#spilled in

[dear-ire]

poetry is so cool until all i can ever write is connected to me or anything or anyone that has ever happened to me and then the never ending cycle or self torture through remembrance starts again

[forlornalbatross]

Go out with me. Let’s stroll down to Mt Annan Botanic Garden. I’ll bring the picnic blankets & a few things I know you will eat. We’ll have your favourite smoothies & just look across the pond together. I want that with you. Then we can talk like we’ve been away for years & we just met anew & fall in love again – why can’t we be that “based on true story” kind of book because in a heartbeat I would have leap to wherever you are now just for this book to exist on other people’s shelves -

D C de Oliveira | To Chloe, Nonfiction| January 26, 2023 | Thursday, 3.13pm

[poemsandthingsblog]

The Phoenix

Rising from ashes of the volcano.

Glowing hot, the flaming creature sores leaving flames trailing behind.

Majestic, beautiful the true spirit of volcanoes.

Fire is her creation, she tends to the land with it.

Though distraction follows, life begins a new.

[quietconnection]

What comforts me is even though we’re far apart, we still see the same moon and feel the same sun.

[secretumpoeta]

I cannot find the words. I simply stare into a void waiting for them to appear. Nothing. Grasping in the darkest of rooms for that which will convey my thoughts. My desires. My fears. I feel them churning beneath my surface. They kick and scream to be heard. They pound against the door wanting to breathe the air of this world. So why do they flee? They remain hidden whilst I choke on the air of silence. ~ B.T.

[poppiesandpromises]

Moments I thought that I couldn't survive

With your hand in mine I'm coming alive

When I was a bruise you bandaged me up

When I was thirsty you filled up my cup

God might be fiction but angels are true

I've seen first hand they all look just like you

You are the stars that I'm counting at night

All that I've wanted, you're my heart's delight

When I am freezing you make me feel warm

You are my shelter, I'm safe from the storm

Speaking a language no one understands

A tongue made of softness, love sans demands

I am the luckiest, I am so sure

To call my own now your heart oh so pure

[vbkpoetry]

what poetry is and isn't are the same things, sieved through times fingers, flattened undertow, lamented and whispered amongst holy ghosts and internal hosts, withered wanton

to understand these elements of paean listen to the way the moment betrays the fingers smashing typewriter keys blindly underneath calloused fingers mourn and mumble your way through another lonely day inside your mind, torn trodden

than and only then do you find the answer to the question of what poetry is and what it isnt.