A Routine Malaise

Poetry, music, art, tattoos...

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

“Hands make beautiful scenes if you look.”

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Prompt #571

“I wanted to take your hand. I wanted to take it so badly.”

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

Kitchen sinks are deathtraps for forks and knives alike, even crumbs of leftover food or a curious hand at night.

e.m.b.

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

“Experiencing a landscape in person for the first time”

-e.m.b.

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

“so help me god”

-e.m.b.

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

“And the Secret Wars ensue within us all, different combatants and different results.”

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

“It is a cycle propelled by the lack of courage and the abundance of doubt.”

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

“A force that ceases all motion.”

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

Desperately Dressed

I like to undress myself alone With the blinds open, lights on

Standing naked In front of strange audiences

Peeling off layers of certainty And tossing it to the floor beside my dancing toes

I like to put on a show For cars speeding passed

Honking horns and flashing lights As payment for my heinous two-step

My smile so devious and shameful That I can’t help but smack it off my face (applause from the crowd)

The anonymous home-wrecker they call me With my provocative dancing for passers-by

Wives scolding mesmerized husbands Sitting dumbfounded in the street

Innocent eyes become guilt ridden As I waltz my way down to the bone.

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

“what now..”

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

Not Hungry

a full evening in summer

warming blood through sun tongues;

french kisses

introduce the fall

with cold lips 

like metal school chairs sharply protruding

into the skin of your under-thigh,

electric;

a constant reminder of the saccharine glow

from the melting summer,

also 

a greeter of fresh chills

effusing from the open fridge;

leftover melancholy

from winter nights before

lingers in the air,

juxtaposed  with free samples

of sweet, thickening breezes,

although it is losing flavor,

the memory of the taste will remain

beneath the white blankets,

tucked in by mother.

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

Body feels hazy, a slow motion picture captured in spiders’ webs: I am for dinner.

e.m.b. (via thepitofpassionnnnn)

[gracebriarwoodwrites]

The house is settling and it sounds like someone is home. No one is except for me, but lately I am less person  and more observer, more ghost than girl.

[thepersonalquotes]

[magic-mess]

🐝 save the bees

🌳 save the trees

🌊 save the seas

[buttonpoetry]

In an older time, we’d have written letters, waited for weeks for handwriting, but our love is kept alive by electricity now. Our love in the shaky hands of the wi-fi.

Talia Young, “While My Love Sleeps I Cook Dinner” (via buttonpoetry)

[thepitofpassionnnnn]

Words I would blend made only poignant mixtures of torment. Resurfacing now, old, stained, smudged copies of dejection, but it is not the same as when first created; it is not agony when I taste it. Instead I clutch this gross batter with bare hands and wring it clean of: self-loathing, hopelessness, isolation, grief, heartache, sorrow. It is a recipe for beautiful poetry, and a damned soul, and a damned soul I am no longer.

e.m.b.