#13cupofteareblogs

[madelinescatharsis]

you’re what nostalgia tastes like. you’re what the angels sing of, your footsteps are what the trees sway to. you’re da vinci’s muse and you’re the smell of the earth after the first rains. you’re my first thought when i read a love poem and you haunt my dreams long after i’m awake. you’re the grace of a dancer and the freedom in a nightingale’s song. you lay in every stroke of an artist's brush and the wistfulness of a rainy day. baby, you're what my prayers are made of and every shooting star whispers your name across the midnight sky. darling, i'm so intoxicated by you.

// letters i never sent to you //

[blacknwh1te-cray0ns]

thinking spiral blurt

should I care about

burning forests, sour seas or the disappearing of bees?

the mighty men took the world in their wrong hands

I bet they can’t even take care of their own plants

I never stood a chance against the world

never took a glance at growing old

the earth is limited anyway

it can't be only our fault

quality vs quantity

I know what I would pick

you may call me egocentric

but I just want to live my life a bit careless

I have worried enough

-

@lexiklecksi the climate is changing, why aren't we?

[madelinescatharsis]

The water brought back images of you

.

You hit me like a torrent of rain in the middle of a summer night.

The kind of intensity that steals even the gasp from my throat.

There's a way your words wash over me like tides on a sleepy afternoon,

Comforting the warm sands with it's cool embrace.

My hands curve into your hair, twisting like the patterns of sand on the shore,

Hoping you won't go back,

Hoping you'll stay,

Stay just a little bit longer.

But your palms are too big for my fingers,

You slip right through my hands

Like drops of water dripping down melting ice.

Your beauty is myopic.

Only visible from an arm's length.

Like the intricacy of the veins of a maple leaf.

I melt in your touch, like the brownies you make melt in my mouth.

The echoes of your laugh waft through the breeze like the smell of the earth after the first rains.

You are a muse.

Muse enough to make me effervesce with poetry even on my bleakest days.

Muse enough to make a man without legs dance like a ballerina.

Muse enough to make a person who doesn't know how to swim voluntarily jump into your turbulent, inviting waters.

[madelinescatharsis]

my tongue has strayed from its roots.

at dusk, it whispers the name of another,

so foreign, that it’s almost familiar.

it is a voluntary slave to the whips

that compelled it’s kinsmen to

submission.

but after every sentence,

it recalls it’s home,

and the exquisitness of which

it never bothered to taste.

and pink with shame at its

brazen infidelity,

it recoils back into hiding

in it’s cagelike mouth.

.

This poem is my way of saying that I regret not knowing my mother tongue better and have spent so much of my time perfecting my English.

Kudos to you if you got the meaning and if you didn't, try reading it again to see if it makes more sense this way. This is also written very differently compared to my usual style so let me know your thoughts!

(I'm also sorry I haven't posted in a long time, I've just been lazy)

[madelinescatharsis]

dear diary,

you know how sometimes you’re having a conversation and you have a thought you want to express but you stop yourself because it’s too poetic and profound to be a part of the mundane conversation but not poetic enough and too personal to be written as a poem and posted? what do you do then? is there a solution to this?

these words, these thoughts have taken birth in my head and have died before they got out; and i dig another hole for them inside me, for there’s a graveyard somewhere in between the roof of my mouth and the insides of my chest.

because you see, this is no love poem or a battle against innate demons. this is at it’s worst a mundane musing about a minor inconveniece and at it’s best, a eulogy to a poem that never was.

so if you happen to see me swallowing a petal or two for breakfast along with my oatmeal, know that it goes in the memory of something that could not be.

yours truly,

a premature poet.

.

(Do you guys like these "dear diary" posts? Should I make this a series? Let me know your thoughts!)

[madelinescatharsis]

my mother once caught me standing still in front of the mirror

lost, with a certain sinking despair in the corner of my eyes

“mother, can you pinch me to check if i’m real?

i feel a grief tugging at the centre of my soul”

she held my face in her hands and she said,

“darling, as long as you feel, you’re alive.”

the opposite of life, as they say, isn’t death,

it’s indifference.

because you know, sometimes, that saturday night sadness

seems almost unbearable, as i lie on my bathroom floor

sobbing into my hands, craving for what’s left of us

and lamenting all the people i could never be,

it feels like it would be easier to not feel everything

so intensely, so excessively.

and when i laugh till my stomach hurts on the 

white beach sands, i still harbour that ominous, inkling thought

that this pleasure too will end.

in her happiest moment, portia first remarks to limit

that overflowing joy, to feel moderately.

wouldn’t it be so much simpler to be mild,

to not feel every goddamn thing

so intensely, so excessively?

but darling, when has mediocrity ever created art?

numbness is a waste of poetry, of all the beauty i contain and can create.

it is indeed a blessing and a curse to feel everything so deeply

but as long as there is any happiness, pain, hope or regret

even if everything just aches,

as long as i feel anything at all, i’m alive.

i’m alive.

and lord, what else could i ask for?

[madelinescatharsis]

and writing’s hard. it doesn’t come free and it most definitely doesn’t come easy. there’s a price to pay for art. behind every word is a tear, behind every metaphor is another moment of wishing i wasn’t alive. and sometimes it can all feel worthless. sure, they’ll tell me it’s amazing and that i have a gift and when i look back, i’ll have a book or two full of poems as my legacy and what’s more, some of them might actually be worth reading, but here’s the truth. writing is less of a gift and more of a barter system, a bad bargain in that i’ve traded happiness for a page full of syllables. and when i ask someone to give me feedback what i’m really asking is - “here, i’ve bled all over this piece of paper. can you tell it’s soaked?”

.

(thoughts?

follow my Instagram)

[madelinescatharsis]

what are we here for?

i carry regret like a wolf on my back, naturally

clawing its way to the depths of my bones. 

i measure my life by the number of empty

pens lying in my trash can.

last night my mother awoke in the middle of a

nightmare and saw me writing;

she said the air was crisp with the vague scent

of dried blood and whiskey

and i licked away the remnants of my salty tears

and embraced the warmth that they left behind.

what are we here for?

i set my alarms to see sunsets and bask

in the beauty of their deaths, to watch the moon

bathe the graveyard of the sun in silver.

i see my life in wine reds and hollow blacks,

mirroring the tragedy of my rusting mind.

now, i’ve been told i romaticize things and tonight,

i’m too tired to deny it 

so i write on and on, 

no, this feels too artificial,

so i rip it off and repeat it

until my poems start to look like

bill receipts and the skin on my fingers

is peeling off and i feel it-

that i am not meant to be

and this disparity between what’s right,

what i want, and what i need.

i once read somewhere that

life is no paragraph and death is not a 

parenthesis,

but as i stare harder into my notepad,

the lines all blurring into one,

i finally realize it.

when i was born, i started a sentence,

and breathing through a series of semi colons,

i have to live to finish it.

.

(thoughts? also, follow my instagram )