Eat Thy Words

⬆️ this user is a cryptid ⬆️ Writing blog. My writing is tagged as #finchwrites

[theradioghost]

when the times get rough and I lose sight of the goal i just. reread “the orange” by wendy cope again & remember. that’s where I’m going folks. sooner or later, whatever it takes.

[theradioghost]

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange— The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I’m glad I exist.

– “The Orange,” Wendy Cope

[nothingwithoutwords]

the words i write are louder than the words i speak. i may be quiet but that doesn't mean i'm weak.

shelby leigh (via nothingwithoutwords)

[incendavery]

parting is such sweet sorrow

[soracities]

Her hand is in mine and in my chest a garden.

Saadi Youssef, from ‘Solos on the Oud’, Without an Alphabet, Without a Face: Selected Poems (trans. Khaled Mattawa)

[writingitdown]

I know it’s painful now, my love, but this is how you grow. Plant the seed and water it, uncover what you know.

a.m. // healing hurts

[storsie]

A fire burns in the twin caves of my lungs. One day I'll rip it from my chest and place it, with shaking hands, in the hearth where it belongs. Crackling in the chilly, fog choked air, it turns these ink stained verses on my skin to ashes.

Things need to be said and I don't know who can say them while these words claw at my throat, screaming like chalk coated nails and kettles. Loud enough to raise the dead yet deafen only me. My heart aches to the tune of my cowardice.

No meaning lends itself to these battered broken sounds, and still, no truer words have been spoken.

[michigatita]

This poem broke my heart

[a-magpie-witchling]

When the Mistress made me she was full of angry things, that’s why so am I.

She pulled red threads over skin too tight and she couldn’t turn me, so all the ugliness I was supposed to hide was out for all to see. Like little crisscrossing scars. But that’s alright.

She messed up my head a little bit, stitch, stitch stitching. She fixed it as much as she could, and in the process she found pause.

She looked at me, me, for the first time. And sighed.

She rubbed her eyes and let go of me almost completely, and I thought she would forget about me.

But she didn’t.

She put more gentle things in me this time. Not for the sake of the enemies of our Kingdom, but for mine. So I wouldn’t feel so alone.

Instead of nails she gave me a hawthorn berry for a heart, and soft, soft cotton.

And then she brushed her thumb across my cheek and clothed me.

“Why?” The others said.

“So he feels no cold.”

And then she gave me a sword, the only sword, and I felt special.

“Why?” The others asked.

“You never send a soldier to war unarmed.”

She pressed her lips against my forehead and her warm air filled my head. 

“A witch’s kiss is a blessed thing,” they said.

She tugged on the seams of my pepper filled legs and the rosemary in my chest swelled. Maybe the mint in my cheeks blushed, but just a little bit.

She gave me hematite so my will would be strong and shiny, and then she whispered it was my duty to look after the Junglegreen.

“Protect us all, my brave little soldier.” And before she left she turned and over her shoulder blew me a final kiss.

This is my mission!

There are no other soldiers. I’m the one and only. I protect the Junglegreen and the Mistress day and night. I march between the Pottedplants and am a diplomat with the Faepeople, I see who can visit the kingdom or not, depending if they’re good at heart.

When the Mistress made me she didn’t have to love me, but she did.

And so I love her back.

-A poppet and his witch, by Semiramis Magpie.

[a-magpie-witchling]

Lol I had completely forgotten I wrote this thing

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I come, blood on blood, like the sea, wave on wave. I have a soul the color of poppies.

Miguel Hernández, from Selected Poems; “Bloody Fate,” (via servilius)

[storsie]

A soft wind whispers through the trees, warmth as the spring revives what was asleep. Cherry blossoms fall to the ground.

The universe gives us this beauty, and in return, we give our lives to the appreciation of it.

-V.F.

[mesogeios]

Outside the window Sky and earth exchange silver. In the moonlight I forget I’m human.

Wang Xiaoni, White Moon (via oiseauperdu)

[inkskinned]

she asks me what it’s like, loving a woman when i, too, am a woman and she laughs, which is the one who sits and watches tv while the other one cleans? she asks: how does your love work, do you trade off who goes off with their friends while the other one stresses? but our love works like this: she saw her favorite dessert in our fridge and she waited until i came home so that we could split it.

[apoemaday]

A Blade of Grass

by Brian Patten

You ask for a poem. I offer you a blade of grass. You say it is not good enough. You ask for a poem.

I say this blade of grass will do. It has dressed itself in frost, It is more immediate Than any image of my making.

You say it is not a poem, It is a blade of grass and grass Is not quite good enough. I offer you a blade of grass.

You are indignant. You say it is too easy to offer grass. It is absurd. Anyone can offer a blade of grass.

You ask for a poem. And so I write you a tragedy about How a blade of grass Becomes more and more difficult to offer,

And about how as you grow older A blade of grass Becomes more difficult to accept.

[makingqueerhistory]

This love is misunderstood and despised, persecuted, and misinterpreted as nothing else in the world! … They murder our love - and it lives! They strangle our cry - and the future resounds with it! They have murdered my books. But my books will live … Another judgement will be spoken by a brighter and better future. When, no one knows. But it is the only one I accept.

John Henry Mackay (via makingqueerhistory)

[makingqueerhistory]

We must learn to see and be seen to be so full of our pasts and our pride that we can never be unseen again

Chiyoko “Untitled” Outlines (via makingqueerhistory)

[writteninblackink]

those stars

scattered in different

fractions of the sky

shine brightly;

they borrow light

from you.

- Aladea - my book link

[bandaidsfortheheart]

I no longer believe in giving pieces of me away for love. I’ll keep my heart in my own chest, thank you very much. But if you’re lucky, I’ll let you in. And we can sit together by the fire in my bones. There is plenty of room for the both of us.

Plenty of Room, V.P. (via bandaids-for-the-heart)