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Really fucking sad. No words.

#poems #free palestine

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Mosab Abu Toha, "Interlude", from his poetry collection Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear: Poems from Gaza, available for download here

#poems #free palestine #reblog #others

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a couple phenomenal Palestinian poetry collections i've read recently and wanna recommend:

almond blossoms and beyond by mahmoud darwish

dear god. dear bones. dear yellow. by noor hindi

red suitcase by naomi shihab nye

water & salt by lena khalaf tuffaha

#free palestine #poems #reblog #others

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#I LOVE GOOD SHAPE POETRY #poems #others #reblog

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I know it’s not much in the face of everything but I have been finding hope & resilience in palestinian poetry these past few weeks and I created a google drive file of poetry collections by palestinian poets that I will keep updating as I keep on reading. I also recommend checking out @fiercynn’s palestinian poets series for more poets + poetry available online

#poems #others #free palestine #reblog

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If you're reading this...

go write three sentences on your current writing project.

#reblog

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from Autopsy by Donte Collins

#wow #reblog #others

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T O K N O W A M A N

you can know his preferred ballpoint tip weight, and that his least favorite flavor is cherry; you can know he won’t eat chinese food—the sweet dishes, he thinks, should stay savory.

you can know he loves classic rock on account of his father’s taste, and you can know he likes a bloody mary, and one white wine from that lavish estate.

you can know why he never went to summer camp. you can know every sign of his zodiac. you can know that his mom’s name is tina, and you can know he’ll put it all on black.

you can know that he loves walnut brownies from the convenience store down the street (you can know that he likes them atop a napkin for a minute in the microwave to reheat).

you can know his favorite color is blue (not red, as you first thought); you can know that he hates cinnamon whiskey, and, inexplicably, apple picking leaves him distraught.

you can know he hates a christmas ham, though, too, a hog roasted for easter. and you can know he’d eat it anyway despite its brown sugar coating at the tail end of winter.

you can know he’d sooner walk into traffic than take you to an amusement park; for no matter how deep his adoration, to him, a rollercoaster is not worth the spark.

you can know all this, until there is nothing more— ‘til your mind cycles through all the ways… the ways in which you know a man with whom you spend almost all your days.

you can even know more than his lovers do. but you cannot Know a man into Loving you.

#wrote this one in one hour right before work #woke up with the last line repeating in my brain and i was like 'i like that let me write that down' and then 9 stanzas happened #going thru some stuff x #bi girl blues 😔 #poems #title: to know a man #slant rhymes! getchya slant rhymes here!

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From Waiting for This Story to End Before I Begin Another by Jan Heller Levi (via hush-syrup)

#OW #reblog #others

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I T I S M Y F A C E

i have reached the chapter in which this is no longer your face.

they do not know your cruel smile, hiding venomous pleasantries and wicked advice behind gnashing saw blade teeth. or your harrowing, abysmal eyes that swallow a soul.

they know me first, now. it is my fae they see. it is my voice they hear.

i could show them photos of us, back before the jilting... from a time when the words "you look just like—" bristled my skin under their innocent touch...

i could show them those photos and their eyes would fall not on a low-toner copy of you. i could show them those photos, and they would see me.

in full kodachrome, i am kindness, love, compassion. i am laughter, joy, free. i am me.

and though you do not deserve to exist as an extension of my self, i would let you have this, because i will never be you.

#poems #title: it is my face #happy totally random sunday in may that has no cultural significance whatsoever

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R H O D O D E N D R O N

i sit at my open window with my head on the pillow of my crossed arms against the sill and bask in warm sunlight as i stare out at the lawn on a beautiful spring morning

with soft and sensual oldies crooning along with the birds in the trees, while the cool breeze kisses the gossamer scent of day-old cut grass and pink rhododendron flowers that bloom just below (just below) onto my cheeks, and blesses the halls of my apartment with the gift of peace.

#poems #title: rhododendron #posting a year later in honor of the rhododendron bush that the contractors working on my apartment building tore down yesterday #it didn’t even get to bloom this year

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A  G L A S S  M E N A G E R I E

how i long to catch in vials these tears before they fall. and i wish to wrap around them ribbons—tied neatly and labeled—then shelve them, full to the brim, in a menagerie to catch the sunlight of my good days.

maybe the beams would dance, dressed in rainbows, across the floor. i would smile as the cats catch them as best as they could beneath their fluttering paws (if only this sorrow could bring a joy such as that).

perhaps i would settle a rose in one, pink and pretty amongst the clear. a beauty such as that would surely brighten up my potions (though, stay wary of the thorns).

i’m sorry that it’s not pretty to watch as i break down like this, and i’m sorry that i can’t hide it away. because i do not catch them, and there are no rainbows— no roses left to wither in salted water

(that much i can do on my own).

#poems #title: a glass menagerie

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B E S T F R I E N D

when everything goes awry, and all else is bleak, every single day through the entire week, i reach for the phone and search for your name. you're the person i run to, without any shame.

i want to tell you my secrets—my dreams, too. (i hope you know i would do the same for you.) your kindred spirit keeps me practical and fair, and i like you. i love you! you make me a pair.

#poems #title: best friend #happy world poetry day :D

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Tuesday March 21.

World Poetry Day.

