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“He is a slow dance of bullets, an autopsy trying to make polite conversation with the guests.”

Our next chapbook contest finalist is Siaara Freeman for the manuscript URBAN GIRL AND WHATEVER WAS SALVAGED. Check out this poem from their book!

prettymelaninqueen

You think you’ve seen her naked because she took her clothes off? Tell me about her dreams. Tell me what breaks her heart. What is she passionate about, and what makes her cry? Tell me about her childhood. Better yet, tell me one story about her that you’re not in. You’ve seen her skin, and you’ve touched her body. But… you still know as much about her as a book you once found, but never got around to opening.

Anonymous (via svshii)

thelovewhisperer

Because he has been a major part of your life, of course you’ll miss him; it’s perfectly normal. It’s like getting a tooth pulled out; after the dentist pulls it out you’re relieved. But how many times does your tongue run itself over the spot where the tooth once was, probably a hundred times a day? Just because it was hurting you does not mean you don’t notice it. It leaves a gap, and sometimes you see yourself missing it terribly. It’s going to take awhile, but it takes time. Should you have kept the tooth? No, because it was causing you pain. Pulling the tooth was the right decision, but it’s going to hurt.

The most followed quotes blog on Tumblr you can relate to (via thelovewhisperer)

I really just need someone to talk to to keep me fucking sane right now...

stargazerinmoksha

Every poem has more truth than what eyes can read, what ears can hear, what tongues can taste, what hands can feel and how hearts can break. You’re the truth in every verse. You’re my truth in every touch. You’re my truth in every spilled ink tear drop falling to the paper and kissing the earth. You’re my truth in every ache. You’re my truth in every kiss that said to the horizon, come back soon, come back soon. You’re my truth in every sound that says, I’m home. You’re my truth and you’re my absolute. If the sky fell backwards and landed on its spine, you’d be there and you’d be mine. If the moon broke itself in half, its sunny heart would still be you. If the sun had ribcages, you’re the flare. You’re the stars and if my hands can’t find your depth– don’t worry, the ocean can’t compare to you.

To my heart (via poetryleftbyher)

unaffect-deactivated20180812

share your favorite things with the temporary people in your life staple your favorite songs to the foreheads of people you’ve known for two weeks dance around in artificial lightning and touch them for as long as you can take pictures with disposable cameras, pin them to cork-boards and write down their dates let them scrawl their names in sharpie ink on your wall, ignore when your mother gets mad at you for it watch your favorite movies with them kiss them during your favorite part write down the taste write down what you hear fill notebooks with their sentences take their hand and lead them to your favorite places count the blades of grass under you record the rocks the tree leaves the sand the hardwood floor read them your favorite books tell them your theories match them to main characters and laugh when they try to imitate their dialect read them your poetry whisper your favorite words in their ear pass them notes with your favorite lyrics give them tastes of your favorite ice cream flavor promise yourself not to forget their disgusted face at your favorite weird food smear the color yellow into their palms because it has always been your favorite trace the lines that crack the paint give them your favorite sweatshirt let them make it their home smell them on you the next time you wear it let them enter your world and include them in your list of favorites and then when they break your heart, you will be forced to conform to the sadness you feel you will have to turn off the radio when that song comes on and you see their smile in the melody you will have to pay for a new camera burn pictures and blame the smoke for your teary eyes stock up on white-out and erase those dates when they pass the next year you will stay inside all day and your hands will shake you will have to paint a new color on your wall just to quit staring at their name while you try to fall asleep you will paint three, four, five coats atop their handwriting and at night you will still be able to see it you will have to go to the movies and categorize new favorite scenes when that movie plays on sunday morning you will taste them and it will taste like cold coffee and eventually you will be strong enough to change the channel you will tear pages out, buy new notebooks drive by your favorite places and don’t stop you will have to read new pages find new characters its okay if you catch yourself running over the spine of the book you woke them up to read at four AM buy a dictionary and find new favorite words make up new favorite words and drop them into casual conversation eat new icecream, try more weird foods at restaurants you can’t pronounce look at colors more closely and determine a new favorite buy new clothes ones that smell like mass production and the local mall you will leave the world you gave to them and you will create a new world with new favorites with new songs, words, memories, places, books, movies, foods with new pieces of you and you will let someone new enter that world they will tear chips of paint off of your wall and ask you what your favorite color is its okay to hesitate say blue.

how to force growth / k.s (via unaffect)

thingsaresomuchniceruphere

A Poem to Ever Girl I've Ever Fucked In The Back of My Car by Elijah Pearson

Breathe Deeply

Mellow to the fabric like cigarette ashes and we will become one in this cramped car. Backs arched, movement stifled. Close your eyes so I can’t see my reflection in your pupils. Breathe deeper so I can’t see myself in the windows. I am nowhere near strong enough to hold the weight of the reflection of my soul

So breathe deeply

This may be the last thing we ever talk about so don’t tell me you want it harder, tell me about your troubles, breathe your worries into mine and we will create a beautiful collage of anxieties that will cover the windows for everyone to see and keep breathing loudly. I don’t want it to be too quiet on the way home. I don’t wanna hear myself fucking think about you anymore

I’m sorry, It’s not that I don’t know what to talk about. It’s just that I feel guilty driving you home knowing you’re still shaking, knowing you’re still breathing hard when I was never breathing at all

How do I tell you that I just wanted to feel something for a little while?

