it was a pleasure to burn @volcanowriting-blog - Tumblr Blog

I think, this must be how it feels To touch the ocean floor, all emptiness And grounding. Something solid awash In silky softness. Here, delving into the deep, Deep blue, I am surrounded by the façade of nothingness. Horror lurks Below, above, around, but the sea feels So sweet against my skin. I do not see; I am still learning how to open my eyes. I think you are afraid of the open water The way you are afraid of the open sky, Of places so boundless, They are terrifying. A limitlessness so vast it confounds The mind. We are raised in straight lines, Avoiding cracks in the sidewalk, Afraid, even, of taking a road less traveled, but here There are no roads, no sidewalks, This is more desert than forest and my lungs Feel the ache of wandering too long Without water, without anything To show for my weary feet.

open spaces (v anh)

#poetry #my writing #i posted this on my other writing blog but #since my writing seems to have finally departed the land of lovesick #i could move some stuff back here

I would watch the dust settle beneath my nails, climb through clay and earth with bare hands and torn feet to search for that little bit of stone we lost, something sparkling slipped into the sordid sewers. The waves have swallowed me whole, kissed my lungs with salt water and drowned me, whispering “this is salvation” and I did not cry for I have suffered the desert for those same sands to suffuse themselves in wetness and devour me whole. I would watch a thousand empty sunsets to reclaim the oasis we forgot, but the sea has been calling for a very long time, my dear, and, I think, it is time I returned home.

I loved you once, a long time ago.

#spilled ink #my writing #poetry #riight this was the one i forgot to transfer here #anyhow #from like m o n t h s ago #at least i think i didn't post this here yet?

“I built you a home in my thoughts, All mortar and memory. I loved it for so long, Four walls and my fingers trailing Over every inch. When the splinters finally bled My hands dry, I called upon my ocean, my deep-sea depths and I said, “ocean, take This house away, it was never anything but four walls to me. I watched with open eyes when the waves bore down, I watched until the house was gone. Nothing left but mortar And memory.

mortar and memory

#my writing #spilled ink #moving writing from *blog of shame* to *blog of less shame*

I wrought your silhouette in iron, hung you beside the mobile in the nursery. I carved your likeness into crumbling stone walls along cobblestoned streets. I spilled pitchers of ink onto parchment to pretend you had not left me alone with my thoughts.

(excerpt) self-preservation

#i've decided to move a bunch of old stuff from my *writing blog of shame* to my *writing blog of slightly less shame* so #mine #poetry #q

Well, it’s me again. The clothes you shoved under the bed the other night? that old paper you tossed in the trash, hidden among old math problems and pencil lead? also that one journal you hide behind your textbook because your charcoal was too weak to be seen by the outside. I’m back. I’m clawing at your insides like a swallowed screw, a fissure in your plastic-case chest and I’m your bedroom door you locked when you were thirteen after you decided screw it and used your own nails. I’m your blue sneakers on the blue floor in the blue bathroom with your blue, blue tears leaking out the stall door. I’m the clock on the wall during the test, the tapping of pencils, vomit in your throat when you exit the room, running somewhere where people can’t hear you scream. I’m the vocab essay you wrote when you were twelve that ended in “blackness”, the short story about the girl and the cliff. I’m the abyss, dangling at the edge of your toes, begging you to love my craggy nothingness. I’m back, I’m back, I’m back. I missed you and I’m the only one who ever will.

sincerely, yourself.

#writing #spilled ink #poetry #i think this is the worst poem i've ever written and that's saying a lot

The ocean-deep sorrow of an organ heaving hollow hopes, / the church choir sobbing in the battered pews, / hands like tissue paper, a trembling too violent for prayer / Cello strings picked raw, scattered bones / from an empty carcass across the staff, / bow strokes lying like lead inside my chest–– / This was the dirge marching onwards within, an eternal mourning, an eternal knowing / of something about to be lost. // But my God, you walked in, / and I saw the conductor's baton / drop like a pin.

and the whole orchestra froze (x)

#poetry #spilled ink #words #writing #my writing #ehh #it is too late for this shit

