#writersread

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James A Game

By Lita Doolan

What I need is a boyfriend The tablets are making me sick I could stop But I will lose my hair Then I won’t get a man And that’s what I need See how he touches Watch how it feels Hair makes me happy The medicine does not

Lita Doolan is a Welsh/Irish writer with a short collection of poetry on Amazon. Walking and wildlife inspire her writing along with an enthusiasm for people watching. Read more from Lita Doolan at @Litadoolan. 

[ninjagirl19]

Ending Sherlock Holmes Weekend with one of my favorite stories: The Hound of the Baskervilles. This is a copy I found from 1965. #sherlockholmes #sherlock #sherlockholmesweekend #thehoundofthebaskervilles #amreading #writersread

[inspiredink]

the sky is pink

By Ntaoleng Mokotini

the sky is pink. in an existentialistic sense, it represents the dire straits that reside within the daily event that occurs as the sun wages war  against the night sky in the battle to stay alive. we represent this war. we represent this strife in love because the love that we seem to feel these days is no longer red. it is pink,  diluted, battered, and maybe blue. 

We have pummelled  any urgency and need from it.  and in a desperate attempt to hold on to its life, the sun represents the inevitability of our loss, and the very essence of love in all its violent, excruciating redness. however, we continue to be pink. the fight neither won or lost. we remain lukewarm, waging wars in love, forgetting to love ourselves.

Previously published on Essence of Eccentricity.

Ntaoleng Mokotini is a 22-year-old Computer Science and Informations student from Johannesburg, South Africa. She’s always had a love for writing and boys who don’t love her back. Read more from  Ntaoleng Mokotini @essenceofeccentricity.

[inspiredink]

Hanami

By  Cosupreme

My roots stay soaked in the ashes of your embrace. My branches grow strong, and my roots grow deeper. When spring comes around, my love for you blossoms with a color as vibrant as the sun, a pink sun. At times, I bear fruit that everyone loves, but that fruit is never stationary. Like all things, it goes away. It always returns, but it’s never consistent. My exterior bears resemblance to darkness, but I promise there’s more to me. In all things, I can be beautiful and so can the things I possess. Give me time and I’ll grow…grow towards perfection, never reaching it, but maybe with you, I’ll find something better.

Cosupreme resides in California and lets his experiences influence his writing. He adds, “ I write as a way to detach myself from this evil world”.

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(Not so) blissful ignorance

By Lynda Hutchinson

Please keep this secret close to your chests -

I don’t understand most things and mistrust the rest.

All the things I’ve been taught, all the words I have read,

they merge, unmerge, tangle - a huge mess in my head.

I believe I conceal my ignorance well,

and the charade’s convincing, and no one can tell.

Pretending I know what I’m talking about

is a burden - but please- don’t let my secret out.

Lynda Hutchinson is a librarian and a keen runner. She used to doodle and write little poems when she was much younger and has recently taken it up again. More of her scribbles are available @wavydoodle .

[inspiredink]

A brief history of woman-hurt

By  Pei Koroye

And when the night came, I saw girls just beneath the film of my fever, many as spider eggs. Under lightbulb moon, with nursery rhymes told all wrong, with catfish, lingering maternal horror, I took my girls in and did incubate. Not in the hollow of my hips, that is to ground up for formula powder. Nor in the cluster of rib-trunk through which whistles the distant hum of playground laughter. But from my back. 

They claw from me and out of me, until I am all plush, and afterglow, and leave me spilled out to play. Nothing left but viscera and milk, baby teeth, and sutures. My girls come with the sun and bring me fresh skin to soothe. Goodbye to polished shoes, hand-knit dolly knickers. Goodbye to sand under the fingernails. Goodbye to stiff frocks, to moon-white socks with the ruffle trim. My girls come to me sans eyes, pomegranate lips, bruised, swollen shut and smooth as sin in the legs, between the legs too! They wear hurt like cotton-candy. We all smell it. Fragments of girls with pretty winces. The audacity of it. They lie to me, easy. I know what mothers know, mothers and mothers of mothers. What market-woman, lady-woman, all woman, all know. How violence comes to woman-skin like the sun rises. Inevitably.”

Pei Koroye is a Nigerian author based in the US, working on their first novel project AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A YOUNG ABOMINATION. Read more from Pei on Instagram: @thefemmechaotic, Tumblr: @criticalfacestudies and on YouTube at thefemmechaotic.

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Better off unsaid

By  Enis Pekic

There’s this feeling inside of me, tearing me apart. Demanding to be freed, not wanting to die inside. So I fight it with all my might; with all my strength, but I cannot win. It wants to get out so hard, that it doesn’t care if I’ll survive or not.

After all, what am I if not a host; A host for all the things I buried so long ago, buried so I can hold on; Hold on to the life that I’m trying to have, but with no luck. Everything gets out eventually, but some words get out harder than others. So I fight until my last breath, because if those words get out; If they get said out loud, Then I’ll feel death spreading from inside out.

Enis Pekic is a writer from Bosnia and Herzegovina. He writes about what he feels at the moment and about his thoughts and struggles. He tries to get everything out through poems. Read more from Enis on Instagram @enispekic. 

[inspiredink]

sacrifice

By Ntaoleng Mokotini

i would have sacrificed myself for you given my sanity in exchange for yours  used my body as a shield between you and your harmful thoughts i would have given anything to open the doors to your mind at the time, you seemed so absolute,  so resolute, yet brittle, and tender  the structure you represented spoke for you,  you could be vulnerable without question,  and the words that left your lips  became my prayer to the god’s that you don’t even think exist,  your mind (heart) was an impenetrable fortress,  you never wanted to let me in,  so i haven’t thought of you ever since 

Previously published on Essence of Eccentricity.

Ntaoleng Mokotini is a 22-year-old Computer Science and Informations student from Johannesburg, South Africa. She’s always had a love for writing and boys who don’t love her back. Read more from  Ntaoleng Mokotini @essenceofeccentricity.