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glasswaters · 1 year

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pick yourself off the floor, child. you are not finished.

you still have things to give, in the hollow of your mouth and under that thin skin. there is still gold upon your head and pearls within your gums. your spine still bends just so.

your ribcage has long since started blooming and you've yet petals to harvest from your spine. your heart is beating, and your lungs lay, torn, alive in the pit of you.

can't you see them move? take that breath. open that maw, and drink air from my palms. your shoulders are not worn to dust, and your feet still hold your weight.

the pillars are crumbling, dear thing. the skies are ripping at the seams. another red giant. another sunset. another layer of skin.

you were made for this. don't be silly now. straighten your back and let me wipe all this mess from your dear face. look at me, soiling myself for you. was not this handkerchief once white? however will i get that stain out?

hold on, child. you are not finished. Even torn hands can carry heavy loads. Even phantom fingers can sew.

and you were chosen. don't lay down that honour.

#chosen one #poetry #writerblr #writers of tumblr #poets of tumblr #my work #spilled ink #spilled words #on being chosen #on sacrifice #gore #blood #idk if this is gaslighting but it sure is Something #a dialogue between a hero and their narrative #in which heroics are made of heroes #adventurerswrite

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wheatfieldspoet · 27 days

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as isaac, on the walk home

please, won’t you look at me, father? i can’t erase the memory of the surrender in your eyes if i keep staring at your back.

you held my hand as we climbed the mountain. i felt your pulse through my palm, your grip tight against the sweat. God has called us, you said with urgency, yet you took your time as we ascended.

i can’t remember what i feared more: the blade, the flame, or the aftermath.

who would have made the bigger sacrifice if there was no ram in the thicket— you? me?

or mother?

is there no test of faith more agonizing than to forgive?

but even in my final breath, i would have. i love you even though i may never understand it, if only you would tell me. i don’t ask for much—

father! please. soothe my shivering. i’m afraid the next time i see a knife i might think it’s love.

— Jade A.

escapril day 3: eye contact

@adventurerswritingguild day 3: hand / god / knife

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cjoatprehn · 25 days

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Happy Escapril! I hope everyone’s having a good day so far. I’m a bit late…as I took a break yesterday. I’m dropping my 4th poem this month with @adventurerswritingguild 5th Escapril prompt combined with the 5th Shy Prompt from their lists! Day 5 is “spiral” with “friendship bracelet.” This poem was rather emotional for me thanks to a friend of mine. We connected with a heart to heart via Vincent van Gogh’s work. This one is shorter as a tribute. I’m happy to have written it though.

Songs Playing:

Here’s the poem titled,

Stars Align in the Spiral

[#escapril Spoken Poetry] “Stars Align in the Spiral” by CJOAT for AWG’s Escapril

youtube

I hope y’all enjoy. ^^

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adventurerswritingguild · 1 year

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Please give a warm welcome to the Adventurer’s Writing Guild, a writing community exclusively open in April & August! Public invites close in 2 weeks 🔮

🦋🔗Join us here! 🔗🦋

In 2020, @nashxra and @shylovrs started a writing Discord server called “let’s #Escapril” in dedication to the April challenge by Savannah Brown. We’ve grown a loving, warm community in the years since…but there’s a fork in every road, adventurers. We’ve decided to rebrand to the AWG to welcome every writer from every creed ⚔🛡

Check out our About page for more info, but here's a quick breakdown of what we provide:

An Inclusive Discord Server: Discuss your writing ventures & share your work

Prompts & Challenges: Curated to inspire your writing adventures

Community-curated Playlists: Sate your daydreaming needs

Exclusive Workshops: Held in collaboration with @poetryorchard

Collaborative Annual Anthologies: Free & featuring work from members of the guild

Dedicated Co-writing Sessions: Work on projects with fellow adventurers

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penfull-of-venom · 22 days

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Poetry Writing Month Day 7 2024: "Domestication vs. rewilding"

Where is the line between an act of love, and an act of violence? Our understandings of love are so often tied to concepts of possession. To love something is to have some level of control over its very way of being. Over the course of a relationship, we are expected to acclimate. To become the familiar of those who are familiar with us.

You saw me like a feral cat, left too long away from civilising influences. The kind of creature that needs to be gentled into discipline and understanding of its new place. I was to be taken from my forests and my freedom, and brought into a sterile world of straight lines. A world with no room for error. No room for difference.