A mind could never be a sanctuary. Here is a battle ground, blood-soaked earth cracking, splintering the minefields of your thoughts. Wild things live where appetite huddles, afraid, oppressed and weary. No rest is found in sleep. In my dreams the monsters are stalking inwards, and I am the vertex of their converging blades, and that mad old king is still singing: kill, kill, kill. The iron handles were churning my palms to butter; My eyes to stale candy, and she was grinning that sharp-eyed nail-toothed smile and laughing and as we were running and my feet were pounding the boarded floors, heartbeat and the sound of wings beating, the jungle was screeching four words: you are not enough. Only one promise I could never keep, For, though weary, my mind refused to sleep. Wise men forgo the moon for sake of light, but I have captured the fancy of night. A moonless void, a vacuum of old sighs: regard the vacancy within my eyes.

my mind is a battle ground, not a sanctuary (x)

#poetry #spilled ink #words #my writing #writing #idk #I wrote this a while ago #lol random rhymes in the last stanza wtf

If memories fade with the fog, you must have been something far stronger. They said, memories drift, disappear, but you were eternal at once. The life within you bursting, the crest of a wave always progressing

3 Haiku For Memory (i)

#poetry #spilled ink #haiku #my writing #oh my god i am descending into haiku save me i must be lost for good #wtf ava wtf #shitty haikus wtf ok just wtf #no no stop #i will delete these later no worries k

In my dreams the monsters are stalking inwards, and I am the vertex of converging blades, and that mad old king is still singing: kill, kill, kill. The iron handles were still churning my palms to butter and my psalms to dirge, and she, that fury of chipped wires, was grinning that sharp-eyed nail-toothed smile and laughing, and as we were running and my feet were pounding the boarded floors, heartbeat and the sound of wings beating, the jungle was screeching four words: you are not enough.

You are waiting on the edge of a cliff, and you are afraid (i)

#poetry #spilled ink #words #writing #my writing #bc

There is a forest lingering just beyond your peripheral vision, its branches grasping at the tinted edges of your mind. Before you lies a city, smoke stacks screaming against the sky, grayness hacking out lungs into the pale midday air. Or is it sunset? Perhaps it is sunset, the soft pink of chemicals swirling hazily around the rising moon, too dazed out to burn loudly but just alive enough to wipe faintly at the clouds with trembling fingers. A tangible confusion permeates the air, mingling with a distinct distaste for all mortal matters. This city of fallen idols cares naught for the grimy reality of their streets and sewers, instead hiding among the visions of their pale skies. You understand that someday, when you are older, you will forget this city. For now, you pledge yourself to hollow metal, wipe the sour stench across your skin and call it beautiful. When you were younger, your mother used to tell you stories about a different type of city, a suburb where sidewalks were neat and shoed feet tapped nicely on freshly frozen ground. When was there ever a life beyond this? The screaming of the organ in the church, praying for the couple to live, to sway. A passion that runs so deep it feels like a prayer, words you whisper every night without understanding a thing. Was there ever truly a forest? Did nature forget to call you? Sob, child, over the stone castles you abandoned when you gave yourself over to whirring lights. The cleanliness of the waterfall, of rain against your skin. Is the crisp litter of the city preferable to the soft dirtiness of the mountains? Two sorts of wildness converge upon a single passage; behold, yourself, a vessel unwilling.

#prose #spilled ink #words #writing #my writing #(shh i am transferring this from my other writing blog)

I am sorry that I was not enough for the thunder in your grasp; my tears could not conceal the strikes that tore apart the night sky, beat bloody the moon's broken back.

xx

#spilled ink #poetry #writing #my writing #pshort #te

You were once nothing but scabbed skin and bones, bruised from the concrete, lines dragging at the corners of your lips, tugging your voice inwards, through your organs, and pulling your teeth out your stomach, soaked in flesh and blood. In one hand are flowers and silence. In the other, the beast that screams with redness pouring out the ears, trembling, shaking apart: you, screaming from mountain peaks as the magma erupts from the chamber of your throat, scalding skin raw and pink. Screeches fill the smoke until you devolve into a cloud of ash and sparks, screaming over and over and over until your feet burn from the molten ground and your skin turns sharp and charred in the heat. You stare with eyes made of glassy ponds, lilies in one hand and knives in the other. “Speak up." They laugh. "Speak up. We cannot understand what you are saying.” You become bicameral, divided. The judge raises the gavel, states: “in one hand, a self that is moral, that heals instead of harms. But in the other, reality: a new world built on corruption instead of morality, steel instead of soil.” So the gavel falls, and you open your jaws, and you watch them shrink and shrink and shrink into ashes.

