Escape With Words

This is a poetry blog for both my work and the work of other poets that I enjoy from the 'spilled ink' tag and want others to see and appreciate. My work is signed a/d/h. Submit your work and I will post with full credit to you.

[sincerelyadh]

1. The pain of falling embarrassingly out of your first love will be soothed by the amnesia created by the slow ease of drifting into your second love. 2. Do not dwell on the memories of the one you lost, but focus on making even better memories with the one you have found. 3. Go on dates. Lots of them. Go to new diners where you’ll steal the ketchup off his plate with your fries. Sneak into undiscovered parks in the night to steal secret kisses. 4. Gaze into his eyes and realize he looks at you like you threw all the shooting stars into the sky just for him to find, only to wish for you to be in his arms. Realize when you look into his eyes you feel a familiar warmth, you feel at home. 5. Never compare your second love to your first. Your second love is supposed to teach you all loves are different, and each one better than the last. 6. Allow yourself to fall into his arms with trust. He will catch you. He is honest and worthy of your trust. Remember each secret and story he shares. This is him beginning to trust you as well. 7. Do not hurt him, be kind and considerate, because just like you, he has suffered the pain of losing the first love. He is also scared of being hurt again. Care for each other. 8. Remember you will both make mistakes. You will both mess up and say the wrong thing once and awhile. Don’t give up, you know you’re both too crazy about each other. Always listen and always forgive. 9. When he sleeps beside you, hold him close and listen to his heart beating only for your ears to hear. In that moment you are the only two people on Earth. 10. Open yourself up and he will do the same. Make him not only your lover, but your best friend as well. Let yourself love and be loved again as though you had never been hurt at all, while still holding on to the wisdom you gained from that past pain.

Steps to falling in love, after you’ve fallen out. (12/02/2013)

[demeaningmyfeelings]

I feel like I’m living in this constant state of too much and not enough, Like the days are passing by too fast and too slow, And I’m always either overwhelmed or empty.

I dont know what im feeling (a.g.).  (via moaka)

[delicatepoetry]

I want to spend October with you, because it’s my favorite month and happens during my favorite season. I wish we could aimlessly walk around a forest and with each leaf that falls from the branches above, we fall a little more for each other too. While hand in hand we can crave the smell of warm coffee and cinnamon muffins on a chilly morning, we could feel the autumn breeze brush against our skin and the goose bumps we get, we won’t be able to tell if it’s from touching each other’s skin or from the wind being too cool. When we lay in bed you’d have the hardest time moving an inch away from me, because I’d want to be skin to skin every minute. These lonely summer nights without you make me crave the fall, and crave the season of death in the hopes that maybe this loneliness would die too, and you’d appear by my side. I can’t tell if I love the night too dearly, or hate it too passionately. I think I’d adore it if I got to sleep next to you every evening, and I think that I’d enjoy the sunset more watching it hit your face than actually seeing it say goodnight. I just crave to spend time with you, I do.

i.c. // October (via delicatepoetry)

[extrasad]

It was the beginning of September and my hair was long enough to brush against my skin and convince me that there were spiders crawling up my arms. I was sweating snowflakes. I kept my hands in my back pockets so no one would notice the blood pooling around the edges of my fingertips, it turns out that sometimes the things in your head show up on your body. I was holding my tongue instead of holding your hand. I was sixteen when I learned that love is not like the movies. I was seventeen when  realized that what we had wasn’t love and girls in fairytales never try to kill themselves.

(via extrasad)

[writingsforwinter]

Dating Someone with Anxiety

Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave you’d always say,

even after I declared my undying love for you,

found your mouth with mine over breakfast

til our bodies were nothing but syrup and salt.

For you, a storm was never just a storm,

but a warning of the apocalypse.

I loved you then, I love you still,

wanted so badly for you to believe.

In Texas sometimes the skies open like hands

and I remember you there in the car, kissing my eyelids,

shaking, rain beneath your tongue,

saying how you wanted to always be the map

to my home, but were so scared

every single day that you’d forget the way.

I imagine you sometimes in the winter,

can see you turning your face toward the sky

to catch the snow, the blue of your face

and your breath calm, not worried

that you’ve done anything wrong

or that all your loved ones are just on the verge

of leaving you, not worried,

just for a little while.

I wanted to be your summer but just couldn’t

handle the constant changing of your seasons,

please remember that.

