#escapril day eight

[alixx-black]

Night & Day Poetry Collection: Night 26

#Poetry #Collection - combining #Escapril poems with my #MentalHealthAwarness Poetry Initiative poems to tell my #burnout story.

Escapril Prompt 26 / Night & Day Poetry Collection – Night 26 Night 26: repetition It’s been a bad week It’s been a bad week It’s been a bad week It’s been a bad month It’s been a bad month It’s been a bad month It’s been a bad seven weeks It’s been a bad eight weeks It’s been a bad couple of months It’s been a bad couple of months It’s been a bad few months It’s been a bad… It’s…

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#burn out #burn out recovery #Escapril #mental health #mental health awareness #mental health awareness month #Poetry

[lena-oleanderson]

she was buried, she was raised, the scriptures never mentioned it, or paradox, escapril #8

#escapril #escapril paradox #escapril 2021 #escapril day 8 #poetry #poem #poets on tumblr #grief #lena's bad poetry archives #escapril day eight #creative writing #death tw #lena's poetry archives

[flugsvamp88]

extreme dissonance

(28/4/21)

evil done to one will be done to all and when it is complete i will be alone again afraid to live and afraid to die jesus christ what a way to live

c.m

#momoka poetry #poem #poet #poetry #writing #writer #writers of tumblr #literature #art #artist #aesthetic #author #inspired #extreme dissonance #escapril #escapril 2021 #day 28 #day twenty-eight #evil done to one will be done to all #spilled ink #spilled poetry #writeblr #poetblr

[twohauntedhouses]

a love letter to my friends. escapril day 8: hometown

#yes i know day eight was two days ago #im in quarantine ill do what i want #but for real this prompt was so cute :) #escapril day 8 #escapril 2020 #also i skipped chemical reaction bc i have no thots on those but i think im gonna do natural light later today and today’s prompt #my writing #lily lore

[nevertrustablueberry]

the shower is hot enough to steam up the mirror before i have to look her in the eyes, stalking my route i almost feel okay in a bath of fabric. when i catch a passing glimpse in the shop window it’s just another figure, my face oddly crooked on the head of the woman drinking coffee and looking like she should. like i should.

at least some of my gender is in my legs but my mother will never understand that unable to hide her disgust when i wear shorts and i don’t blame her sometimes it hits me in nauseating waves these grotesque extensions of myself. but mostly i (try to) forget that i am grounded in this body often blissfully unaware of anything except the eyes im peering out of. there’s nothing more or less my body could be, i don’t try to love her just ambivalence is enough for me

#escapril #day eight(?): naked #i am all over the shop and way behind and im sorry this is just how things are #this is barely a poem more just a musing but sure

[holymolypestoaioli]

1. yes it’s an interrogation (who let u be this talented). 2. my prompt is competition based gottrosenali xo

you’re so sweet ilysm :(( can’t answer ur question bc honestly, what is talent??????? i only have many thoughts that feel like spaghetti in my brain.

just wrote some gottrosenali so i wasn’t 100% sure if i would be able to pull through, but here’s a little something (also, i apologize, i was writing poetry for escapril before this and it really shows)

Blow a kiss at the camera. Toss blonde hair over his shoulder. Smile so wide that it threatens to split halves into halves into halves.

“That’s a wrap!”

All eight of them are quiet when it’s over. Not a single word from anyone’s mouth, not even Kandy’s. They’re all as silent as the dead, even he who has never felt more alive in his life.

He falls onto the giant puff of Rosé’s sleeve with a sigh as large as his lungs will allow. He’s spent the last three hours fighting him for control. Now that it’s over, he knows from the slow steadying thump, thump, thump in his chest that they are okay again.

They’re ushered off the soundstage and back to the werkroom. The buzz begins anew as the masks fall away. A makeup wipe here, a wig tossed across the room there, and boom! They are celebrities no more.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Rosé pulls him into his side and he’s sure that if he weren’t so tired, he’d cry. Instead, he turns the tears into wine, lets them slip down his throat until he goes dizzy from the joy that he didn’t know he’d been holding back.

“Ugh, I love you.”

“Wait, let me join!”

Denali runs across the room and wraps his arms around their necks. He feels him laugh against his back and he swears that he’s never been happier before.

