so am I.

Jesus H Christ. Find me a prescription for whatever is going on before I go comatose, hardly daring to get out of bed, barely hacking up a couplet into the nearest tissue.

My new sick is backwards-sick; love, pain, sex - terminal, a boring mess on the floor, coaxed into the shape of a poem.

How I long for the old sick, my tongue in your teeth, your God in my throat, hands as syringes, drawing blood from anything you touch.

For me, this was always my way of talking to you, how I love you, how I hate me. But I have nothing left to talk about and I won't pretend that I do.

On Instagram, they post type-written pieces of paper that say things like "you are my moon and my stars." They must have died, too.

You'd Sit

Ten stories high on the stovetop

fists cabernet-bloodied,

lips flushed with impudence,

"coming down is for fevers!"

you'd say,

linen hands thrown aloof to God

ribboned balloons

ready to let, at any moment.

And the hours kept slipping by.

Your legs hushed a tight parallel

to the heavens against porcelain bright,

your hips laid in wait at the living room station.

Come down come down come down

I'd laugh, I'd say, I'd beg you, please.

And the hours kept slipping by.

You were ready to throw back your childlike refusal

you were ready for take-off,

you were, or I was,

always looking out into space

I rest easy or not at all, in your absence,

and the hours keep slipping by.

---

Thanks @ren-c-leyn for the prompt: "and the hours keep slipping by"

I Have Forgotten Your Name

New love is just a someday maybe,

trying to distill eternity, trying to decant it

from your place on the kitchen counter.

But our love is a never-ever forget,

and I will never ever not love you, darling

even though your fingers

scrape the inside of my mouth,

looking for what's left of my whittled tongue.

You see all I get is the stem of you

darling,

All I get is all dried up,

petals ready to catch wind, floating off

to anyone else.

What's left of your scent is gone, and darling,

I seem to have forgotten your name.

Most love is always the same

You, and you,

unique as your moment

unique as your line in a poem.

There was a word for this feeling

for being a somebody to anybody

but I seem to have forgotten it's name.

Old love is an always-never,

trying to understand

how quickly it all went by.

How what you did made you deserve it all,

whether its a good or a bad thing, that it happened.

And I will never not deserve you, darling, though somehow

I have forgotten your name.

---

Thanks @replicant1955 to responding to my prompt request with the prompt "I have forgotten your name."

Oizys | The Shivering She Brings

My grief is a missed appointment,

failing to meet you at my own doorstep.

I'm always staring ahead or behind,

missing the point.

Spring is like a perhaps hand, but

winter doesn't touch, instead, only breathing,

hushing my neck stiff,

fall's regret on her breath.

The shivering she brings

are your death rattles,

a decade still convulsing,

a body empty of you, nearly forgetting

your touching scent, or sweat so sweet

it nearly raises you from the dead

however alive you may be,

somewhere so far away I can barely breathe.

Will you remember me, when

Death comes to visit?

She won't take you for a while, but nonetheless,

she'll greet you with eternity,

pushing you to consider the thing that kills us;

choices that never seem like choosing.

--

My first poem on a while after a dry spell. Special thanks to @haikkun for responding to my ask looking for prompts.

<3 B

#poems #poetry #love poems #sad #poetry riot #written considerations #feels #thoughts #spilled poetry #poetryportal #writers creed #writers corner #love poets #good poems #okay poems #bad poems?#heartbreak #13cupsofteareblog #twcpoetry

Writers block

Halp

Send me some asks or prompts in my inbox and ill try to get inspired?

Bread

You never thought you'd find me

on the patient side of midnight

sober as the dusk, offering my last light

to the flowers that grow on your windowsill.

Your petals are upright in this passing time

absorbing me until they can't anymore,

thirst for alcohol ebbing into the dark.

I never thought I'd break like bread,

even in accidental breaking--

in your hands, at your table,

dissolving beneath your easing spit.

Say grace before you begin with me,

and in my halving I might bring you peace

either distilling or

distracting you..

