You’re Really Going To Bury Him All By Yourself?

Finally accepting my place in the tumblr ecosystem as a poetry blog. Feel free to use my work for anything such as web weaves, art, whatever. Anything I make is free to use. Jace/Ber/Dan. Any pronouns Blog title is from the poem ‘when you finally find your best friend between the sea and your home’ by cryptofhoney on ao3

[shovel2-deactivated20151204]

I ATE A BIG BAG OF FACTORY REJECT SEEDS UNTIL A HEALTHY FLOWER UNFURLED IN MY CHEST ...

I MISTOOK THE SENSATION FOR LOVE AND DIED.

[swallowedgirl]

Anna Haifisch

[deirdreskye]

Babe are you okay I saw you reblogging "here's the life I've always longed for"

[brightdeadthing]

Come. And Be My Baby, Maya Angelou

[havingapoemwithyou]

poem with a smoke cloud hanging in by Jackson Holbert

[silene-stenophylla]

[brightdeadthing]

from Requiem for the Firstborn, Traci Brimhall

[havingapoemwithyou]

Statement of Teaching Philosophy by Keith Leonard

[iirulancorrino]

Citizen Illegal, José Olivarez

[apoemaday]

Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper

by Richard Siken

Close the blinds and kill the birds, I surrender my desire for a logical culmination. I surrender my desire to be healed. The blurriness of being alive. Take it or leave it, and for the most part you take it. Not just the idea of it but the ramifications of it. People love to hate themselves, avoiding the necessary recalibrations. Shame comes from vanity. Shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us, but you think you’re better than we are. Maybe you are. What would a better me paint? There is no new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same me, the whole time. Vanity, vanity, forcing your will on the world. Don’t try to make a stronger wind, you’ll wear yourself out. Build a better sail. You want to solve something? Get out of your own way. What’s the difference between me and the world? Compartmentalization. The world doesn’t know what to do with my love. Because it isn’t used to being loved. It’s a framework problem. Disheartening? Obviously. I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love. I said no more severity. I said it severely and slept through all my appointments. I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work. Admirable? Not really. I hate my friends. And when I hate my friends I’ve failed myself, failed to share my compassion. I shine a light on them of my own making: septic, ugly, the wrong yellow. I mean, maybe it’s better if my opponent wins.

[heavensghost]

Forgive me, I am soft and warm, but cruel and a coward, I know nothing but goodbye, goodbye

[cowboyproletarian]

Anyone got that poem written from the perspective of an English teacher where they know deeply personal things about their now adult students because of the essays they wrote

[cowboyproletarian]

FOUND IT it was in one of my boards

[corpsesoldier]

Text ID:

Small Town English Teacher

In your town, former students sling your drinks, snap your x-rays, and report your news on TV. You hold their secrets because you remember their essays.

One returns from combat, homecoming party at the airport, and you know he only joined up because his mom was ashamed of him. You remember the essay.

One dies from an opioid OD and you know about the man who groped her at work and how she told his wife. You remember the essay.

One smiles and wins an award and you know her drunk dad pushed her mom into a wall. You remember the essay.

One closes her eyes halfway in the mugshot and you know she worked in assisted living and once brushed a dying woman's hair. You remember the essay.

- Jessie Lovett Allen

End ID.

[pangur-and-grim]

we have to write poems in my creative writing certificate program, so I pieced something together from Belphie's medical reports

[pangur-and-grim]

my professor really liked this and said that it should be 'the nucleus of a chapbook' (so like 15-30 poems of the same theme that I would attempt to get published) but now I feel awkward because I think that she thinks HE DIED? but it turns out, everything will be alright! his heart recovered! the FIP meds are working!

[pangur-and-grim]

if I do make a chapbook, this will be the next page:

[pangur-and-grim]

and then this will be the page after that:

[pangur-and-grim]

I couldn't believe how fast he went from death's door to running and playing once we got the GS441525 into him. I am so incredibly grateful to everyone who's spent their time researching and legislating it!!

[chitaqua-toast]

Op please please try to get your chapbook out there.

I felt so much just with these few pages.

[pangur-and-grim]

good news, it's finally here! the risograph booklet of Belphie poems can be pre-ordered at greerstothers.shop

Belphie also has a special message for you under the readmore:

[cowboy-heart]

'BUTCH MANIFESTO'

inspired by 'FEMME SHARK MANIFESTO' by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

(ID under cut)

Ko-Fi (Commissions Open!)

