poetry *hypothetically*

this is... you got it... a poetry blog, because sometimes i like my writing... sometimes [icon is a poem by atticus]

[itsgottabepoetic]

We Were Never Meant To Be

I don’t know how to say I love you with pretty connotations.

Maybe a year or two ago I could have written you a letter embellished with metaphors and big words and sentences that flowed like a chocolate river. Sweet and rich and beautiful. Maybe a year or two ago I could have stood still and spilled loud words of honesty and kindness and beauty. Now when I look at you, when you say these things to me, I can’t help but silence myself. The poetry in my brain cuts short and all I can muster is… whatever this is. A confession, perhaps, to some sad thing we’ve both chosen to ignore. To bury.

I think you needed me. But I don’t think you wanted me. I get it, I’ve used people with only the best of intentions as well. You needed support, you needed a form of escape, and I was… kind. Not many have shown kindness to you. I don’t blame you and I won’t ask anything of you. But this silence is suffocating.

All I want is to speak with you. I’ll keep doing what I do in a desperate plea for your attention. In a hope that the quizzes I send you provide an answer that realizes some sense of an idea in your mind (the idea of me—of us). In a hope that if I continue messaging words of love and pride, that maybe you will elicit something similar, and that you might think of me. In a hope that I will not have to stray to come and find you and that instead, you might come to me.

I know that it’s unlikely. I know that you need to heal. I know that I was only an idea to you—the light at the end of the tunnel—and I know now that he’s gone, now that you’re free, my light has burned out like some twisted metaphor of gods and myths and Icarus. The tunnel leads to a dead end and I am nothing but a dark, twisted journey and you are too tired to trek. The destination is certainly not worth the travel and I am certainly not worth your time.

Maybe a year ago I could have been. Maybe I missed you. You flew and you soared and I sat and I watched when I could have soared with you. But then I watched you plummet and it was too late. I missed you. I missed us. Maybe we were never meant to be.

[itsgottabepoetic]

“I want to do something splendid...something heroic or wonderful that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it and mean to astonish you all someday.”

- Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

[joker-ace]

“Icarus should have waited for nightfall, the Moon would have never let him go.”

— Nina Mouawad (via icarusshouldhavechosenthemoon)

[theburnthatkeepseverything]

“And I would hide my face in you, and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.”

— Franz Kafka, The Castle.

[itsgottabepoetic]

silence

my mouth is sewn shut and you’re looking at me like i’m something out of a horror movie.

i can’t talk today.

i don’t have an explanation for you. the world is overwhelming. the demand for my words is overwhelming.

i can’t talk today.

so i stitch my mouth shut and i mumble an apology even though it aches to spit out

but you’re still looking at me like that.

like i’m searching for attention with my silence

like my lack of words is a bother to you

like my absence from the world is a burden on your shoulders.

i’m sorry.

i know it’s weird, i know it comes off mean, i know it’s not socially acceptable.

i just...

i can’t talk today.

[itsgottabepoetic]

i want to be vibrant again.

i want to read the blurb on the back of a book and buy it right away. i want to spend hours and hours reading the book, throwing it in frustration, crying in the sad parts and smiling in the happy ones. i want to get so inexplicably excited about an idea and i want to watch my fingers try and keep up with the words playing through my head. i want to show someone my writing and i want to be proud of it. i want to write poetry and pretty sentences and make people feel things. i want to feel things. i want to feel. i want the numbness to go. i want to be vibrant again.

[dreamertrilogys]

the front bottoms, twin size mattress // @rbhvleo on tumblr // richard siken, crush (little beast) // taylor swift, cruel summer // unknown source // ada limón, bright dead things //  margaret atwood, we are hard // ocean vuong, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous // @normal-horoscopes on tumblr // halsey, trouble (stripped) //  richard siken, crush (scheherazade) // louise glück // richard siken, a primer for small weird loves // unknown source 

[wishbzne-deactivated20210526]

bruises, sarah certa

[stay-close]

I watched life and wanted to be a part of it but found it painfully difficult.

— Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 6: 1955-1966

[sunsetquotes]

“For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse. So collapse. Crumble. This is not your destruction. This is your birth.”

