#wemst

[ghostsofmemories]

[actual-haise]

Du: Wem

Ich, ein Intellektueller: 

[ghostsofmemories]

from bigger dreams of mine

[ghostsofmemories]

full poem. original photograph by peter and barbara jenkins for national geographic, aug. 1979

[ghostsofmemories]

[ghostsofmemories]

[ghostsofmemories]

poem transcript:

tomorrow as a promise (but it never comes)

i worry that someday i’ll have my dream job, live in a perfect house, have the life i always wanted, and still think of home as a problem i have to solve. i worry it’s pieces of a puzzle abandoned by everyone who ever loved me and left anyway, who i loved and left anyway. i worry that tomorrow is the kind of love that will break my heart over and over again and i’ll keep going back, that we should have left, anyway.

i’ll always want more. i’ll always wish i was driving home to something that'll never be there, always want to move far away from this place and still have family two doors down, to sit quietly on a porch swing with a glass of ice water over a patch of the world but still laugh on the streets of crowded cities. no matter what i have i’ll be unhappy. no matter who i am i’ll want to be fixed. no matter how much i’ve done i’ll want to do more, whisper the word tomorrow to myself like it still has a meaning.

end poem transcript

haha i posted this on instagram a couple days ago and then was too lazy to post it here. i've been having some weird thoughts about tumblr lately because it seems like my platforms switched—i used to get a couple dozen likes on instagram posts and a hundred or more notes on tumblr, and now i get lots of interaction on instagram anf despite having almost twice as many followers here, i get way less notes than i used to?

i'm appreciative of any interaction i get on any poetry i write, and i'm not really stingy about numbers at all and would probably continue posting even if no one liked my stuff, because i enjoy writing and i enjoy chronicling my writing journey not just for my mutuals and followers, but for my own nostalgia purposes since i've been blogging for so long. but i guess it sort of makes me sad that people like my old stuff better when i personally feel like i've improved?

maybe it's just another sign that tumblr is a dying platform but that makes me equally as, if not more sad since this was really my first social media and still the only one that has tag filtering, which is really important to me (it allows me to filter out ace discourse, ableist discourse, and then other topics i don't want to consume).

poetry taglist (ask to be added/removed):

anyways, that's a lot of stuff to say in one post but i do really appreciate those of you that are still here and interacting, and if you like my poetry i would recommend following me there (i generally post there sooner and sometimes more often, i don't post shorter stuff on tumblr because i like the longer format better for this site. i don't post short stuff on instagram much though tbh) in case tumblr actually does die out.

and despite the energy of this ramble and the poem, i actually am doing okay!

poetry taglist* (ask to be added/removed):

@coffeeandcalligraphy @oasis-of-you @alicewestwater @keep-looking-here @dallonswords @bookphobe @avakrahn @familiarvillain @annlillyjose

[ghostsofmemories]

poem transcript:

writer’s block: a rebuttal

i keep deleting everything i write. it seems like every time i try, i come back with my hands empty, fishing through my pockets for something that resembles a poem. every day i’m scared that this is the end of the line, that the bridge ahead is burning and there’s not enough time for the train to stop before everyone goes tumbling over the edge.

everyone is just me, though. i fall into the water and i drown in my own bitter backspacing. i haven’t felt like this in years—i still know what i want but i can’t make it happen anymore. the most i can be is over, the least is never begun in the first place. and maybe it would be easier just to let myself have that, that acrid sort of ending, some mix between melancholy and sour.

but i’m always wrong. there’s always more to say; there’s always another two-way mirror waiting to be found. and i’m not going to die a dried-up river or train hurtling itself over a bridge. the rain will come, the train will stop just in time. you can’t have a bad ending if the story isn’t over yet. and the story isn’t over until i stop writing it.

end poem transcript

not much to say about this one, we’re just having a time over here

poetry taglist (ask to be added/removed):

@coffeeandcalligraphy @oasis-of-you @alicewestwater @keep-looking-here @dallonswords @bookphobe @froggywriter @avakrahn