#prosepoem

[thebluewaitingroom]

how silent do i have to stay for you to hear me?

august 26th, 1:27 am.

[uncosumed]

life ain’t God, God is God.

As the worst moments anchor me to thoughts that You have forsaken me,

let these bright glimpses of life remind me that You will see me through all that life tries to bury me in, and, like the rock Peter,

allow me to say that I love You, Lord.

[putah-creek]

Just wait, you'll see, it's all a circle. 

All day I work on poems and wait for night to fall. I love the darkness, I love how it covers the earth, like a soft blanket warming a sleeping child. And then, under that dark sky, I read those poems. My friend, the stars read along with me, looking over my shoulder. Much later, the morning comes again, bringing back the light.

James Lee Jobe

[ireadintothings]

[meanwhilepoetry]

Sometimes I think of you, Medusa. Inside your temple, mournful, surrounded by a hundred stone statues. The men who came to kill you and never left  were named lost heroes, warriors, demigods whilst you were called monster, gorgon, terror. (Because the stories were always written by men) But this was never a story about a monster. It was always about a woman burned for a Sea God’s sin, a pawn in an ancient game the fates would never let her win. You did not desecrate that which is sacred, it was him. (But your story was always written by men) You begged him not to visit you, you pleaded with every God. But the Gods turned away when you needed them. You did not want to be remembered this way. And then one day, whilst you slept, a son of Zeus came. And killed you before you could even look his way. (And he too was named hero because the stories were always written by men) Someone once said, words cut deeper than a knife. That history is told by the victors. That he who tells the story is the one who controls the world. Women did not get to write your story, Medusa. Because if we did, a very different tale would be told. (And in our tale, you would not be Monster. But Priestess. Goddess. A maiden who once had a heart of gold.)

Nikita Gill, Excerpt from Maidens, Myths and Monsters

[wordvomitpoetry]

you’re not the one to decide i’m the one in control i am; control being; controlled

[marscia]

marscia

[silverishy]

with every injury I develop, I take the time to cover it and treat it well so there's no scarring. the world is rough on all sides but I make sure all of my wounds heal to soft skin once more. I will be warm to this cold weather, I will not let life put calluses on my hands just so it can make me scratch everyone I touch.