#poetry draft

[beautyinyourbeast]

If all I can be

Come from leaving ;

[...]

🍽

— my most recent wip on love, desire, body image, etc. 🍎🦷 for my fellow aroaces ♥︎♤

[nattitopher]

The joy of being who you are crushed by the world being not even just hostile but having destroyed the concept of your existence. The loneliness of having basically no history; no elders; a blooming flower amongst a delicate few of your same ilk, in the ashes of the fields burned to eradicate all that cannot be tamed.

Staring into the eyes of the gardener with the torch, while you are growing wild; untamed; hoping he lets you. Seeing the barrier fire surrounding you, your leaves licked by the flame stopping you from entering the tamed part of the forest. Hoping he doesn’t decide to just burn you.

You think internally. The identity internal, etherial, permanent. The organism of humanity unable to eradicate forever that which is inherent to its being. But who’s existence poses a threat.

Will the gardener burn you next? Will the gardener try to colonize more of the wilds? He only does what the organism of humanity does to harm pieces of itself. And he’s started to be called upon more. Lighting the untamed forests ablaze.

You feel the flame in your mind.

You feel the flame lick as you try to spread.

You can’t spread too far.

You don’t know any elders. But if you survive the gardener you give the next ones like you an elder.

Fred Martinez

Fleeting names

How much can you live before living is a danger to continuing to be alive?

Yet

The joy overwhelms it all.

You stumble and grow wild, growing like you always should have.

Fuck the gardener

Put out his torch; the torch of his master

Your growth, growing amongst your ilk, encourages others to see you exist. And that your ilk will always exist.

The others need to put out the torch.

Relying on them is scary.

You grow like an orphan newborn deer. You live like you can never die. Because the idea of who you are could never die.

Living is a fight.

Fight and learn.

Comfort is something inaccessible to you; instead you make it.

Happiness and joy in existence.

Love.

Have you convinced yourself yet?

[xandersrailcrash]

when you come home, i'll be gone

when you come home,

you won't know me

i won't be here

i'll be gone.

london.

london's where i'll be.

you'll try to find me,

but i'll be gone.

either on stage,

new crowd every night

will you come see my shows?

or will you go back home?

or i'll be in a court room

figuring out a case

and catching the culprit

in their lies

was it a lie?

are you coming home?

or staying there forever?

either way

when you come home,

i'll be gone.

[jscarrie]

From a workshop on dream-poetry.

Although almost all my poems are just a draft, this one is REALLY just a draft. I don't care much for it, but I didn't want to give it up. Touching the Sun.

I wish for sunshine and die for the night. If I can pass, and join the stars, Can't I be that much closer? At least then, the sun can never burn me. Yes, Touching the Sun. If anything, that will save me.

[amelancholywood]

i'm so tired, i want to be cared for - if only for a little while

i wish to be mothered, held gently and rocked until i fall asleep

to have the chores handled, just for a day or two so i can rest

[creativewritingmoose67]

Ghost Words

Your words were faint

They barely passed your lips

They hung stagnant in the air

They hung heavy on my heart

Your words were final

They haunt me when I sleep

They stay around when I wake

Your words were deafening

They echo in my ears for hours

They drown in my heart for days

Your words were a promise

A promise of no more

A promise of never again

A promise of goodbye

Your words were really mine

[i-write-shakespeare-not-disney]

I wish I were prettier

So I wouldn’t rely

On half-assed words 

And empty one-liners

To feel like 

I am worth something

[innerthoughtsofalonelybrune-blog]

I hate that we never actually dated.

There are five women who are the only humans that know what it does to me when I hear your name. but they don’t live here.

“He’s my ex that’s not an ex” What a lousy excuse of an explanation for a person that has haunted me for the past five years of my life.

I don’t know how to explain you to my new friends.  They don’t understand how one word weighs so much.

I don’t tell them about you. I say it’s because I don’t want to talk about it but really it’s because I have this theory this hail Mary, this shot in the dark, this hope that if I surround myself with people who don’t think of you when they hear your name then maybe  eventually I won’t either.