How do I tell you that I only write love poems for girls who want to fuck me?

How do I tell you that I traced every goose bump on your skin; formed constellations with your freckles to convince myself that you are the universe? As empty as me. And you won’t miss me when I’m gone.

I’m sorry. It’s not that I’m using you it’s just that I’m drift wood: every abandon rotten piece of you for a shoreline where I can rebuild

I’m sorry. It’s just that I want to feel myself in someone else’s skins. On my first date with another girl I’ll tell her about you; about all of you.

Do you know how many girls I’ve fucked in the back of this car?

Do you know how many girls I’ve seen shed innocence one layer of clothes at a time until they’re in front of me, wide eyes, raw skin. A layer of them no one had ever seen before.

Do you how many untouched things I’ve rotted in the back of this car?

I’m sorry, It’s not that I’m using you it’s just that I’m terrified of fucking with the lights on.

I’m sorry it’s not that I’m using you it’s just that I’m terrified that if our eyes meet for too long I’ll fall in love with a part of you that I cannot hold.

I’m sorry, It’s not that I’m using you It’s just that I’m terrified of your scent, terrified of the perfume you spray on your wrists.

I know I’m hauling through the things we’ll never say. I let myself fall in love with every unanswered question in this car and I will never call to see if you felt it too because the only thing scarier than being alone is not wanting to be alone.

On my first date with another girl I want to smoke her to the filter and throw her away. I want to eat her whole without tasting her heart.

It’s not that I’m using you, it’s just that I’m trying to convince myself there’s a way to love without having to love back. That I can be in an open embrace without lifting my arms. I just don’t want to let you close enough to hear me breathe or if I breathe to deep and tell you everything.

—

Link to Original video here (x)

thesecretletter

When she touches me I die. I’m completely, utterly, and profoundly in love with her. I’m so lucky to love her. She doesn’t think anyone loves her, she doesn’t even know I love her. I wish everyone could love her the way I do, if they did they’d understand why the moon shines and why the ocean is an ocean and why the sky is the sky and why the stars are stars. Everything makes sense with her. I will tell her how I feel some day, I know she doesn’t feel the same but she should know how I feel; so she won’t say no one has ever loved her. I do and I will never feel the same about anyone else and I also wouldn’t want to because no one is as captivating as she is. No one is better than her she is everything to me, even if I am very little to her.

Your secrets are safe here (via thelovewhisperer)

wnq-writers

Reach into the depths of her soul. Don’t be alarmed by what you find. Let the dust and ashes mark the tips of your fingers, Realize she is an old soul, with a tranquil and sagacious mind. She’s already seen and heard it all. She’s died inside a few times.

viejawanderingsoul (via wnq-writers)

d-e-a-d-girl-walking

he’s gone okay? let him go. i know that his laugh was the soundtrack to your summer and when he kissed your lips you could feel fire in your stomach. but he left, he’s not coming back. you don’t know why and you probably never will. thats part of what hurts the most. the silence. maybe if he had yelled or at least said goodbye this pain would be a little less extreme. but you can’t change any of that now. you cant make him come back just like you couldn’t make him stay. and thats okay, that isnt your fault. your soul is to big and encompassing, not something he ever knew how to handle. I’m sorry that everything feels heavy on ur shoulders now that he’s gone. you don’t deserve how the world turned blue, you deserve to see this life in all the color it can offer. but you should know that this world can be just as colorful without him in it. you will be okay without him. it’s hard to see it now but letting him go is the best thing you can do. I know you loved him and I’m so sorry he didn’t recognize the immensity of your greatness. but baby you are more beautifully complex than the deepest oceans and it’s not your fault that he prefers puddle jumping. so I know it’s hard and your allowed to miss him but it’s time to move on, to make room for someone that will appreciate everything you are.

(via d-e-a-d-girl-walking)

samxcamargo

If you’re scrolling through tumblr trying to distract yourself from something you don’t want to think about or you’re looking for a sign that everything will be okay, this is it. So, breathe. Relax into this moment. You’re alive & that’s all that matters.

wnq-writers

I wish I was an artist. If I could paint, I would recreate the plains of your face with the strokes of a brush. If I could draw, I would sketch your piercing blue eyes and harsh jawline. If I could write, I would say the words I cannot speak like the way your stare melts the icy parts of my heart or the way your laugh makes my bones jelly. But sadly, I am not an artist. I cannot paint. I cannot draw. I cannot write. Instead, I stay trapped inside my head turning over my feelings until it drives me insane. All because of you. You. You.

art is the universal language of my love for you// thepoetryofmylove (via wnq-writers)

wordsnquotes

I am building a stairway to the stars. I have the authority to take the whole of mankind up there with me. That is why I write.

Bessie Head (via wordsnquotes)

little-miss-tragedy

What does a poet say when they have run out of words? How many ways can they phrase, “I am sad” without becoming a cliche? How many ways can they write about that one person who stole their sense of security before it becomes fiction? How many times can they repeat the same sentiment over, and over again before it just becomes gibberish? What does a poet say when all their words have becoming meaningless?

// a personal dilemma // (15/365) by (DS)