[battledfield-blog]

I don’t want to turn any of this into poetry but you’re so beautiful flowers turn their heads to smell you.

Shane Koyczan (via battledfield)

[bittersweet-honesty]

The Rules of Social Anxiety 1. Walk with eyes fixed on the ground They are watching, laughing, judging Walk normal Don’t focus on it too much or you will stumble and be made a fool of 2. Look like you are writing and busy in class avoid being called on you know the answer but what if you stutter or mumble What if they tell you “speak up I can’t hear you” 3. Don’t make a noise hold in that cough that sneeze that breathe people will hear you do not draw attention to yourself like that 4. Spend time every night before you go to bed to think Think about all the embarrassing things you have ever done Everyone remembers, that’s all they remember 5. Never enter a room full of people They all look Why are you here? Why are you alive? 6. Your friends all secretly hate you you know why they didn’t reply to your text you know how they all dread seeing you you are only put up with because of pity 7. Always be scared Scared to sit next to a stranger Scared to see someone you know Scared to eat in front of people Scared to talk on the phone Scared to go to social events Scared to order at a restaurant Scared to talk Scared to have a panic attack Scared to be noticed Always scared but don’t worry, you don’t like people anyway, at least that’s what you say, you’re “antisocial” You don’t even care what they think, people are annoying, that’s what you tell them. You play it off as a joke but really you’re always scared.

-Anonymous  (via mercurieux)

[thejadedtongue]

A poem begins with a lump in the throat.

Robert Frost (via thejadedtongue)

[iamkarennicole]

“Chronic illness takes its toll on friendship for several reasons. We become undependable as companions, often having to cancel plans at the last minute if it turns out we can’t get out of bed on the day of a scheduled commitment. And, living in the world of the sick, we gradually have less and less in common with those with whom we worked and played.” “Knowing these reasons doesn’t make the isolation any less painful an adjustment as we watch people disappear from our lives one by one, some after dozens of years of friendship. On top of this painful personal experience, we also encounter all the ‘healthy living’ advice that tells us that maintaining an active social life enhances both mental and physical health. And so worry is added to isolation.” ——Toni Bernhard——

(via iamkarennicole)

[5000letters]

1) The light on you is beautiful, any light, on any day. Baby, even in pitch black darkness you look like a flower in bloom. Baby, the way the moon touches your skin makes me furious. 2) Your hands can hold me in ways I did not know existed, in ways God has not created yet. My mother always told me I would know by the ways the fingers feel in mine and yours have always set me on fire. 3) I met the most beautiful woman at the subway station, she looked like baby breath, she looked like a sprig of violets, the air around her tried not to breathe. Baby, when I look at you, I can’t remember her face or even her eyes. You are every sigh my body has ever held.

Azra.T “3 things I will tell my girlfriend when she doubts that she is beautiful” (via 5000letters)

[blossomfully]

“She talked a lot when she was nervous,” he said, “and it took her five months to kiss me back.” “One day I was talking about something, about politics or the news perhaps, and she kisses me, out of the blue; she presses her lips up against mine and she doesn’t move.” “And I had to have her then,” he said, “while her hands were quivering like a sparrow, and she looked at me like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.” “I had to have her tawny brown eyes and ridiculously smudged eyeliner and shaky knees. I had to have her anxious ramblings and the way she covered her eyes when she was embarrassed. I had to have all of it.” “Funny,” he said, “how one kiss could have brought all that out. I wanted everything in that moment; I could have had anything, and I loved her for it.”

Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #127 // I think this was the way we loved (via blossomfully)

[hotaliens]

4 WAYS I WANT TO LEAVE:  1. My town feels like fire, my town feels like thirty kids pulling out the ground from under me, my town feels dirty, too pure, like when you wash your hands too much and the irritation peels away at your skin - this is not a eulogy, this is not a funeral. I want none of the heat but all of the light. My town leaves open doors everywhere and I can’t find my way through them.  2. I am smothered in claustrophobic love. Only push, only the left over hearts and lungs that keep me alive. I look up sometimes and I dream about the open, I dream about absence of love, I dream about the pull. I dream about reaching up and touching so little that I am long gone.  3. You have left too many goodbye notes in my skin. My words become moist on lips and soft on pillows, your letters taste arid and sharp. You never had a way with words, I was always your voice. I was the savior, I was the mother, I was the way you could never tell me you love me, so I tucked the phrase under my teeth and held it on your collarbone. I was always so hungry for paragraphs and metaphors.  4. There is a sense of small in my light. It is the sense that as long as I’ve been here my heart has been writing adventures that it is never longed for. It is the sense that in ten years I might be holding keys in my throat. It is the sense that I am a alarm, I am a panic, I am the broken teeth and split lips who calls you on the phone to tell you they’re sorry.  5. There are wild lovers with hearts full of the world, there are stone cold lungs with beating drums. I consume, I dissolve, I conquer. There is no room for me.