[ID: an original poem titled 'BUTCH MANIFESTO'. the stanzas are all on the left side of the page and lineated, except for the first line, and last stanza. Poem begins:

Listen up! Butches hold it down! We don’t spend hundreds of pounds on designer clothes and black and white tuxes – we shop off the charity shop rack, hand-me-downs from our bois, our men, our women. Butch is not a glamour word - Butch is not for the white collars in their 9-5 and their office parties, Butch is not for the woman in a police uniform with short cropped hair, Butch is not for the masc who looks down on our femmes, Butch is not for the dumbass white people who call themselves stud, like our people haven’t taken enough from black lesbians, Butch is not for the politician or the soldier, it’s for those of us who get shit done and don’t throw anyone under the bus; who stand between our loved ones and the white-knuckled fist; it’s for the people who take a breath of relief when they get home and get to lay their head on the shoulder of their baby and say, it’s hard, and I need you right now; it’s for those of us with hard-soled feet, worn by hours of standing, just so people can buy some useless shit on a Sunday. Butch is for the primary school teachers, the neighbour keeping your package safe, the hairstylist, the barber, the youth worker, the locked up, the sectioned, the evicted, the boy on the dole. Butches hold each other up, Butches stand up for communities, no matter how different we might be.

Butches stand up for Butches, because only we know the shit we face, we don’t argue over what butch looks like for someone - their struggle doesn’t counteract ours. We’re brothers, sisters, siblings, lovers, mentors, we don’t fight over femmes or fight each other. We help up our siblings who can’t hold themselves up and shouldn’t have to.

Butch is recognising our hurt, our pain, and making sure nobody has to go through that, in the very least not alone. Butch is not reproducing that hurt, butch isn’t the transfem exclusion, the toxicity, it’s driving our girls and boys to the abortion clinic, it’s holding your femme’s hair back over the toilet bowl, it’s telling your darlin’ to take a deep breath, before you poke the needle into her thigh, it’s holding back on punching the catcaller because you know it’ll put your lover in more danger, it’s fishing in your closet for an old, dusty dress for your questioning girl, it’s never calling the cops, it’s carrying the Narcan, it’s gathering the funds for bail, it’s tipping the waiter, it’s kissing the bruised chin of a fellow butch who’s built like a brick shithouse.

Butch is not all muscle, able-bodied, white Butch is not all skinny and androgynous Butch is care Butch is NURTURE. Butch is a cane and an unsteady step Butch is putting down the ramp Butch is wheeling up it Butch is addict Butch is straight-edge Butch is diaspora Butch is desi Butch is antiracist Butch is socialist Butch is punk Butch is black Butch is brown Butch is fat Butch is fat-loving Butch is mental illness Butch is antipsych Butch is autism Butch is trans Butch is anger Butch is tears Butch is grief Butch is the old bull Butch is the closeted kid in a dress Butch is the baby dyke wearing a rainbow flag cape Butch is smile lines Butch is crinkled eyes Butch is crying in your friend’s beat-up car Butch is foetal position Butch is pink Butch is motherhood Butch is fatherhood Butch is cat-dad Butch is fucking Butch is getting fucked Butch is stone Butch is bashful Butch is humble Butch is cocky Butch is proud Butch is single Butch is uneducated Butch is poet Butch is poetry Butch is council estate Butch is gentleness Butch is bones and spit and the soft curve of our lower backs the clenched jaw under a double chin the hard-eyes that any femme can see right through the estradiol the testosterone the carabiner clink the thick hands the cellulite the bloody pads the tampon string the mood swings the sagging tits the top surgery scars the swinging cock the hairy pussy the protruding t-dick the leather harness.

Butch is eternity Butch is sewn into the fabric of atoms Butch is love and solidarity Butch is never leaving anyone behind and never selling anyone out.

End poem. In the bottom right corner, the poet is signed as 'Ren H.' End ID].

[damonalbarngirl]

oh.....

[halogen2]

oh hey this my poem :) my full author name is michael gray bulla!

[moonlight-dove]

David Benioff, Troy

// Adapted from Homer, The Iliad

[glowstickhaloboy]

thinking of jesus at the gay bar again………

[heart-sprout]

Do tell

[glowstickhaloboy]

[screamingbingusthecromulentone]

[ID:

a poem by Jay Hulme, titled Jesus at the Gay Bar

He's here in the midst of it - right at the centre of the dance floor, robes hitched up to His knees to make it easy to spin.

At some point in the evening a boy will touch the hem of His robe and beg to be healed, beg to be anything other than this;

and He will reach His arms out, sweat-damp, and weary from dance. He'll cup this boy's face in His hand and say,

my beautiful child there is nothing in this heart of yours that ever needs to be healed.

/end ID]

[archbudzar]

last words

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