But you were wrong. I was not merely the cat, who never belonged in the first place. I was the tree you cut down to find it. I was the river that wound around its roots. I was the dew drops on the shrubbery and the great exhalation of life that filled the space. I was the world of my own self.

The only way for an ecosystem to truly grow is to tend it. But for that you must view it with respect. As an equal and a partner in the great dance of live. You could never have brought me fully into that sterile world. Straight lines could not describe or contain me. I have returned to the wild. I never really left.

And I continued to grow away from you. In symbiosis with others, I sprouted new growth. I sustained them, and they helped me mature in my own time and way. Mutualism provided the fertile soil needed for me to become myself. And you were left staring at a plaster wall, wondering where it went wrong.

#adventurerswrite #shyprompts #amwriting #poetry

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wheatfieldspoet · 28 days

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angels are real, mine lives in chicago

when people ask how i survived 3 years in a graveyard shift, i tell them it’s because i have friends on the other side.

i threw a line out the sea and ended up being found, your tug on the invisible string pulling everything into place.

more than half a day away, but time stands still for us enough to fit years of stories in the palms of our hands.

even if we’ve only shared smiles from afar, your wings cross oceans to carry your laugh to me.

when i make it to you, you’ll give me a place to rest, tangible to match the astral one you’ve already granted.

distance and time zones are nothing at all when i carry you in my pocket, guardian dear.

now, like sun and moon, we trade waking hours. still, i fall asleep holding your goodnight text-shaped hand.

— Jade A.

escapril day 2: change of state

napowrimo.net day 2: write a platonic love poem

for @darlingwendy

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wheatfieldspoet · 28 days

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are we there yet?

how long does it take to go from a state of grief to a state of grace? there’s no map but i’ve crossed enough borders to reach somewhere else— wherever this is.

sometimes the sun shines bright enough for me to forget, but in the rearview i find the shadow still follows, its hand waving.

maybe one day, i’ll be brave enough to invite it in. after all, healing is a dirt road and grief is love’s hitchhiking passenger— i’ll save it a seat. we’ll get there together.

— Jade A.

escapril day 1: change of state

@adventurerswritingguild day 1: peace

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wheatfieldspoet · 6 days

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can’t believe i let you

touch me gentler in the mornings half-lidded and not-quite-there looking at me like a dream

hold me like i was something you wanted to keep, but not someone you were afraid to lose

apologize for not being what i want when i wanted you anyway— and you knew damn well

treat me like a quick fix, drink me up to enjoy your company until the high wore off

fixate too much on your own despair, and fantasies of your death someday, to appreciate the life in front of you

spoil what was supposed to be fun, leaving me sick and sour, almost stealing my sweetness

become a learned-the-hard-way reminder to take men at their word when they tell me i deserve better

— Jade A.

escapril day 19: a reminder:

@adventurerswritingguild day 19: sour & trying

@skylerwitherspoon day 19: Where is your rage directed at right now? Write a poem speaking directly to that.

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wheatfieldspoet · 17 days

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holding my heaven

my boy i look at you & want to cry you light my life with the sun & sky in your eyes

make me atlas when i hold you in my arms though i can’t carry you around except in my heart

cumulus fluff soft as cotton warm as a hearth you are sunshine even though you love puddles

— Jade A.

escapril day 12: oh, the light!

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wheatfieldspoet · 16 days

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a martyr’s grudge

i have this dream about an alternate universe where we both get what we want, and i know it’s the bad ending because neither of us deserve it. i’ve seen what happens when selfish people get what they want and it’s never good. yes, we’re selfish, though don’t have to tell you that— you were self-aware enough to ask— maybe only retract when i said you weren’t. every apology you sent was warranted, but my forgiveness for your sins was given unsparingly. i’ve martyred myself plenty enough times for you and that’s what makes me selfish: thinking in my naiveté that the sinner could love a martyr, that the martyr could bleed love if it suffered at the hands of the sinner, that the sinner would have enough guilt that it would turn into love. really, we’re both sinners, but my blood on your hands makes me the better one out of us both. scars deserve sympathy, after all. and what good is all this suffering without the reward in the end? i’ll lick my wounds, get off my own martyrdom, love what you couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t.

— Jade A.

escapril day 14: a recurring dream

@adventurerswritingguild day 14: naiveté

@skylerwitherspoon day 14: Write a poem about a grudge you're holding.