#poem #original poetry #thoughts #writing #poetryportal #love poems #written considerations #twcpoetry #spilled ink #heartbreak #loneliness #longing #feels #self #spilled thoughts #sonya #writerscreed

imsorrythings

We Dream You Up

a collaboration with the extraordinary @thegoblinbee

___________

We dream you up in the dusk beneath a retreating sun, or else in the dead of night, all alone in our beds.

We thread you through the eye of our needle to stitch you into another stanza, to lay you down in another line, looping you ‘round our wrists, binding you to us, hoping to tie you up in knots. This our rite, our ritual, a high hallelujah dug up from the pit of us, a sweet sacrament, an offering from our pulpits:

Let us sew your melancholy to our memory, measuring out the shadows of your past, tailoring our longing to the shape of you, Let us cloak your closeness with our candied skin that we may embody you, growing fearsome and large as the great day sinks. We yearn to wear and be worn, to be witnessed; twin ink planets converging to embrace you, blotting out the sun.

We descend on you from the id of roses, making our oaths in blood, setting to carry you off. Our hunger rages lustily all around you, beats back the wind that dares chap your immaculate kiss. Ardently, we lunge for you, shoving away continents, stumbling sloppily to feel the soft of your skin.

It is a dire situation, this dastardly craving, this craven need. We draw the four corners of the world up around us like a quilt, insulating your siren song, ocean’s depths spilling over the sides, drowning in your sugar-salted seas.

Not a lot can stop us now, love – We’ve found you somehow in the midst of all this madness and deafness and greed and now we must erect our altars at your feet.

We venture ever-onward to earn you, writing our psalms on your skin in spit and by fingertip, pleading that you may love us alive, allow us to live long in your exquisite grace, breathe your breath into our lungs that we might speak in your voice, exalted above the coarse and simple everything-else. Drop a kiss in our collection plate and watch us falter, bend, wilting into the night. Self-warring leviathans, we await your imminent retreat. We offer no explanation to you, except that we have no choice. If we must be temporary, we will be tempests, turning all teacups into teeming ravines. So forgive us this, our transgressive ache, our interminable need. Forgive us our unraveling hems, our endlessly-unfurling confessions dribbling from our mouths like wine.

Forgive us Father, forgive us Mother, forgive us High and Holy Ghost. Take us down to the water, baptize us all along the coast. ______

imsorrythings

You are a play with no lines I’ve read a thousand times enunciating each vowel, lingering over each breath-obstructing consonant.

Left foot behind the right, behind the left I march to deliver your story, officer to your memory. These are my black lacquered boots, this is my public to serve; See how strong I’ve grown from carrying you?

On any Sunday in eternity you wash a wine glass in the kitchen sink while our love decants on the kitchen counter. I’d sleep so steadily as I waited for you to part your lips, rising to the trumpet of dawn.

imsorrythings

They are not ready to love you so:

You must be strong. Still your veins, livid red.

Sit up straight, recline, throw it back

and stay your tongue, which is pillowing out, th- th-

now is not the time for love,

here in bed, with duty's hand on your wrist.

Whatever the reason is, sickness, death, time,

they are not ready for the turn.

It may not seem like it,

but your love is selfish, your love is sin,

your needs over theirs.

So. Here is your communion: take it nightly--

tongue on your neck, nourishing you,

night biting your lips until they bleed.

Your neck hairs are porcupine quills;

take one and ink out your Hail Marys

here on the page.

I know darling,

you were not made for fermenting.

But stay the course for them

until you hit land.

#ugh

imsorrythings

Love You Not

She meant what she meant what she meant

her diamond fist and her zealous penchant

for carving new meanings from old realities.

Our love was the pause between bludgeons and blessings,

my dust clung to her ruthless broom.

I swabbed up words

in a spotless apartment

until I had enough to declare that I

care not for empty rooms.

#poetry

shear-in-spuh-rey-shuhn-deactiv

PIOTR JABLONSKI Unknown

#art #piotr jablonski #beautiful