4 WAYS I WANT TO LEAVE // ekc (via bradburyblues)

[writingsforwinter]

Every Possible Shade of Blue

The color of blue that means leave me alone.

The one that says I am not well but am pretending to be.

The blue of her eyes but you call them turquoise

because no one that beautiful should feel ordinary.

The one that means I found a butterfly with broken wings

when I was a child and buried her beneath my bed

in a cedar box; I still hear her sometimes.

Your mother will warn you about the way

some men just have an aura.

When it’s the blue of the sea

before the eye of a hurricane forms,

she will say

run.

[larmoyante]

And then one student said that happiness is what happens when you go to bed on the hottest night of the summer, a night so hot you can’t even wear a tee-shirt and you sleep on top of the sheets instead of under them, although try to sleep is probably more accurate. And then at some point late, late, late at night, say just a bit before dawn, the heat finally breaks and the night turns into cool and when you briefly wake up, you notice that you’re almost chilly, and in your groggy, half-consciousness, you reach over and pull the sheet around you and just that flimsy sheet makes it warm enough and you drift back off into a deep sleep. And it’s that reaching, that gesture, that reflex we have to pull what’s warm - whether it’s something or someone - toward us, that feeling we get when we do that, that feeling of being sad in the world and ready for sleep, that’s happiness.

Paul Schmidtberger, Design Flaws of the Human Condition  (via littletrenchcoatangel)

[fleurishes]

silly girl, you bled for him, didn’t you? grew out your hair, shrunk down your waist, let him fuck you with the lights off and paint his name in blood onto your back. silly girl, forgive yourself for the bad dates, for saying yes, for meaning no, for the diets, the discounted liquor, the makeup you painted onto your face like camouflage. your dreams were made for the dark, they bloom and grow inside of you. your womb, a greenhouse. your hands, wind. you were in love except he didn’t love you, but you tried, didn’t you? silly girl, you are not the most reliable narrator. all those nights you waited up to hear from him, phone poised in your hand like a gun. you’ve always loved things that were the worst for you: trans fat, sweet tea, Black Friday sales, boys whose hands feel like triggers. you’ll grow out of it, or you won’t, and you’ll forget to delete the voicemails, the emojis you sent when you couldn’t express yourself in words. just look at the quiet shipwreck of you. it was always about the drowning, and you never learned to swim.

Kristina Haynes, “Silly Girl” (via fleurishes)

[thegirlwhocrieswolf]

I remember our sorrows in shades, like the grey of the shadows, which loomed that day, and the white in his lie when he promised to stay. 

—Lang Leav (That Day, Love & Misadventure)

[inkskinned]