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wheatfieldspoet · 13 days

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regret in retrospect

looks like i got the clarity i wanted, after the goodbye can’t believe a part of me wanted to wait for your love when now i can’t imagine a part of you was ever capable

so embarrassing, to have dreams of you & tell you of them as if my desire would make you want me more as if you deserved any part of my mind, body, soul

my heart was in my throat, i could barely keep it down in every way but literal, i bent over backwards for you convincing myself the sick in my stomach was butterflies

to your credit, you warned you might be wrong for me but that didn’t seem to stop you either, deliberately choosing words to pull me into your black hole gravity

thank god for my pride, strong enough to stop my fall we all make mistakes, but i’ll chalk mine up to experience good riddance, i’ll keep my regrets only in retrospect

— Jade A.

escapril day 16: so embarrassing…

@adventurerswritingguild day 16: in every way but literal

@skylerwitherspoon day 16: Write a poem inspired by the line “Every day we wake up and try to forget our dreams.”

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wheatfieldspoet · 24 days

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love letter in my childhood shower

i loved you at thirteen so i think i’ll love you forever. though i’ll never look, i wonder where you are now; it feels like only yesterday i held you in my hands, my most formative songs inside my favorite color.

i’m sure my bathroom walls prefer your familiar sounds. i choose throwback music for my shower soundtrack and the muscle-memorized acoustics bounce around like me and my bands are the best they’ve ever heard.

the origin of the word nostalgia is homesickness, but i still feel it in the childhood home i’ve never left, in the mirror that’s seen me in all my shapes and colors, in the same shower i’ve stood and cried in since 2002.

these walls have been witness to my womanhood, which is my girlhood, only taller, fuller, and a little tired. i turn on the tap of my fountain of youth, and the rush sounds just like a cheering audience, waiting for me to sing.

escapril day 6: a childhood memory

@adventurerswritingguild day 6: etymology

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wheatfieldspoet · 1 year

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grief, in doses

denial

i think we could have saved you.

anger

they said you hadn’t had an appetite for ten days. ten days. and they didn’t think to call, didn’t think that their pride and stubborn belief in conspiracy should be immaterial in this moment. they just let you sit in your chair and let you fade. i gritted my teeth through the revelation of this sorrowful mystery, biting back the urge to tell them they don’t deserve to cry. they let this happen. they can keep their fucking ivermectin, i want my Lola back.

bargaining

can we go back? please, i had no idea how short the time was. i’m not asking for much, only one more walk—you don’t even have to say anything. just let me lead you down the stairs, one hand on the rail and the other in mine; let me feel the shifting weight of your aliveness before you step foot into your black car. let me have one more embrace to breathe in the scent of your perfume. let me keep your lipstick stain on my cheek. let me say goodbye, but not before giving me the chance to plead for Him not to take you yet. not yet. i’d ask for not ever, but i know that’s impossible, so please—not yet.

depression

when the weight of remembering comes, all i can do is cry. but i’ll choose to overdose on memory any day, to carry everything with me because i’m afraid i’ll forget where i put them down. the color purple, violet, but also garnet. butterflies. poker chips. the queen of hearts. banana rebosado. chocolate cake. ube. durian. a tin can of crackers, a letter opener next to it. the sound of a grandfather clock. “bésame mucho” on the magicsing. rings with large stones that never fit my fingers right but you let me play with them anyway. your hands, always soft. an eyebrow pencil for that time you realized you filled only one brow in, but not until after we were walking around the mall, one of your arches brown and the other grayed. you were graceful in your embarrassment—even if you could never look less than beautiful. i laughed about this with mom recently, and we both burst into tears after the first ha.

anger

i’m ashamed to share a bloodline with some of the men in our family. they survived wars and revolutions but couldn’t bear to plan your memorial. so they left it all to your youngest daughter and i had to be the one to tell my own mother she didn’t have to be strong. i had to feel her break in my arms.

denial

things that don’t make sense: to talk about you in the past tense; to say only Lolo and not Lolo-and-Lola; to see you in pictures and realize we can never take another; that your jewelry and perfume bottles and makeup are exactly as you left them on your dresser; that your perfectly paired blouses and satin camisoles are still hanging in your closet; that one day your things will no longer smell like you.

