Peter Solarz
AnasAbdin
todays bird
$LAYYYTER
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Product Placement
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Three Goblin Art
Love Begins
Origami Around
Sade Olutola
hello vonnie
styofa doing anything
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trying on a metaphor
RMH
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
roma★
oozey mess
art blog(derogatory)
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@studiare-con-asteria
hello everyone! i'm ria! you can also call me astra :)
this is a studyblr & writeblr sideblog. i am new to both, so i'm open to any tips and ideas! i don't write much but i want to improve my skills, so don't expect anything too grand.
i'm looking for writeblrs that write fantasy, prose, and poems!
well, that's all! enjoy your stay :)
《reblogs/boosts appreciated》
i want to write poetry
i want to write poetry but the words won't come out like a thorn in my side or a festering wound there are so many things that i want to say that i have never been able to.
i want to write poetry but my voice is too soft my pauses too long my stammers too distracting the trembling blocking my voice from any clarity at all.
i want to write poetry but i don't know where to start what shall i unravel? so many choices maybe tomorrow i will make up my mind on what emotion to dig up and what trauma to excavate.
i want to write poetry but i forget the words i'm strangled by my own metaphors stupefied by symbolism that is trite and obvious. why should i compare things that have been compared since the beginning of time?
i want to write poetry but my sunsets are no more pink than every other one as dusk settles over the horizon. my flowers no more beautiful, no more like love. my sorrow is not blue and my anger is not red, but my soul is purple and i'm still trying to figure out how that could be.
—z.k.
hello i need your help in thinking of a title for a poem .
poem below ↓
river of reverie
simple reverie
lost in reverie
new suggestion (in tags!)
#5: “stars and moon: bad ending”
feel free to read this on ao3 or here !!
Keep reading
Mark Twain’s Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc
lost
you're lost. in the wilderness. alone. scared.
you don't know what to do. it's dark. you can't see– or think– straight
you've come so far, does it have to end like this
.
you're lost.
you're lost. lost in a way where you know what you want but you don't know how to get there
it may just mess everything up
and if it does? you'll feel incomplete. something's off.
.
you're lost. you're lost in your thoughts. your choices. your life.
you're struggling. trekking along the rough path, hiking through the steep cliffs, feeling like you want to cry and scream and let everything out because you don't know what to do anymore, you're lost.
attached
sometimes pain hurts where it hurts
and you'll cry and question and ponder about it
but other times pain doesn't have time to hurt
because you stuff it away hidden from sight
drown it in fake smiles and "i'm fine"s
but you're not fine
and soon the pain will become a part of you
and you'll just learn to live with it
because you won't be able to get it off your chest
not anymore
shoutout to all the writers who are in a rough patch right now! It's ok to be burnt out, it's ok to have writer's block, and it's ok to feel down about both of those things. You're still a real writer :D
𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜: 𝟺
hi! its my first time here submitting smth for ampo, and if you don't know what that is, it's a writeblr event hosted by mika @strawberrystarcake and nico @chaotic-queer-disaster! they have a blog all about it (@.a-million-possible-outcomes), check it out if you want :) anyway the word count here is around 2.3k and it's also my first time writing a story this long so . don't expect anything big or deep, i'm still trying :D i just did this for fun and i had lots of em LOL no tws ^_^
"autumn was a peculiar person. she was secretive. she was quiet. she was the most introverted person i know. but she's still my best friend."
that was via. fifteen years old. she's talking to a new student in school. he thought via was talkative and loud.
"we met when we were around 12 years old, you see. she was a new student here in this school, and being the extroverted kid i was, i marched right up to her and introduced myself, just how i'm doing it to you right now! she started avoiding me but i was very clingy, and so she had no choice but to put up with my nonsense."
the new boy looked very confused and obviously didn't want to be there, but it looks like he had no choice.
"we soon became very good friends!", she continued, "i picked her up every morning and brought her home every aftern-"
"look. i don't have time for this. you're just not my type of friend. now c-"
"oh and she disappears very randomly at times, probably to visit her mother."
he was rather intrigued. just a little bit.
"wait, who takes care of her then?" he asked
"no one" via said simply. she's a very mature being. she's pretty good at taking care of herself"
*slow melancholy music*
*voiceover ; fade in*
the pandemic (tumblr) has appreciate the little things in life (the app). a roof over my head (the blogs on the right side) and food on the table (the ability to copy paste pictures). sometimes, i take these for granted, and i won't be able to appreciate them unless they're gone.
*looks outside window ; it's raining*
i see people everyday, experiencing hardships. no water to drink (posts not posting). no school to go to (queue not working). i wish the government (staff) could help fix this.
*look away from window ; stand up ; look in mirror*
of course, some of these may be blessings in disguise. mother nature starts to heal (ability to delete replies). we get to pick up new hobbies and interests from the pandemic (the site).
people are working together to fix this (crash event). we are united through beliefs and opinions (july is halloween). our community is growing, and as more generations (12 year olds) enter our world (the site), we welcome them with open arms and guide them through life (ask them to leave for their sanity).