Today is a celebration—but perhaps, like all celebrations, just what we are commemorating is something that we must treasure each and every day. Poetry, some might say, is just that: the treasure that artists mine from the sham and drudgery of day-to-day life. For the poet, their art is found not by searching for the exotic, mysterious, glamourous, or seductive, but by what they find before them. What is mundane and routine is as much material to be mined as life's intensities or spectacles. For the poet, the world really is their oyster. And for the rest of us, the work they produce is that very pearl. And every shade of experience, whether joy, grief, banality, intrigue, and beauty, are encapsulated in words, spaces, silence, images, and form. Whether by skill, or by chance, no one really knows, but perhaps the mess and the mystery are one and the same as its profundity. With that in mind, let's celebrate a good thing. And a good thing that is ours each and every day. It's #world poetry day.

With that in mind, we invite you to mark the day here on Tumblr. After all, there is simply no better community of poets and artists who make up this creative sphere, and the evergreen world of all things poetry is, well, your world. 

And when all is said and done, you better get writing x

#reblog

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T W E N T Y - S I X

twenty-six, not been kissed; wonder which men are worth the tryst. twenty-six, not had sex; wonder if women taste the best?

twenty-six, not been loud; wonder if i'd draw a crowd. twenty-six, not been warmed; wonder how i would perform.

twenty-six, not yet late; wonder when, or if (god's sake). twenty-seven, run me down; let me shout a proper noun!

#poems #title: twenty six #title: 26

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letter no. 7

i guess i haven’t written much lately. to be fair, nothing is really happening, though. i’m just existing. i mean, my emotional state is still very wonky, but i think it will be for life, so that isn’t really surprising at all, either. but this post is about to be very rambly.

i’m writing this in a bad mood, which is something i tend to avoid doing because it always sounds very flat this way, at least to me. maybe it’s just my voice in my head reading this as i type that makes it sound that way. if i was in a better mood, i wonder if this same text would sound the same.

i’ve been doing fuck all in my free time. i’m in the middle of replaying assassin’s creed odyssey for the second time. it was really fun at first, but now it’s getting to the point where i’m running around doing random side quests instead of progressing the main story, just because i know how it ends—and i don’t want it to end. because if it ends, i’ll have to find interest in another one of my hobbies, and i don’t think i really have the energy for that either. i tried doing a little crochet project, and i got bored very quickly. which sucks. i love my tactile hobbies. this is the curse of having adhd, and also living in today’s general society.

i’m still twenty-five. i’ll be twenty-six soon, and this is the first time i vehemently don’t want to go up in age. if you’re wondering, it’s not because i’ll get kicked off my parent’s health insurance (i haven’t been on someone else’s insurance since i was twenty). i just really like the age twenty-five. twenty-five is a good number. twenty-six is too even (i’m not sure this concept would make sense to anyone else). now that i think about it, i just really don’t like even numbers, actually. the only even-number-birthdays i really liked were twelve and twenty-four. i couldn’t tell you why.

though, as i settle in to my mid-twenties, the concept of dying alone is more pressing. i never really cared much about finding a partner or getting married (the reasons for this, though, are a whole separate musing for another post), or having an executor, or life insurance, or anything else “adulty” (this probably has something to do with the fact that i was never able to conceive of living even this long). in fact, i was actively and belligerently against settling down to the point that it was pretty much my entire personality. now, i can’t stop thinking about it.

(i know i don’t want children. i do not want to be responsible for a human being that isn’t me (not including the people i already have in my life. that’s a different kind of responsibility). i do not want to have a person depending on me to take care of them, the stakes being that they would literally die if i were to neglect them. i don’t trust myself to not fuck things like that up, and i probably never will, with the exception of my cat.

i know full well that i will never in my existence create a life using my own body. what the actual fuck is that shit, am i right? you’re telling me that i’m growing a living thing in my body that will then exist outside my body with its own separate sentience? you’re buggin’. that’s some extraterrestrial shit. gross. no thanks. unsubscribe. keep your bodily monstrosities to yourself.

regardless.) i cannot stop thinking about being in love with someone. finding someone to spend the rest of my life with. growing up and growing old with someone who wants me along for the ride. a partnership. my best friend. my once in a lifetime green flame.

but because i have spent so long being vehemently against the idea, i have to rewire my logically-inclined—as opposed to emotionally-inclined—brain to accept that this is something i actually do want. it’s not cringey or weird to want to be loved by someone. and i do deserve it. i think everyone deserves it. i used to think everyone but me deserved it. but i know that’s not true, i just need to convince myself.

all i really know is, i want to love and be loved, and i’ve never felt this way before. i’ve had crushes. i’ve longed for romance. i’ve—countless times—admitted my feelings for someone only to realize that i didn’t actually want to pursue them, i was just attracted to the attention they gave me. i didn’t want to date (i still don’t want to date. i want to be with someone), but i did want the attention, and now it’s hard to tell where that kind of interest ends and genuine interest begins. i don’t know if i will ever find out. it scares me. it makes me feel crazy (and i’m not entirely sure if it’s mutually exclusive from the kind of crazy of people in love).

jesus fucking christ.

#letters #no. 7 #A/N: i wrote this a few months ago. i am now 26 but i stand by this

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rhetorical buzzing | 7 feb. 2023

does it even count as heartbreak?

am i worthy of being heartbroken?

#rhetorical buzzing