He has many friends. It’s always been the running joke that there are concentric circles all around his body, turn people into safehouses when the world is unsafe for someone like him.

He didn’t expect to find friendship here. No, not friendship, a bond that runs so much deeper that he doesn’t think even his art will ever be able to capture it. He finds it in between their mingling giggles and the kisses that Denali presses proudly into his hair.

It’s not buried deep nor is it out for the world to see. It’s something that crawls right under his skin to keep him company tonight when the hotel room bed feels too big.

They continue to hold each other as the events of the day start to seep into their bones, turn them back into the people behind the feathers and dresses.

They shall not dance, shall not sing, shall not speak. They only crash on the couch as they wait for the van, heads pressed together as night greets the pavement with the most loving of hellos.

One by one, they pile in to make acquaintance with the moon. It kisses them good night the way they wish they all could.

#gottrosenali #rpdr fanfiction #snowbun does prompts #ily thank you for this prompt

[pocketsizedquasar]

and day eight, some yearning Queequeg. it’s always harder to write for him but always satisfying when I get him right.

other escapril stuff here

transcript:

"escapril" day 8: hometown "and i keep you safe from harm/you hold me in your arms,/and i want to go home/but i am home" -riches and wonders, the mountain goats

for the first time in a long time, someone asks me where i am from. he means it sincerely, i think. he means well. i don't know how to tell him home is something i can no longer put words to that it is the image on the back of my eyelids a constellation missing a star i don't have the words to tell him that home is a language i am slowly forgetting that my memory is a stone the ocean beats against that my body is a riddle my heart beats against so i do not tell him that. (not yet).

instead i tell him the story i tell myself: of a home that i remember, of a language that's still mine.

again, and again, he asks me of home. aloft or below, night or day, stumbling against me or sober, he will ask, never pushing, never forceful, just curious. and caring.

i don't know how to tell him home looks different now like whispered stories and yellow hair like a passed pipe and a circle of friends each their own point in this strange new constellation and i don't have the words to tell him that when he looks at me and laughs (and all the stars are in his eyes) it is in a language i understand.

#escapril #escapril 2020 #ishmael #queequeg #mobydick #moby dick #classic lit #classic literature #writing #poetry #herman melville #quasarwrites #the gay yearning is strong with this one #writing for queequeg is hard because despite the fact that we are centuries apart #and come from wildly different cultures #i project So Much immigrant struggle TM onto him #and i kno i need to be careful about that bc #his experience is Very different from mine #but still #he is fun to write for #i adore him #i adore him and ishmael so much

[maybe-love-cant]

escapril day eight - hometown

I don’t have one hometown, I have two. 

See, it worked like this. Primary school memories exist of me riding my bike for just five minutes to school, hanging out early at the fence of the grounds. 

Secondary school brought a new school, new friends, a new town. And more biking for me, thirty minutes to and fro every day.

It was hard getting used to it. I didn't know anyone, I didn't understand the directions people gave to places, I didn’t understand the memories my friends had of their school days, I didn’t know the traditions that were so different only a few towns over.

But eventually I learned and adapted. It was like learning a second language; eventually I was bi-townial. I forgot street names from my native town and I knew more about where my new friends lived than the shops down my street. Like with every other new language, you start to forget old stuff. 

Maybe it should have scared me, as my hometown was a part of myself that was now slipping through my fingers. But I wasn't.

Whenever me and my friends hung out, I was reminded that I needed to bike home longer than them. Whenever I went over, I wanted to make it worth the journey and so I never spent a day bored. Whenever they told me stories I didn’t get, I told some of mine. 

People like me, who grew up in a town by a lake, and people like them, who grew up in a town close to the big city, were not so different after all. 

And eventually my towns merged, my two worlds collided. I was still that girl from the far-away town, but I now had a new town to call my home. And how cool is that?

#escapril #words #poetry #hometown #personal #escapril 2020 #writing

[pocketfullofsunflowerseeds]

A Love Poem

A clean home

A ready meal

A smiling wife

The things that make a good life.

Olive held the rough paper between her hands, reminded herself not to tear it apart.  There was little room for sentiment in her world, the things she had from her aunt were numbered.  If it were gone now, it was gone forever.