*dramatic exit of room ; eyes tearing up ; faint smile*
in conclusion ; staff istfg take back the update i need to start copy pasting and rearranging again.
untitled no. 1
if sand were stars, would we ever know, or would we pick it from our toes?
i think it's really lovely how we all trust our mutuals here on this site like, we won't really know the truth, will we? we don't know if they're faking their age, their likes, their personality, or even their face. they could be taking pictures of their sibling or their cousin. they could in reality be a 50 year old man trying to stalk us we won't really know if people are actually in need of money, or if they're scamming we won't really know if people live in the country they claim to live in we won't really know if your online friend is actually your neighbor or sibling that's the beauty (and danger) of the internet . we all rely on trust and we trust our friends because friends are cool ily mutuals /p please don't turn out as a creepy 50 year old man :] . also this is a reminder to stay cautious at all times here- don't show your face, don't reveal your age if you're below like 18, and just stay safe in general ^_^
my mother's ache is from another daughter
my brother is sleeping the hours until it’s mid-afternoon and my mother has taken to banging our broom against the walls of his bedroom. and it feels like my depression. there’s a mother-child of aches, scratching and screaming. demented in her caterwaul, purging my quiet with her unforgiving, indelicate noise. can you hear it? of course not. I can’t either. I just know somewhere, my demons echo each noise no matter how quiet.
I imagine my brother pulling the threads of sleep into a tapestry thick enough to drape across the breadth of my mother’s bellow. the blanket I see in my head is so vivid. deep-seated dread of red patterned with intricate flower designs in black and blue. like the walls of my head. like a flesh beaten raw — black and blue. that’s how most do it. that’s how it’s like I imagine. a blanket to shield against the noise. I admire and despise my brother for having so think a cloak, so obstinate his will to sit on his throne of slumber even when the cloying smell of my mother’s wrath is spreading fast and certain across the corners of our two decade old home.
so I sit here, doing some dishes inside the walls of my head. I try to quell the sound, the conflict, into dirty half-filled glasses; plate with half=eaten remains; spoons and forks tongue-liked clean; pans and pots with undersides burned black. I put them under the faucet, suds sliding away from their metal and porcelain bodies. I hear the rattle and ping of each utensil as I splay them on a dry cloth. dishes going to the racks. my movements all mechanical. my present reality fading into the background.
one dish slips from my hand. in slow motion, I watch my fingers a handsbreadth from the plate. white and unforgiving glass shatters on my feet. the jarring noise resounds down the halls in my head, unsettling the dust in all its corners. no semblance of solace can quiet my immediate surroundings so I leave the kitchen in my mind and catch myself holding down a vengeful full-blown anxiety attack.
my mother’s anger continues. it’s like a net, not a fishhook to catch just one when thrown. it’s a net. it takes everything in, reels every unsuspecting fish — like me. as I sit here quietly, hearing the chaos ensure. my sisters and my father get into it too.
my god, did I ever tell you? my mother’s hurt is so deep and old she forgets she’s even hurting at all.
i’ll slowly get caught up for napowrimo, hopefully. 1/30. text id under cut.
Keep reading
Roses are red, that much is true, but violets are purple, not fucking blue.
I have been waiting for this post all my life.
They are indeed purple, But one thing you’ve missed: The concept of “purple” Didn’t always exist.
Some cultures lack names For a color, you see. Hence good old Homer And his “wine-dark sea.”
A usage so quaint, A phrasing so old, For verses of romance Is sheer fucking gold.
So roses are red. Violets once were called blue. I’m hugely pedantic But what else is new?
My friend you’re not wrong About Homer’s wine-ey sea! Colours are a matter Of cultural contingency;
Words are in flux And meanings they drift But the word purple You’ve given short shrift.
The concept of purple, My friends, is old And refers to a pigment once precious as gold.
By crushing up molluscs From the wine-dark sea You make a dye: Imperial decree
Meant that in Rome, to wear purpura was a privilege reserved
For only the emperor!
The word ‘purple’, for clothes so fancy, Entered English By the ninth century
.
Why then are voilets Not purple in song? The dye from this mollusc, known for so long
Is almost magenta; More red than blue. The concept of purple is old, and yet new.
The dye is red, So this might be true: Roses are purple And violets are blue
.
While this song makes me merry, Tyrian purple dyes many a hue From magenta to berry And a true purple too.
But fun as it is to watch this poetic race The answer is staring you right in the face: Roses are red and violets are blue Because nothing fucking rhymes with purple.
IT GOT SO MUCH BETTER.
My reaction, only with coffee.
Hang on, need to send this to my literature prof
-weekends-
[ 4.9.22 - 4.10.22 ]
i didn't really do much work this weekend, but i did write a few sentences for my a million possible outcomes submission! (learn more about that in @.a-million-possible-outcomes)
i went to the mall too and visited my grandparents :]
april 9th - what’s your favorite flower?
hmm maybe tulips!
April 10th - spring… is more like peachy tea or iced raspberry latte?
peachy tea fs