The Dragon Redeemed (or What She Should Have Said)

#poetry #spilled ink #my writing #tgs

As a child, you were all skin and bones scabbed on the concrete, yellow lines dragging at the corners of your lips, tugging your mouth inwards through your organs and tearing teeth out through your stomach, all bloody and doused in flesh. In one hand are the flowers, magnificent in silence. In the other is the beast shrieking, redness pouring out the ears, trembling, shaking apart: you, screaming from mountain peaks as the lava erupts from the chamber of your throat, scalding skin raw and pink. This is the scene below: the people are screaming so you rejoice because laughter is no more; children are drawn into the flood, sores pouring open over their tangled bodies; screeches filling the smoke until you yourself are a cloud of ash and sparks, screaming over and over and over, a mute chant, until your feet burn from the molten ground and your skin turns sharp and charred in the heat. You stare with eyes made of glassy ponds, holding lilies in one hand and knives in the other. The others are smiling indulgently, an inquisition of virtue, twisted cherry lips and skin like fresh paper. “Speak up.” They laugh. “Speak up. We cannot understand what you are saying”. You become bicameral, divided. The judge raises the gavel, states: “in one hand, a self that is moral, that heals instead of harms. But in the other, reality: a new world built on corruption instead of morality, steel instead of soil.” So the gavel falls, and you open your jaws, and you watch them shrink and shrink and shrink in the ashes.

-- The Dragon Redeemed (or What She Should Have Said)

#prose #spilled ink #writing #gore cw #my writing

He says ‘sign your name on the dotted line’ but lies like these letters are so easy to find. God, I wanted more than this. God, so did you. God, I can’t keep believing in you. Have not they mentioned how easy it is to fall in love with night? The darkness is so sweet, so silent and heavy. I could not bear even a glance towards the piercing of the stark white lights. Here you are on the silver begging me to follow a tune and leap from note to note but I was waiting on the staircase waving goodbye as you dragged the projections from my weeping eyes.

the last contract (xx)

#spilled ink #words #writing #poetry #my writing #(ahem: my crap writing)#tgs

someone is screaming, “love / is holy”: is sorrow your new religion? the blood / of hearts torn to pieces, the sweat / of sunlight sighing: / is this your precious prayer? tear the gospel / to shreds and braid it into threads / to bind our wrists; do not touch the sacred, try / to forget the tear tracks on your cheek. Ask / and everything shall be taken. Cursed are the heartless / to die whole. Cursed are the lovers / to die half-broken. Our father who art in heaven; / who art weeping behind the door, / Thy kingdom come, Salvation’s sum, / Thy will be done, this war not won / On earth as it is in heaven, this place where monsters are brethren.

#oh look weird and possibly offensive parodies of sermon on the mount #spilled ink #eh an overdone trope #oops #my writing #prose

how can i tell you about the horrors of the night? flavors too bright, colors too cheerful, storefronts worn down from an excess of streetlights. hands clasped as the violins screech. vocal chords shout from the stereo and the wind teases your fingertips. the pounding of concrete, the sighing of tires, the library’s lights hollow and weeping. an ache too bright to face. laughter, so you turn the other way.

#my writing #spilled ink #writing #prose #again putting the large paragraph post into smaller posts k cool thx

i press my palms to the stone walls of your heart and beg nature to retreat. tell me about the silent rose vines grappling with your chest. do they scream as loud as my monsters do? are you afraid too? i never wanted a sun so blinding, but here you are on the pavement, chalk clinging to your arms as we press our names into the earth. if the blackness absorbs all bright things, perhaps we spent too long burning on the concrete. our silhouettes are all that remain, pastels that sob and flee beneath the rain.

#my writing #spilled ink #idek #unfinished #not poetry #prose #?#maybe #yeah walls of text are intimidating i get it #shortening walls of text into shorter posts

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

it was a pleasure to burn