Little was salvaged from the wreckage of the fire at least her mother got it all.  Doug feigned unbearable grief, keeping Alaina’s things would break him entirely.  Sara saw through it all, of course, but gladly took the poem he wrote her sister and the rest of her belongings.  It was enough to fit in a small black trunk, now filled with what Sara left behind.  It was the heaviest thing Olive carried.

Her mother had been over the contents a hundred times.  Each time wanting to see the messages left behind, something to prove it wasn’t an accident.  Olive was shielded from what drove her mother to the darkest places.  Now, Olive would take up the mantle.

A sharp knock on the door startled her out of her reverie.  Without much thought, she threw the cover back on the trunk and slid it underneath her couch.  She snuck a glance through the peep hole to see a familiar face, but not one she trusted.  As she began to shift away from the door a loud creak emanated from the floorboards.

“Before you call the police,” Jackon called, “I should let you know, I have donuts!”

Olive didn’t answer.

“Also, I found out where you lived by accident.  My buddy lives on the first floor and I came by to help him move a couch.  I saw you come back from jogging and thought you’d like some carbs to balance out the exercise.”

She wiped a smile away as she opened the door.

He jumped back a bit, nearly dropping the coffee and donuts.

“I don’t hear sirens.”

“I don’t need the police to protect me.”

“I love vaguely threatening statements early in the morning,” he passed over a coffee and stepped inside. “It really gets the blood going.”

Jackson assessed the bare walls.

“Either you just moved in or you're a minimalist.”

“I just don’t have a lot of stuff.”

“No stuff?” he scoffed. “I love stuff.  How can you not have stuff?”

“I don’t need it... it slows me down.”

“You move a lot?”

Olive paused, an idea beginning to fall directly into her lap.

“Yeah.  Habit, I guess.”

“Interesting.  Where have you lived?”

“As a kid...” she thought for a moment.  “Washington, Rhode Island, Oklahoma, for a bit I thought we’d settle down in Canada, but immigrating would have been too much of a hassle.  Nebraska, Oregon, honestly a little bit of everywhere.”

“Army brat?”

“My mom just didn’t like to be still.”

“She sounds cool,” he smiled as he ran out of things to look at and rested his eyes on her instead. “Is she still traveling around while you’re in school?”

“No...” the lie came out easier, the more she told it. “She died of cancer a little while ago.”

His smile fell, as they always do.  Hearing “cancer” gets everyone, but it’s more digestible than the truth.

“It’s okay,” she said, anticipating his condolences.  “It happened pretty quick, pretty painless.  She was at peace with her life when she died.”

As he sat on the couch, she felt like it would be odd if she didn’t sit with him.  Her mother had taught her a lot of things:  self-defense, survival, how to get out of a locked trunk, but she never taught her how to entertain guests.

“My dad has cancer too,” the words came out like a confession.  A secret he wasn’t supposed to tell. “It’s... It hasn’t been quick.  He’s been fighting it for years, but... we’re starting to think it’s not going to go away.”

Olive tried to cover the flush of guilt covering her face.

“It’s okay,” he reached over and squeezed her hand, startled her leg jerked back and tapped the trunk under the couch.

She felt hot, too hot.  Her head throbbed, as it poured sticky red blood.  Smoke filled her lungs and she felt her body burning until she couldn’t feel anything at all.  That was the scariest part, the lack of pain, the lack of anything.  Before it all disappeared, she thought of... herself.   A tiny toddler who wouldn’t know what happen to her aunt.

Just as soon as the flash overcame her, it was gone.

#not a love poem but... #fire tw #blood tw #escapril #escapril 2019 #escapril day eight #writing #flash fiction

[ifinallyamwhatiam]

Escapril ~ day eight

A love poem

(Love poem turned into a someday in the future maybe being in love poem cause I don’t want to freak myself or a certain someone out)

Every day something new.

What’s your favourite colour?

Tell me about your family.

Play me that song again.

What’s that one called?

I put some new songs on your playlist.

What kind of Easter egg do you like?

What’s your favourite movie?

You pick today, I chose last time.

Can I just watch you dance?

Teach me that chord.

Can you whistle?

I like your bedroom walls.

I like your half grey hair.

I like your skin and your tiny feet and how graceful you are.

I like how you talk about things you care about and I like how you care about things.

