@tinydancerinyourhead - Tumblr Blog

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the food is bland

the day is long

i miss the taste

i miss the song

the mood is dark

the colors fade

i miss the light

i miss the rain

the grass is dead

the whimsy null

i miss the zest

i miss the bold

the well is dry

the pain is caged

i miss the ocean

i miss the rage

#tinydancerinyourhead #personal #poetry #poets on tumblr #writing #writers on tumblr

robertjw4688

I gamble my entire body

on the taste

of maladaptive coping.

My hands are shovels

that bury time alive

in salt and sugar.

I write

epitaphs on chalkboards

with teeth better suited

to chattering

than messages

and pray

I'm finally satiated.

anthill-woman

here's the poem where i got my username from

i was your dog in the spring

belly up, i barked for you

circumnavigated you

bit my tongue around you

traveled miles for you

i’d be your dog in all seasons

i’d be a fool for you

#tinydancerinyourhead #personal #poetry #poets on tumblr #writing #writers on tumblr #excerpt from a book i'll never write #writerscreed #spilled ink

takingstockofwhatmattersmost

The Architecture Of A Failed Collision (The Sun And The Moon)

the orbit is a locked jaw a machinery of perfect distance he is the burning anvil...furious and deafening she is the cold, white curve of the pendulum they are forbidden the mercy of collision cataclisym...caucophony so the atmosphere must break to bear it the rain does not merely fall...it is hurled a million silver wires strung down from the dark trying to stitch the daytime to the night it begins in the humid, collapsed lung of his afternoon a swelling ache thick with ozone and bruised dirt he boils the sea just to reach her pushing the vapor upward like a heavy...desperate breath clouding the glass of the sky with the steam of his blinding want but the dark translates all fever into gravity by the time the storm crosses the threshold of the evening the heat has been stripped from the water what rose as a frantic...boiling lust descends as the cold, sharp shrapnel of the drop she watches from her hollow theater of chalk she sees his burning desire turn to freezing silk against the leaves with a quiet, gravitational pull, she gathers the ruin of it drawing the swollen tide a damp sheet over an empty bed this is the vast and weeping architecture of their grief the sudden thunderstorm is the violent friction of bodies that cannot meet the flash of lightning the brief...agonizing hallucination of touch and the slow, gray drizzle that follows that is the quiet turning away every drop a transmission that fails upon impact heavy enough to rise as longing too cold to survive the dark

verrlorenpoet

SNOW SEASON, 2018

pretty-little-nightmare-xx

Come whisper where the quiet shadows fall,

And paint for me the colors of your mind.

Confess the useless facts you still recall,

From the childhood pages you left behind.

Sing me the songs that echo in your head,

The fairy tales that held you through the night.

The gentle lines of prose you often read,

Before the morning filled the room with light.

Tell me the quiet dreams you chase alone,

The favorite hues that decorate your day.

The strangest trivia you've ever known,

The passing whims that never fade.

I long to lose myself within your tide,

To drift away where words and spirits blend.

With every secret that you choose to hide,

I’ll gladly drown in you until the end.

tomalbon

Poem #106

Cepheid

We stand beneath it,

Counting in intervals.

Some of straw colour,

Some of ash, some of gold.

Feel the delay, the pause -

How space opens

Like a diaphragm.

Light always arrives late,

Repeated from memory:

The whirl of a dancer’s steps, unreachable.

Dream-skin, fringed with visions,

Roused with someone else’s eyes.

Lie next to me, even as a trick of the light.

I would make a perfume of your quietness,

Hands water-heavy with cherry, lilac, fuchsia -

But you, the distance, I can never possess,

Your heart of strobing places.

In knowing you, I know how far away I am

From everything else.

I pilot the shape of my body between the

Bright places of your afterimage.

Intervals. Unbridgeable gaps.

Unable to touch.

Still counting.

fur of the cottontail

i am soft in mid day

until light drains from sky

oxblood dress against curves

a touch of infernal rousing

i am one with dionysus

when the night evolves

red wine abundant

you come alive in my hands only

brick by brooding brick

cherry pie machiavellian

smothered candle flame

you smolder, emit power

under my crimson gaze only

in love you are entombed

#tinydancerinyourhead #personal #poetry #poets on tumblr #writing #writers on tumblr #excerpt from a book i'll never write #writerscreed #spilled ink #red

mylovaboxa

knotted threads span

a sovereign, fertile land

subjugated and ruled

alas, I cannot capture you

beneath the taut string

the beat of love’s wings

reticent, steady and true

alas, I cannot capture you

the eye of the needle

few dare to be drawn

and even less get through

alas, I cannot capture you

ss-writess

I mapped your smile through curved spacetime and every graph returned your face, a constant hidden in the laws that govern beauty, mass, and grace.

Like quantum pairs across the void, though light-years stretch and stars depart, entanglement remains preserved between your soul and my poor heart.

The galaxies may drift apart, their ancient architectures roam, yet every force equation ends with you becoming home.

For if the universe seeks balance through each orbit, wave, and sea, then all its mathematics prove you were designed for me.

bluesandbarebones

Transparency

is a thing required of raindrops. I cannot hide my weight in a cloud, nor fall effortlessly across your arms. There is something that leaps when I remember your storm and still, in the warm calm of spring I am frozen, lying in the place where lightning struck a hollow heart.

ten years ago, i held back

tears as the waters rose

shifted around alone

until the wall went down

it was a quake beneath

earth, young mockingbird

unsure how to make it hurt

enough to really matter

when the sound breached

seperated myself from me

how far a path to plead

green eyes too late to unsee

#tinydancerinyourhead #personal #poetry #poets on tumblr #writing #writers on tumblr #excerpt from a book i'll never write #writerscreed #spilled ink

zooeyscigarette

Maybe we would have met, but it would be entirely different. We would run into each other on the street. We would meet thirty years later. I would flip him off in road-rage. He would bag my groceries at Albertson's. He would be famous, I would witness him in a T.V. interview, read about him in National Geographic. I would be a published poet, he would clean my blood off the door frame when the Sawtooth mountains made me, too, shoot myself between the eyes. That could be our story. Isn’t it strange that Hemingway shot himself in the doorway? Was he on his way to something?