Bad Tumblr Poetry

Bad poetry from me. Don't laugh, these are all stepping stones to something greater (the header and profile are meant to look bad, that's the joke)

[somebadpoetry]

You are my eyes

Because of you I see a world of colour and detail

That would otherwise be missing

[somebadpoetry]

You catch more flies with honey than vinegar

Not because flies don’t like vinegar

Vinegar is familiar to flies

It smells of age and rot, sharp and cruel

It smells of hiding in the bathroom

And the taste of threats in the air

You catch more flies with honey than vinegar

Because honey is sticky

Honey is a stranger to flies

Honey is sweet and fresh, inviting and warm

It smells like apple pie and kisses on the cheek

And tastes like I love you

The fly doesn’t know it’s in danger

Until it tries to leave

And it’s honey covered wings can’t fly

[somebadpoetry]

I was always praised for my ability to die quietly

I don’t cry and complain like my sisters

I don’t act out in violence like my brothers

I’m sitting quiet and contemplative

Until I become still enough to stop my heart

[somebadpoetry]

April is killing everything from me

What I have never had

What I had and lost

What I kept in clenched fists

This month tastes like an enemy

[somebadpoetry]

April comes with sorrow

Leaves burn in the hot and cold sun

Turning brown and falling

Rain pounds the dirt like it’s trying to drill through

To the worms who crawl out

Your bravery is noted

There is just enough time to kiss the concrete

The rain ends as abruptly as it starts

Making way for the blistering sun which fries

This poor helpless, squirming beast

March whispered you a promise which April would not keep.

March like the rain offered you something

Of certainty and clarity, unwelcome but required

You and I were wrapped in the nervous excitement

A future that was laid out like stone

Lined paths through gardens

If not for April

[somebadpoetry]

I want to build a beautiful life

But I’m still losing years

To grief, to loss, to loneliness

I raise my glass

And it is filled with my tears

[somebadpoetry]

Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Would you still love me if I was mindless?

Would you still love me if I was writhing in the dirt, tasting through the leaves to make mulch?

Would you still love me if I was buried in the soil and only came up when it rained?

Would you still love me if I was trapped on the concrete, burning alive and dehydrating because I lost my way back home?

Would you still love me if I was being pulled apart by ants, that are just the same as me; mindless and buried in the dirt?

[somebadpoetry]

This used to make me happy

Music thundering in my ears and lights

cutting through darkness so all you see are moments

Now I just feel tired

And ill

[somebadpoetry]

You need something to fill the void

And I can make a machine that tells you it loves you

You feel, just for a millisecond, something flutter in that void

The projection of a butterfly landing on a flower

Maybe this is what it feels like when you’re just starting to fill up

You’ll have a million real butterflies soon and the machine that tells you it loves you will project them all

And you don’t need real butterflies anymore

And even though you’re hollow and the people who have butterflies look at you

Like they look at the dying

You’re full of butterflies

Can’t they see them too?

[somebadpoetry]

“Mum’s gonna miss my birthday

But she’s flying me to Morocco,

So it’s up to you. Unless Jay says yes first.”

“Yeah, I just don’t know because of, you know, everything right now. I don’t know.”

[somebadpoetry]

How can I do this again?

And I am going to live like this.

Despite it all.

[somebadpoetry]

A moth is caught in the panelling of the house

Like a dark, unpainted knot of wood against the white

Between it and freedom are invisible webs

Silk to feed

I break the sticky strands with my fingers,

Feel the tug of hunger that put them there

And save the moth, which can now fly freely

[somebadpoetry]

They ask r u sure

As if a drunk friend asking are you sure is the same

As if r u sure is the same without you bent over the toilet

At is if you sure sit t teb same question ebeb tho can barely feel your fingers

I’ve always been indecisive,

Are you sure was always

We’re going to leave you

[somebadpoetry]

I’ve been trying to be kinder to myself.

When my skin itches, I resist the temptation to peel my skin from my muscles. Instead, rubbing with the pad of my finger, which leaves no marks.

When my hair falls out of place, I try not to follow instinct and tug it roughly back.

I reach up to the wayward strands and find my mother’s fingers in my hair.

How many times have I moved the way she taught me?

Like a copy of her,

Fixing our hair, sipping our coffee, standing

A little off centre

So much of me is her reflected,

And I look to her as I’m growing older

Seeing as much of me in her as her in me

I wonder if my mother was always so rough with us. Was she softer on my sisters? When I look at how she treats herself I wonder if she hates me too. Has she tried to be gentle with herself? Will I fail too?

When I think of how she raised me, she tells me how gentle she was.

The effort of kindness that she took on.

Oh, I see…

we got it from our mothers

[somebadpoetry]

The world shakes with song

Our bodies our minds

Intertwined in dance and rhythm

Shatter shatter vibration

Dance to the feeling in your feet

Forget what you knew about this beat

It’s all sensation now

[somebadpoetry]

I just have this deep longing to be on the train going north.

I don’t care for the stop at the end

I just want to be away from here

I want to be on the train, going somewhere for a long time

[somebadpoetry]

2 employees on their ways to their jobs

One tradie one pencil pusher

Star crossed lovers or strangers in the bustle?

The only thing they have in common is coffee