I like you.

:)

#escapril2019 #escapril #prompt #writing prompt #a love poem

[sleepytime-poetry]

escapril day eight

Maybe this is love.

Whispered regrets and blank stares,

Cold fingers reaching out blindly for a hand to hold that left ages ago.

Watching you with her, with that same, empty look I’ve stared down in the mirror, now in your eyes.

An aching, gnawing feeling in my stomach instead of butterflies, saved for the men and women crafted in my mind, built on an unstable foundation of fantasy and lust.

Maybe this is love.

Maybe I was wrong.

#tumblr poetry #poetry #escapril #love #loss #breakup

[euphoreos]

Have you ever tasted guitar strings after drinking green tea?

Used your tongue as a pick, music more welcome than words

And don’t hesitate to use your adjectives for everything beautiful

To water your plants

It’s half-past seven on a Friday

And your friends are getting ready to go out

Familiar lipstick on tight-lipped smiles

Wave to you as you regurgitate your empty stomach into the flower pot.

They’re worried about you,

But they cannot afford to worry about you

They are broke and wanting a drink, but afraid to take the first sip

When they know what happens to drinks from strangers

Hell, it happened when you were sober.

For a moment, they wish they had just stayed home

And you wish you had just gone out.

Your dress still lying on the bed, short and blushing and confident,

Everything that you are not at half-past seven on a Friday

So you get wine drunk in your yellow pjs,

Skin and bone tremors

Keeping your eyes off of the television

And curled into a ball so tight

You are convinced that tonight

You will make it to quarter past eight,

But still

You leave your phone off because, tonight, you wont need it;

There is no one to call

And your hands are shaking too hard to push the numbers.

You are half a bottle of wine in

When you decide it’s not strong enough,

to glance towards the freezer.

It’s is half-past too late,

Long after midnight,

And they are wrapped in each other

The same way you are wrapped in yourself

It is a late wave of the earthquake,

They mirror your falling, but they are able to get up,

They left their glasses at the bar,

But you are holding the empty bottle in your hand,

You have two am written in your mouth,

Sand in your stomach,

You are weighed down.

It’s half-past one on a Friday—

On a Saturday—

And familiar lipstick smeared faces sit in uncomfortable chairs

Staring at a bad drawing of a cat or a mountain or some sort of flower

When the tube in your stomach is removed.

-escapril day 7, start with a time of day

#start with a time of day #sav brown #savbrownescapril #you can fuck the prompts #crappy writer #crap poetry #bad poems #poems #poetry #poets on tumblr #writers #english #writers on tumblr

[insanepoetics]

I used to think that pain is the only antidote to pain. That's how most of my years went by with constant loop of self destructive behaviour. that if i hasten the wound, it would be done and gone. Or if i choose it by my own volition then it hasn't defeated. I took pain , sometimes stirred it up. And at the end of the day I'd measure the dept of my wounds by the same hand that dug it .

— Basil, ________ as a medicine from day eight of escapril prompts

#writer #aesthetics #words #poetry #writing #poet #escapril 2022

[euphoreos]

Climbing the pillars of the cathedral like ladders

And afraid to jump down,

But not afraid to jump across

the pews we can learned to cross our legs

and speak softly, kneeling when we’re told—

We built secret passages to get around the shouting

And used cigarette buds as chalk.

We dreamed of the spark in our stomachs

Inflamed by the first sip of alcohol we’ll take at sixteen

And ended the night with smeared lipstick at the age of six.

I took to fog for granted until it lifted

And I saw the wreckage I had left in my wake.

When I wake

I notice that I have torn the canopy off of my bed

And used it as a rope to climb out of my own thoughts.

Stained glass felt less fragile than I was

So I ran towards it head first

Hoping that scars would be worth just as much

As they did at age eight.

Part of my tongue still resides in my sixth grade

Dance studio where I slipped on my own sweaty palms

And I’m sure my teachers were grateful for the mess because I never learned how to hold my words before.

At age thirteen they told us to keep a bible between us

and I swallowed the sermon whole,

but forgot what it felt like to use hymn books as islands

- escapril day 6, nostalgia

#a short little poem #you can fuck the prompts #nostalgia #sav brown #savbrownescapril #escapril #bad poems #crappy writer #crap poetry