#a peom

[withasideofaaaaaaaaaaaaaa]

I am here to blog about my feelings and I am feeling very much please bear with me normal reblogs will ensue when I become dulled to these new developments

But THINGS are HAPPENING

And my PASTA wants to KILL ME

BUT I WANT IT

IN ME

HELP

[tabituhhh]

I’m sad

[gadiorara]

i need

to be

asleep

but instead i

am on

this goddamn website

[sean-sometimes-writes]

This is a poem I workshopped today for class, it’s not very long but i’ll do a line break anyway so it doesn’t show up as being too long okay okay 

Waterline

I.

Beaches and shores look different

depending on the water that hits them.

The little lakes and rivers are of my childhood,

the call of a loon in the afternoon

is clear when the boats are anchored and the men

drink Pabst Blue Ribbon around fire pits.

We dance and laugh outside in a way the forests had forgotten

that man was like to do. Instead of ceremonial pipes,

we smoke cigarettes.

The kids giggle, warm marshmallow stuck

to their lips and fingers. We make a game of

lighting the marshmallows on fire, running around the

circle of lawn chairs with their sweet, goopy torches.

No one stops us.

Some of the teenagers steal their uncles’ beer

only to spit it out after one tentative sip. It takes them three or four

squares of hershey’s chocolate to get the sour taste of

bitter age off of their tongues.

Above us are the stars, every single constellation

charted and logged long before we came along.

Bears, heroes, zodiac animals and demigods.

Someone looked at these distant balls

of fire and fusion and thought “spoon”.

They are bright enough that we can see their reflection in the

black water. The water so warm and friendly in the daytime,

now the younger kids eye it with fear and stay away from the shore.

II.

The oceans and great lakes are from

my adolescence, salt and big water

and cold. These waters don’t warm up until the summer is

almost over, August and September.

The girls I know go to school

four blocks from the curving shoreline of Lake Michigan.

We walk to the beach after class and kick the sand

even if the temperature is well below freezing.

The water does not freeze.

These are the days of tuna fish sandwiches,

tampons, peanut butter, inside jokes,

long plane rides and goodbyes.

Of expectations unmet and trips downtown.

There is uncertainty in the air, and I long

for the sickly sweet taste of a charred marshmallow.

But the water is cold, and it does not freeze.

III.

There is no water where I live now.

I suppose there is a river.

They say it is man-made, and

I think the creek knows it.

It is low and thin in some spots,

clogged with dark matter and styrofoam coffee cups in others.

It runs beneath the streets and sidewalks of campus,

and it is very easy to forget that it is there.  

They call it “Boneyard Creek”

probably because the students have to keep

each other from falling into it in the month

before classes end. Maybe it speaks to

an older horror story.

But the creek is small, and I

miss the big water and the lakes

and the salt and the sand, even if the

sand is cold and numbs my toes.

You cannot get lost in a creek.  

I have a friend who says she likes being able to see

the horizon with nothing but flat, cut land

between her and the sun as she drives.

The endless expanse of dirt does not make her skin crawl like it does mine,

when the only blue is overhead.  

The sky is big here, and the constellations the same

but I am afraid to look up

or out.

[amoilmiele]

I ask you to leave.

Let us separate in love,

as the birds every season leaves the hills.

And the sun my love,

is more beautiful when it is setting.

Be in my life suspicion and torture,

be a legend,

be a mirage,

and be a question in my mouth with no answer.

For a gorgeous love,

living from the hearts and the gifts.

To be always beautiful,

to be closer to you,

I ask you to leave.

Let us separate when we are lovers,

let us separate despite all the love and compassion.

From the tears my love,

I want you to see me,

and from the fire and the smoke,

I want you to see me.

Let’s burn and cry my love,

because we have forgotten the grace of crying from a long time.

Let us separate!

so as our love doesn’t become ordinary,

and our passion to ashes,

with wilt flowers in vases.

[ups-ide-own-mvse-ic]

Big lips Wide hips So many ships

[goghoseok]

butterflies (a poem)

 Sometimes I don't care anymore.

I don't carefully to talks or thinks about me,  and I don't care who loves or hates me.

I'm sorry I lied, dear, about the butterflies in my stomach -     I haven't felt them in a long time. But then again, they could be migrating -       or they could have found someone better, but doesn't everyone? Doesn't everyone find someone better then their own.    and then it is their choice, all their's, who they choose.

   and that decision could break your heart, love.    and chances are they'll go for the better,        even if theyre not better for them.  and you'll feel empty,           and the butterflies would have left, with no reason to stay. and you don't see the butterflies in winter, because it's too cold, like what's inside -        and butterflies can't survive that - they're simply to fragile.   and maybe that's why we don't fall in love in winter,      we're too fragile to survive to cold.   but maybe someone will warm us up,    with ehat they saved from fall - but the heat won't last forever, and like a flame it will die out.

and maybe thats why we ended in winter.      maybe the flame died out, and the butterflies left.   because dear, butterflies don't like the cold.

and when we're cold, not even the butterflies like us.

[theantiantichrist]

A Poem

It was quiet My roommate came back Now it's not