T.S. Writing

Tiffany Smalls is a 24 year old writer from New York. She received her  BA in English from SUNY Potsdam. This page is dedicated to her work. "I love words, and I hope you find something here that you love as well!"

[tswriting-blog]

White Supremacists Are Cunts (And Should Be Written About As So)

By: Tiffany Smalls

A poem in response to Charlottesville, Virginia. 

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On Philando Castile - There is nothing I could write. There are no words That could explain to A child Why her father was murdered In front of her. I do not know any words to comfort A child Trying to comfort Her mother In the back of a cop car. I do not know how to tell A child They will not be getting ice cream With their father. I do not know how to tell A child They can not be with Dada Now, or ever Again. After all this, How could a jury find The words “Not Guilty?” How do you look at A child, Who witnessed The taking of A life as innocent As her own And say “No wrong was done.” How do you look at A child, Now fatherless, And say “He deserved to die.”

Tiffany Smalls (tswriting.tumblr.com)

[tswriting-blog]

Spring

Your hands explore body Like canvas, painting blush Red as roses At the base of my spine Curve of my hips Wander, trailing petals Create gardens in the ruin Bloom spirit and flesh Into bounty, harvest love Spilling from every pore. In my eyes, do you see Me? Soul of jagged mountain peaks Cold and fog-filled Capable of inspiring heights Yet so quick to crumble. Dare your nimble feet to climb Your gentle fingers to burrow into Nooks and black holes Of over-shared daydreams And vivid nightmares. I do not envy you Whose heart runneth over But I admire Your love Your patience Your courage To take the journey.

[tswriting-blog]

Happy Pride to all my Bi Girls!

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Conflict has become a virus

Apology turned disease, shriveling

My voice and my will

I can no longer support

The weight of “sorry.”

But you force me to carry it.

Is your tongue so weak?

With throat raw, I’ll still swallow my pride

Like it’s the cure

For this ailing relationship.

[tswriting-blog]

"There Is A Wrong Way To Write Poetry"

This was not meant to be analyzed. This is a means to keep my life from an end. Disdain drips easily from pen to paper, but look me in the eyes, and tell me that my soul is wrong.

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- @tswriting

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Traffic Signals

You would often run red lights. Ignoring the yellow plea to Slow down. So when I spoke With dandelion breath, Your two fingers Smeared with lipstick Streaked with blood, You thought: Go!

[nothing-but-dreams]

Limerence II:

I’m consumed by this infatuation

The honey sweet enticement

Confuses the brain

Tricking eyes, ears, and finger tips

Into thinking you’re something tangible.

This magic is not practical.

Its spell is sinister, weaving webs inside my mind

That administer the kind of dopamine rush

I only get when I turn my flesh

Inside out.

I do not love you.

That is to say, I love the idea of you.

The warm embrace of a thought that cannot abandon you.

Beloved is the name I gave to a ghost

With the utmost conviction that 

This was not sickness,

But love.

Forgive me,

For I’ve only known the one.

I thought if I memorized the blueprint of your smile,

I could turn muscles to metal, lips to bridges,

And remember what it’s like to be composed of joy.

I wish I could leave this body.

Offer a reprieve from this cycle

Ease the arrival of bile tidal waves

Brewing in the pit of my stomach.

Disgusted with myself for summoning

This kind of sin.

I’m akin to the dark.

Fluttering moth heart

Drawn to the moon.

Lovely lunatic, but I’m not sure who.

In this dance for two,

I choreographed both sides.

I think it’s time I stepped aside

But your eyes speak to me

Even though I’ve only seen them through a screen.

The sadness my empty hands could hold,

A happiness my soul has longed for.

Condolences to this daydream.

Romanticized memories, I bid you

Farewell.

Though there’s truth in what I’ve felt,

I do not love you.

Perhaps, I love the parts of you

I can’t love in myself.

- Tiffany Smalls (3/21/17) 

[nothing-but-dreams]

Mal-Cultured By: Tiffany Smalls 4/2/17

[nothing-but-dreams]

« Pomegranate. »

[nothing-but-dreams]

“_____”

I am nothing. Not gold, Not ash, Not ghost. I am nothing. The vacant awareness Of being alive Without purpose. The eeriness of dreamscapes Holy scripture Of melancholia Preaching to these bones My subconscious  Turned graveyard.

I want the sweet release Of life! Lifted, high Hosanna in ecstasy But death sings Familiar hymns Of dirty needles So close And dirt cheap. Offer sleep To this mind. Turn me to ghost So that I might be Something.

(3.9.17)

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Deconstructive Critisism

I always had a hard time Falling in love With my work. Because I would always be told To tear it apart. Perhaps that’s why I could never hold  This body With gentle arms But could only Make rubble Of my flesh.

[nothing-but-dreams]

Drunk Haiku From My Friend's Porch

Don’t drink when you’re sad. You’re still sad, just more intense. You’ll still be alone.

[nothing-but-dreams]

Zodiac Poems

Leo

Wildfires follow me

It’s the nature of the sign

Opinionated mouth roaring

Manifestation of resilient Gods

Aura, haloed in gold,

Inhaling the sun.

Aquarius

Cool breeze

Skipping like rocks

On the mirrored basin

Wispy whispers, trailing secrets

Salty in the air

Sink into the undertow

Drunk on the sugary-sweet

Veracity of life.

The past can not touch

The current

And you,

Much like the tides,

Are capable of change.

Aries

Walls are not easily built

Out of flesh and bone

But the weight of horns

Is not unlike that of bricks.

Few attempt to chip away

And see the fire behind the fight,

But those who do are never cold.

-Tiffany Smalls (11/24/16)

[nothing-but-dreams]

I Want To Let You Die

I want to let you die, but I keep giving you life  Black and White life lines parallel, repel like magnets. I want to let you die, but I keep giving you life Serpentine tongue tied my present wrap you in bows of torn heart strings send you packing.

I want to let you die but I keep giving you life

I’d bury you in goodbyes but I’m haunted by your smile on a ghost.

— i-still-love-the-way-you-hurt-me (06/02/2016)

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Memo From The Subconscious

These days have been drained Of color Finger tips stained with soot Charcoal laugh Infectious breath Nostalgic for the beast Demons listen Ears open like scorched wings They know what you pray for In the emptiness I thought I found the light It was merely the flicker Of lightning bugs Fleeting and fragile A false promise from youth Left over fragments of dreams So jagged I’d bleed The rainbow back to life If only they’d believe clouds made stable homes. If only I knew more than rain.