Eileen R. Tabios, ed. by Kate Rogers and Viki Holmes, from Not a Muse: The Inner Lives of Women: A World Poetry Anthology; "Three Coyotes"
[Text ID: “She bleeds without / pain / You see her blood / through roses / lushly-petalled”]
204 notes
·
View notes
Plato said, “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” But Hemingway also said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Because it is in these times that poets write their best work, when they are in love or in pieces.
193 notes
·
View notes
Feel
Promise me you’ll never change
you’re beautiful exactly as you are
Even if I cannot be the lucky one
I shall always love you from afar
When we first met, I remembered
and felt what I’d forgotten to feel
How can I make you feel the same
I don’t know how to seal this deal
I love you, though you’re not mine
for I cannot give your heart to me
You’d be my queen, we’d be as one
yet what can I do to make you see
I write and I cry, I even bleed for you
you're the only one within my heart
And I can see no end to my desire
but you’re the one fire I cannot start
I know forever I will keep loving you
that I could never hope to change
Still waking up alone without you here
will eternally feel a little bit strange
95 notes
·
View notes
bleeding skies | victor m. alonso
81 notes
·
View notes
the raspberry room by karin gotttshall
625 notes
·
View notes
Franz Wright, from Earlier Poems; “Voice”
[Text ID: Hope. They call it hope— / that obscene cruelty, it never lets up for a minute.]
1K notes
·
View notes
just read the most sugucoded poem ever i’m lying on the floor like a sad gutted fish </3
26 notes
·
View notes
Victoria Chang, from Barbie Chang; “Barbie Chang Loves Evites”
[Text ID: “her heart growls / more / each day / her heart is always sort of bleeding”]
580 notes
·
View notes
Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Sometimes, a writer doesn’t just bleed, they haemorrhage.
A piece I wrote in 2017 that I redid.
38 notes
·
View notes
Sylvia Legris is a plenty successful poet as is but I do feel that she should have more Tumblr cachet. Like. Locked Tomb girlies look at these bone verses
Details of Articulated Skeletons, c. 1510
Memento marrow. The treacherous thread of the unnamed. The flourish-stripped reunion of broken parts.
The polymathematician (the osteo-horoscopist) plumbs the anonymous bones, the forlorn unspoken-for. Lead white, bianco di piombo, the poisonous orbit. An algebraic
of discrete desecration. Cancellous bone, cortical bone, an innominately rising hip bone. The acrimonious split of the acromion from the scapular spine. Explode the view . . .
Exploit the post-medieval zodiac. A moon-distending thorax; the gibbosity of the humeral head. The anteriorly tilting ascent of the pelvic girdle. False false ribs and the acute
angle of descent of rib one and rib two. Memento mori. Woe betide the Renaissance bonesetter. Bone-beset.
42 notes
·
View notes
Summoned to cut the throat of a lamb
but sentimental pieces tear this spectrum
far into sunken chants,
purging fractures
across autumn skies
upon the wings of a thousand ravens
bleeding tones from Midnight Expeditions and
take flight.
For the plunge into delirium,
never a lone trip
when dabbling attraction's palatable bones,
decayed blemishes' unconscious canvas
scattering artful silence
looped through allure
endless, animate
clouded-over pigments
bent amidst hopes penetrable troupes
as gloaming lasts only for a short time
here in ruby recesses
reckoning creations to come to life
until I become obscure;
something more
than individuality
evolving
beyond a zombie.
Walata M.
37 notes
·
View notes
autumn will never be my favourite season, but I think there's something to be said about it regardless- this is when nature paints itself in colors of fire and mist fills the tired sky. the ground cracks underneath your boots and the weather cools something in you that you didn't realize was burning (the sun burns holes into your skin, and this is when you let the wounds heal). fancy lattes and fancy aesthetics, playlists for rainy days, watching the leaves fall like you can feel yourself fall for the beauty of it all (death, decaying to grow anew). when it gets cold enough for you to crave the warm embrace of luxury, when the air is clear and crisp and the coat over your shoulders is a gentle shield against the sharper edges. the world is quiet even as it freezes (burns) into another stage, and you are here to bear witness. chaos breeding comfort.
40 notes
·
View notes
Morning
an Easter poem
He steps into the garden’s early gray,
feels dew beneath his feet - wind stirs his hair,
and deep he breathes in scents of earth and herb
and casts off reek of myrrh and bloodied cloth.
How good it is to be alive! The world
is sleeping, unaware it is reborn.
His friends are sleeping too, worn out with grief
and hope, believing both are useless now.
The cross. He glances down at hands and feet,
flexes his wrists, peers down at ragged holes,
laughs softly to himself - a victory shout.
Night bleeds away above the olive trees.
So soon his friends will come and see the tomb;
so soon the world will know that all is well!
But now he is content - a nightingale
sings overhead the coming of the dawn,
and there are flowers to be tended here.
It must begin again with gardening.
He pulls a thorny root, loosens the soil
with long brown fingers, and he starts to dig.
143 notes
·
View notes
I just want to be somebody’s
favorite person. I know people like
me, but no one likes me
more than others. I’m
the backup friend,
the afterthought.
So I’m lonely. I’m surrounded by
people, but I’m lonely, because none
of them want me just for me. Is it too much
to ask simply to be preferred?
101 notes
·
View notes
i beg god to rewind the tape, and rewind the tape, and rewind the tape, and rewind the tape, and rewind the tape and rewind the tape and rewind the tape and rewind and rewind and rewind and
12 notes
·
View notes