depression

i remember how it brought you joy to watch me sing and dance; there’s plenty documentation of this on old film, your laughter and applause underscoring the britney spears. you never knew it, but there was a time i was terrified to sing at family events—but i would for you. “moon river” was a song i learned from you. dad played the guitar and i sang to you the whole time. you kept your eyes on me, smiling as you sang the words back. just for me. that night, i made a playlist of songs i could sing with you the next time i got a chance. i didn’t get one. but somewhere in between your novena days, i found the garageband file where you, Lolo, mom, and i sang “somethin’ stupid” for one of your anniversaries. i isolated our vocals together and wept for an hour.

bargaining

can i visit you past the veil and keep no promises? if i am told to walk ahead and not look back, i will give a non-committal nod, knowing full well i love you too much to lose that chance. i’m sorry for all the time i took for granted. i hadn’t even thought there would be a last one.

denial

i am a child again and i am walking with you hand in hand in a field of butterflies. they float above our heads, creating a halo around yours. i giggle in wonder—so pretty!—and name every color i see and can feel the fondness through the warmth of your squeeze. you loosen your hold and nudge me forward gently, telling me to chase them. my delight rings through the air as i skip through the grass. then i think: this is a moment i should be sharing with you. i turn around, only to find a flock of purplewings where you once stood. i reach out my hands to catch one, but they flutter away in a burst.

acceptance

i wake up.

— jade a.

escapril day 10: drug of choice

bonus prompt - @darlingwendy: The Kubler-Ross model, or the five stages of grief, is often thought of as a linear experience. The reality is much different. Playing with a non-linear narrative, write a poem that grieves.

#escapril #escapril 2023 #napowrimo #napowrimo 2023 #glopowrimo #glopowrimo 2023 #poetry #poem #spilled ink #mine #mine: poem #adventurerswrite #grief #grief poem #tw grief

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wheatfieldspoet · 1 year

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good girl syndrome

the thing about growing up a good girl is that i don’t know how to be anything else without knowing who i should impress.

i might as well make an audience out of everyone, but it is impossible to please them all even as i exhaust myself juggling my scripts and roles.

sometimes i feel like existence is attention and the approval of others is proof i am doing something good enough with my life.

but in a discord room on that first lockdown halloween, strangers cheered for “never have i ever” and this poor little good girl had an anxiety attack.

they never tell you how effortless it is: sinking into shame. what do i have to show for being good? the admission that i was 25 and had never really lived?

sometimes i wish i had given into a little more peer pressure, so i too could laugh about mistakes like they were scars from youth with stories to tell.

but despite the time that has passed, it is not too late for a coming-of-age; to define my own right and wrong with a little less fear, needing no one else’s applause.

slowly, i am learning that existence is not performance, and that maybe not everything has to be a story, and that a good life is the one i am living for me.

— jade a.

escapril day 4: attention

#escapril #escapril 2023 #napowrimo #napowrimo 2023 #glopowrimo #glopowrimo 2023 #poetry #poem #spilled ink #mine #mine: poem #adventurerswrite

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wheatfieldspoet · 8 months

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THINGS TO DELETE

screenshots of our texts. the pictures i snapped in subtlety, still innocent, hoping one day i could reveal them in between blushes & giggles. all those private tiktok videos with supposed manifestation audios—let’s not count how many. my routine of checking the daily missions on that game i only downloaded because you asked. the entire app, probably. wanting to text you. wanting you to text me, hinting that you want to come over. wanting you, still; your memory, a frame i compare to the next ones. my memorized timeline of the progression of what we were. the ideas of what we never became, or could ever be. the thought that i could have loved you so well if you let me. (this: at the top of my list.) all these residual feelings. any shame, because i absolve myself now. any regret, because i promised myself i would have none. any hopes of maybe in another, better time—all of this in good time. when it comes around, i’ll be ready. i’ll finally accept that you won’t.

— jade a.

#adventurerswrite #poem #poetry #mine: poem #mine #spilled ink #original poem #poetblr #spilled poetry #spilled words #spilled writing

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wheatfieldspoet · 3 days

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wishful thinking

yield to excitement and euphoria: create stories out of a situation, connect the dots of the stars like a map with a destination.

it is a risk to have faith in things unseen in the hope of something tender; yielding the fruit of hard-yearned labor is a quiet yet complete surrender.

in your suspension of disbelief, let desire conquer the leveled-head, forgetting that soon may follow the lonely longing doubt and dread.

but who is the true victor when one is conquered by delusion? ignorance is bliss, they say— perhaps blind faith is the solution.

— Jade A.

escapril day 22: desire

@adventurerswritingguild day 22: yielding VS conquering

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