— Zoe Skylar

[inahiddenplace]

we need to stop having images of ourselves in our heads we need to destroy all mirrors and stop taking pictures !! stop existing outside of yourself ! your body is your hands and your feet it’s what you use to run and use to climb and it is you ! that’s it! to look yourself in your face.. what dissonance. cameras ARE witchcraft and mirrors ARE tools of the devil the oldies were right boys ! go back to being a child and eating mud. true freedom is found there. anyways i’ll go back to making sense next tuesday. 

[itsgottabepoetic]

You

Magic. 

Smoke in the air Wind beneath your feet. Glittering stars. The moment right before you fall asleep.

Magic.

Frayed cloth Long walks into twilight. Streetlights blurred through raindrops. Summer sun and the smell of chlorine.

Magic.

Chocolate eyes. How deep is the ocean? Do you take sugar with your coffee? How are you?

Magic.

Music in the distance. Firelight. September rain. You.

Magic.

[a-chilleus]

[itsgottabepoetic]

i think it’s so fucking cool how humans look for meaning in everything. no matter how different anyone looks, how old or young anyone is, how different people can be, there is one existential question that is constantly asked. what is the meaning of life? humans are so lonely and vulnerable and we are constantly grasping onto materials and emotions and words because we need some sort of confirmation that we have a reason to be here. we see quotes from hundreds of years ago and we cling to them like they hold the answers that we desperately seek, but what we don’t realise is that everyone is just as clueless as we are. edgar allen poe? he wrote some of today’s most famous poems and stories. einstein? he was a genius. rosa parks? she took a huge step for an entire civil movement. these are all people we know, people we look up to and whose words we take like drugs, but... they were just human. they didn’t know anymore than we do. we hold celebrities up on pedestals because we need something to look up to, we need someone to tell us where we’re going, what all of this means, but they’re just as clueless as we are. and that’s so frustrating but so fucking beautiful at the same time.

[itsgottabepoetic]

I don’t understand. Did I do something? I was brought into the world, soft skin and loud cries, just a small infant. My hair was stained with the sun, I was loud and bubbling with laughter. I was in love with famous bands and the boy who sat next to me in class and life. We walked barefoot in the summer, down to the shops to buy an ice cream. We ran home because our feet burned, and the heat only chased us but we ran and ran and ran, shaking with giddy laughter. My hair was tangled and my clothes mismatched, my nails were bitten down and the polish chipped. I had an entire corner in my room filled with soft toys, and each night I would hug them all because I didn’t want a single one to feel left out. I picked at my food until it went cold and I coloured outside the lines and my mouth tasted of saltwater. I rode my bike to school, the wind following me. I made worlds out of sticks and stories out of clouds, I learned to do a front flip on the trampoline, I played house with my friends at school. I remember swinging so high on the swing, and my brother would tell me to jump, he said I could do it and so I did and I was free. I was a child. I was your child. When did you stop letting me be one?

[itsgottabepoetic]

I can’t be gentle anymore

All of my words are a tangled mess of fast-paced sentences,

each phrase getting louder and louder.

There is no more eloquence in me.

My vocabulary has shrivelled to accusations, and anger, and pain.

I can’t be gentle anymore.

Every letter I type is an anger-fuelled shout

or a hopeless metaphor.

I never used to write from experience,

my words were an escape,

somewhere to go when I needed to run away from the world.

Now my head is filled with too many thoughts,

each one pounding to get out,

yelling and screaming

and I’m too focused on trying to get them on paper that I don’t focus on how they’re coming out.

I can’t be gentle anymore.

There is no rhythm to my poetry.

It’s all sharp words and short sentences.

I don’t know how to break my paragraphs and so my thoughts are

cut off in the middle

for no reason

except

that’s how I think it sounds best.

Because, if my lines are short or

cut off in the middle,

then I can call it poetry

and not my own form of therapy.

I write when I can’t talk and I talk when I can’t write and all of my secrets are spilled in a scramble of ink and words,

paper and songs,

whispers and shouts.

I can’t be gentle anymore

I don’t know how.

I don’t know how or if I ever wrote of lace on skin or eyes held in a trance.

I can’t do it anymore.

This is all there is.

My thoughts are tangled like headphones

and the only way I can seem to untangle them

is to cut the wire.

But...

then they’re broken.

Maybe that makes sense.

Maybe I’m broken.

Maybe that’s why

I can’t be gentle anymore

[alecstasy]

my anonymous friend sent me this and i thought this was really beautiful