#hurtfriends

[open-veins-empty-mind]

Softness or savagery: My savage wants to hunt but my soft will not let her.

Where do you write, in what: I write in the bodies of other people, I can not understand my own emotions

Supernatural event: Once I saw a devil love an angel but the angel refused to love her in return. Sometimes the bad are inherently good. And the good are sometimes wicked.

What you would like to see more of in contemporary literature: Emotion personified because we aren’t made of carbon we are made of singing birds and flooding streets.

What will stop you: My savage over powers my soft and I won’t know who she is anymore.

[lionshoney]

Short of being yet another person to learn Wonderwall on ukulele, nothing will get you laid faster than a poem. I didn't understand why until recently: Poetry itself is a seduction. It's enticing another mind into your own; it's the simile that joins two people. It's literary sex. That is why you absolutely need to write your lover poetry. Write the lovesong of hands and hips breaking the corners of a one night stand; write a lovesong for that one time those eyes were more green than blue and why you noticed; write a lovesong for a mouthful of forevers. Send a two-line sext for the sounds of waking them from sleep. The secret is this: it doesn't matter, truly, how good your poem to your lover is. Nothing says you care more than playing god and creating something out of the void just for them. You saw a blank page and you gave it their name. That's what matters. Am I proud of the writing quality of every poem I wrote for my lovers? No, and in a year I'll dislike the poems I'm writing now because I'll have grown as a writer. And so will you. So get to writing, get to making love/poems, and get down to talking dirty. Go ahead, play god.

Lux, on writing; "Talking Dirty" for Elle.com.

[whimsagon]

i. you ran afraid from my love because it was soft and gentle and you'd never learnt how to hold soft things without bruising them. I never told you that I was okay with being bruised by you. ii. i can't fault anything either of us did, anymore. i never knew you could do all the right things and still break apart. iii. i'm so angry. i will never forgive you. it still breaks my heart sometimes.  iv. i'm so angry because it is easier than the truth, which is that I am still bruised from you. i am still longing for you. i'm so angry because i love you. i will never not forgive you. it still breaks my heart sometimes. v.  do you think maybe one day you might think of me and smile like you mean it? vi. do you think maybe one day we could be in love again?

the letters i don't send, l.a.w.

[lionshoney]

A star fell and that's how I was conceived When I'm in love, it snows more frequently I can only sleep with my head pointing North I carry my own ghost in the left side of my body, part of me forever screaming my own banshee Like a deer, I sharpen my bones on elder trees My death talks to other ghosts; if I let them use my hands and eyes, I can tell your future Not the far-off kind, but the next few months, before you pluck your feathers off and decide who you're going to try becoming next year Living things use me like an otherworld door: birds, butterflies, moths, and all flights learn to crawl to me as their last lesson I'll take your dead parts too Your flaws shiny as a magpie's lust leave joys sweet as hummingbird sugar and make my nest so warm.

Lux, "Facts You Won't Believe."

[agooduniverse]

2, 7, 8 (writer ask meme!)

8. poetry or prose: 

five years ago i would have said prose with out hesitation but now i'm a trash baby poet all the way. i think its more to do with how insanely out of practice i am writing prose, i really need to get back into the swing of it. poetry is a lot easier for me, i can write a poem in 5 minutes, but prose takes time, it takes energy, it takes patience. whenever i try to sit down and write parts of a story, it always comes out in fragments: tiny poems, letters, a description of a photograph. i find it difficult now to write a proper narrative, but it wasn't always that way.  

(2 answered here, 7 here)

[mourningflowers]

hurtfriends replied to your post:to the bastard who broke into my car today: fuck...

oh no! did they take anything? i love you!!! :(

they took this black leather backpack my sister and my mom gave me for birthday, and they took my brand new notebooks for the semester. and they also took my iPad along with its keyboard for it. thank god my wallet wasn't there, but still.