#poetryoftumblr

[s0ftplacetoland]

I have loved you: this quiet stretch of hills, these hedgerows, heavy with silence, this sky that weeps soft ribbons of gray.

But love cannot hold when the wheel turns, and the cart must leave the lane. The stone walls, lichen-kissed and crooked, know this well—they whisper so to the restless wind.

Still, my heart stumbles. Will the oaks bend lower, seeking my absent touch?

The fields stretch out as though in prayer, their golden stubble catching the last light.

I leave behind my silence, my shape in the long grass, my ache in the air.

Somewhere beyond this, a place waits for my arrival. But here—oh, here!— I will always be someone who never left.

[eat-my-w0rds]

Pretty girl,

Can you be heard?

Pretty girl,

Talked over, unheard.

Pretty is all you'll ever be

Ideology needs release.

But instead, You bite your teeth.

Bat your eyes

Then act naive.

So much to say,

But pretty is all you'll ever be.

[itisonlymilk]

Nothing like a cold cup of oat milk & some sad poetry on a hot day🥛🤍

My poetry chapbook, Its Only Milk, available where books are sold!

[rainyday-poetry]

Thanks for reading!

[firstdraftvalkyrie]

Touch

The sun

and the moon

rarely touch--

oh, but

isn’t it lovely

when they try?

—f.d.v.

[thesongachillessang]

Men of myths

Icarus was never meant to be reduced to a martyr who chased what he couldn’t have, 

Achilles was never a brave warrior meant to be manlier than the love in his heart for his dearest Patroclus,

Great Men Of Myths are so often reduced to themes and morals,

We erase the blood in their veins and the ache in their hearts-

for Achilles would be an alcoholic, drowning his sorrows in a bottle so his vision could be blurry enough to lay with his lover one last time,

and Icarus would cliff dive to feel the rush of falling over and over again,

they were men before they were myths,

and their downfalls were not the death of them-

their loved ones lost were.

[mayaroopkabya]

on a depleted shore of fur-grass lay

an infant boot with drawstrings made of rain

a strict arrow-head jolting with eye-sand

a grieving helmet shining at dew point

on this hollow shore matted with throat-soil

lay a compass underwhelming in zest

a chair whose backbone softens everyday

a deck of cards which bite if they are touched

a crystal blanket separating the

bed of marigolds from dictionaries

a lonesome mop in a bucket of heat

a key with a sense of radical jest

war is supple in supply upon this torrid shore

signatures without a hand inscribe this boring shore

waves of empty will inhabit this recurrent shore

space is defied not optimized on this fallen shore

(you and i are on the same page: this we know for sure)

[manveenkohli]

Self-love always.