Being a girl was complicated. It was swallowing rusty nails and clawing our way towards something we didn’t even know we really wanted. When I was thirteen I told Stephanie that drinking orange juice could stop you from fainting because it raises your blood sugar. In sophomore year, she slammed her head, saw stars, and ended up drinking an entire carton in one sitting. She vomited on her kitchen floor, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the concussion or from a pint of orange juice sitting in her stomach. Her doctor told her mother, “All girls try throwing up at some point.” I remember the first time one of my friends came to me with eyes so red I thought she’d inhaled a desert. She said her mother had died from breast cancer the night before. She said her home was an open grave, a holy space. She said she’d rather be in school than dealing with an absence so loud nobody could speak. I still think about her every time someone says “save the ta-tas” instead of “please god save our mothers haven’t enough of us suffered.” On certain Saturday nights we’d all get dressed up like we were going somewhere fancy and then sit in and watch Disney movies. We filled ourselves up with popcorn and gossip. When Patty showed up with a black eye again, we all said nothing about it. We were too young to make fists out of fingers, I think. A girl on the train was reading a book I love. We got to talking. She’s from the Peace Corps, she said, gave me a smile like a thousand volts. She was one of those people who make you feel good about yourself. When she got up to go, she gave me a little wave. I said “Go stop violence,” and she laughed. Hanging off the back of her bag was a little pink can of mace. We learned to be secret defend-each-other types. We were going to hold the world down until it liked us. There is something bold about being defiant. There is something about having soft petal skin and still showing sharp teeth. The box was little and teal and had a bow attached to it. Inside was a pair of brass knuckles in the shape of cat ears. “In case,” my father said, “In case.” I remember my sister, body wrapped in a towel, saying, “It’s not as bad as it looks,” her shinbone a mess of blood where her razor slipped. She said she saw the patch of skin she removed. She wiggled her eyebrows while holding up her pointer finger. “This long,” she said, “And pretty thick.” She had to throw it out rather than let it clog the drain. He was tall and gawky and if you asked him personal questions, his ears turned red. He asked if I wanted to go out to the pond in the woods. I blushed and told him I couldn’t swim, and he gasped as if he’d been stung. He picked me up so easily, like I weighed nothing. He put me in the trunk of his car. We were laughing. Much later, a stranger the same size would say, “Hey mama, wanna come home with me?” I remember I met this one girl passed out on a couch, her dress hiked up around her hips. She was lying in her own vomit. “Let’s keep walking,” someone said, “Don’t get involved.” I was too much empathy in a small body to let her go unprotected. She shivered in the shower we put her in. Her skin was so blue around her eyes, I thought maybe she’d slipped the sky in there. She looked terrified. I asked her how much she drank, she couldn’t say. I asked her how she got here, she bit her lip and shook her head. “My friends… Just left,” she said, “They just left.” Sometimes friends are like that, I guess. In late nights, I heard Kathrine crying about the things her father had said to her. She once told me that if it was a choice between being born with her learning disabilities and being born without a tongue, she’d choose the latter one. I whispered something of an apology that fell as flat as I felt, we don’t talk about it ever again. Skeleton hands never stop shaking me awake. Sometimes I think we’re drowning and sometimes I think we are just painted that way. There’s never an excuse not to be dainty. Someone once told me that beauty is pain. I remember her lips and how they were bright pink, because the words out of them were sick green things. Maggie said she’d swallowed eighty-nine Tylenol two days before. She said they’d filled her with charcoal and had her spit back up the blackness that was swelling like a river inside of her. We were fourteen. We flirted with people we didn’t know, we used other people’s hands to mess up our hair, we got home late. We towered in heels that hurt to look at. We felt fierce, on fire. We painted our lips blood red and kissed the mirror until we got a perfect mark out of it. We’d spend ages just getting ready. It was the fun part of parties, I guess. Her spine cracked while she rested her head on my leg. She said, “Let’s never get old, okay?” and I told her that sounded great. Sometimes in the darkness, she’d sound serious about it. I wanted to ask her if she was fighting bigger demons than the ones I can raise, but before I found out, she moved away. We belonged to a group that was all punchline. Someone says, “teen girls, am I right?” and laughter spreads like ripples through the room. I remember the first time you find out that they hurt one of your friends, because that’s how you find out you’re not safe either. She looked so whole, and that was the problem. Her mascara wasn’t even running. I watched her tell the story five ten twenty times to officers who shuffled papers and sniffed at every other word and sighed often and looked at their watch even though they were the reason she was talking. They asked her what she was wearing, she gestured to her body: jeans, tee-shirt, hoodie. They asked her if she knew him, she said no. They asked her if she provoked him, she said no. They asked her if she told him to stop, she fell silent. After a while, she’d try to explain the fear that had crept up her throat until she had choked. They sighed. Asked for the story again. She had this look on her face that I still dream about. It looked like someone had sucked her soul out. Kelly in the ninth grade with her shining face telling me, “One of us is the better person. Everyone always compares us.” A waiter looking down my shirt and saying, “Just a water for you, huh?” Ballet class with pin-thin shaking hands and bathrooms that smelt like a bad dream. A teacher who said, “Don’t eat unless you faint, darlings.” You get used to cigarettes in the hands of young girls. You get used to the backstage addictions of “only nine hundred more crunches to go.” You get used to seeing this stuff until one day someone asks you why you know all the calories in a grapenut. The television saying, “Lose weight, feel great.” The television saying, “Girls mean nothing.” The television saying, “If you’re not pretty, you’re not worth discussing.” The television saying, “If you’re pretty, your personality is awful.” The television saying, “Spend your money.” My father telling me: there’s nothing wrong with this system.

Memories // r.i.d (via inkskinned)