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#i guess its poetry
incinerated · 10 months
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COME BURNING ANGEL,
TOILING, ENDLESS IN YOUR GRIEF,
HOWING AND WHIRLING AS THE BLADES PIERCE YOUR CHEEK
YOUR EYES
YOUR RIBS
YOUR THROAT
COME BURNING ANGEL,
SWORD OF ENDLESS LIGHT
YOU WHO ARE IRON, YOU WHO ARE STEEL,
SHATTER ME WITH THE SHAPE OF YOUR SORROW, THE ENDLESSNESS OF IT ALL
HEAR ME AND KNOW THAT I TOO HEAR YOU
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What Is Dark
The scariest time for me is not the middle of the night. I know what is there when I can't see, the fae, living in their undisturbed bliss, the fireflies dancing in a world designed just for them. No, that's not scary at all.
What's scary, is the moments before that. The dregs of light decaying as the sun sets so I can see the bold beasts where they taunt us. I can see everything I thought I was afraid of as a kid, what I thought was in the unfiltered blackness.
But that is just a metaphor. I fear not what the world expects. I fear the men that hide just barely in the dark, the men that know their unforgivable crimes will be forgiven by the other man. Because that's whats important to them. No one is out and about in the middle of the night. I can see the fireflies. But still I am afraid.
I fear the horrible people that hurt us, that hurt the other women, by saying that the men are excusable because clearly its the woman's fault. Clearly its because they chose to wear what the world sees as "gross".
When will their crimes be seen as gross? When will we get justice for what happens when their backs are turned? Because its our fault that their backs are turned.
When will I not have to fear What Is Dark.
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llovely · 3 months
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here's a fake interview about my me & my girlfriend that i transcribed from my head. enjoy!
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grim-has-issues · 4 months
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i cry
not because i’m sad
but because when you reach a certain point in your life where you can only go up from rock bottom…
you become afraid of the light
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mars-writes-1999 · 1 year
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i wish they saw themselves the way i see them
i wish they saw their art the way i see it
the way they see other art, other people
they work so hard to see the beauty in everything
except themselves, except things they create
My Love,
if you could only believe you are as beautiful as i see you.
if you could only look upon your art as if you were not its creator
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nat-20s · 4 months
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Martin Blackwood writing extremely mediocre poetry for himself and himself alone in his late 20s is like soooo endearingly cringey but then YOU try writing extremely mediocre poetry for yourself and yourself alone in your late 20s and it's like OH. OH GIRL I GET IT!
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your eyes (1996) - original broadway cast of rent (article from genius)
“in an arc that has spanned from ‘one song glory,’ we see roger finally write and perform ‘one song to leave behind.’ unfortunately, it’s bad.”
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rocksalt-and-pie · 2 years
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shout-out to the makers of NBC Hannibal for (clearly) reading all four books about Hannibal Lecter by Thomas Harris and going "hmm. actually we will make the gayest possible version of this" going on to COMPLETELY disregard the other main character and (canon) ?love interest? of the series and never even MENTION Clarice Starling. Like it's so funny to me that she never even appears on the show when book!Will Graham literally fucks off after The Red Dragon and wants nothing to do with any of this anymore and book!Hannibal is obsessed with Clarice in the same way that tv!Hannibal is obsessed with tv!Will. like they really took a whole book franchise, picked out the cherries, and made it their own personal little gay AU. that's so refreshing and should be a leading example in television adaptations. in this essay i will
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thatqueerbat · 6 months
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how do you decipher
the differences and nuances
between friendship and love
platonic attraction or affection
how do you ask
someone to explain
their feelings for you
in a comprehensible way
without making things awkward
is it just too hard to say
'hey this is how i like you'
how do you want to engage?
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spiders-in-the-valley · 11 months
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A pleasant surprise
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bugsoda · 9 months
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oh hush now, there is no need to be afraid of the storm. it is a hungry creature, can you hear its stomach growling? see it's tongue flicking about in the darkness? it's saliva dripping down upon the dry earth?
my child, it is not you that needs to be afraid
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stellarsightz · 6 months
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you devote yourself to Him / live, breathe, sleep, exist for Him and yet, / He stays silent.
i am so so so normal about him i promise 👍
ft. lines from a poem i wrote; alt versions under the cut
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clouds are from Jacob van Ruisadel's paintings -> A view of Amsterdam (c. 1665 - 1670), Road through Fields of Corn near the Zuider Zee (c. 1660 - 1662) and A Haarlempje: View of Haarlem with Bleaching Fields
and my silly poem <3 i dont write poems very often, so forgive me if it's a bit rough around the edges
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hauntedhowling · 4 months
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I want to maul something and feel the flesh and blood underneath my lips and teeth.
Thrash, tear, and eat. After the rush of chasing prey, wearing it out before I can get a jump on it.
I want to smell blood.
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cashmere-caveman · 11 months
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[1] Richard Siken, Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light [2] Being Human S1E5 [3] Clint Smith, When people say, “we have made it through worse before” [4] Being Human S3E8 [5] Guillermo del Toro at the 2018 Golden Globes [6] Being Human S1E6 [7] Allie X, Fresh Laundry [8] Being Human S1E5 [9] Christian Wiman, The Parable of Perfect Silence [10] Being Human S3E8 [11] Hanif Abdurraqib, And What Good Will Your Vanity Be When The Rapture Comes [12] Being Human S2E8 [13] Allie X, Fresh Laundry [14] Heidi Priebe, To Love Someone Long-term Is To attend A Thousand Funerals of The People They Used To Be [16] Being Human S3E8 [17] Christian Wiman, Flight
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dailysquiddo · 28 days
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"the harsh sun beats down on dirt roads full of pebbles and dust.
its harsh rays peel the paint on the slowly decaying houses. all of the grass has long since died in the heat.
most of the houses are empty, and they have been so for a long time. some of the houses have sun-bleached curtains flapping in empty wind, shattered glass from once clean windows now littering the ground in thousands of dirty, yellowed shards like fallen, tarnished stars."
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or, squiddo and ashswag go ghost hunting.
-
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sfsolstice · 2 months
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another lacking baked good, and this time, light mousse only whispers dark cocoa, and bright effervescence escapes orange jelly—
am i growing too ambitious, too eccentric, too convoluted for my own good, or did the years my hands lived forget me?
i fear i have grown too big for this world, allowing half-sincere words to inflate this ego, convinced i could be one of the greats, but
i am no baker, no chef claire saffitz— just a kid who slaps together half-baked ideas and whips ganache into unsavory messes;
nor a poet, no sweet sylvia plath— just a girl who ties drab feelings into words like strings of fake, ugly pearls, and tries
dear reader, to convince you they're worth seeing, and as much as i dig my fists into the ground to pull from it my long-buried conviction,
and as much as this universe allows these insipid words to fall from my lips into the hand that writes half-legible script,
i am no poet— just half-baked words and half-baked dreams, nothing to eat or worthy enough to read.
— s. f. solstice, "there is no dessert"
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