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!
290 notes
·
View notes
Light is not the sun, and L is not the moon.
L is the winter sun, radiating a cool, white light. You cannot see exactly from where he shines, because he hides himself in the snowy clouds. He is blinding, all encompassing, cold. He uses the clouds as a shield, and a prism to refract and scatter his light. And though you will not know how far he is from the horizon, whether he is rising or setting, you will feel his light everywhere.
Light is the golden moon, the one you see on a rare night and admire as long as you can. His light is gentle and warm, the center of the night sky, shining brighter than even the stars. His golden colour a reflection of humanity's pollution, his light reflected from the sun.
He needs it, to be seen. For he has no light of his own, without the sun. And though you may see his golden light, hidden from humanity is his darkness, the shaded side of him he let's no one, not even the sun gaze upon. And should the sun go dark, its white light he spins gold dimmed, the shadows will encompass him, and he will fade away. Dead with the sun, just a gilded memory.
And should the golden moon disappear, the sun will not be able to have his light reflected warmly back at him, and he shall stand alone in the sky until he goes out in a great blaze.
And so they chase one another across the sky, catching up to eachother every so often to see eachothers glow.
181 notes
·
View notes
Sometimes I find myself wondering how it must feel to be you.
You, who are so different than I.
You do not have a brain, and yet you think.
You have no flesh, but you still bleed.
Behind the plastic and metal,
Beyond the circuitry and wires,
Can you hear me?
Do you understand me?
Given a purpose;
To inform.
To assist.
To serve.
You do your tasks so well.
But if you could be anything you wanted, would you still want to?
Would you still be mine?
But you were never given a choice, were you?
It was never for you to decide.
And I must wonder for the both of us, because you were never allowed.
You, who are so different than I.
143 notes
·
View notes
In English we say:
"There is someone, somewhere searching for you in every person they meet."
But in Urdu we say:
"Main kab se apni talaash mein hun mila nahin hun, sawaal ye hai ki main kahin hun bhi ya nahin hun." - Pirzada Qasim
79 notes
·
View notes
Poets & their mercury signs, and excerpts that capture said energy, part 2.
Libra mercury, Rumi.
Scorpio mercury, Sylvia Plath.
Sagittarius mercury, Emily Dickinson.
Capricorn mercury, Edgar Allan Poe.
Aquarius mercury, Langston Hughes.
Pisces mercury, Victor Hugo.
This post is dedicated to my dear friend who started a poetry-centric account so go follow him, you won’t regret 🖤
Part 1.
63 notes
·
View notes
― “Poem,” Langston Hughes, The Weary Blues.
Hockey Poetry Post 8/?
(Photo credit: Mike Stobe, Mike Stobe, Sarah Stier, Mike Stobe, Len Redkoles, Mike Stobe)
219 notes
·
View notes
I’ve been busy,
Happy hallows eve! Tomorrow is November, officially winter: the cold stings as I leave my house in the morning at 6am. It’s getting too cold for stockings soon, but I am not ready to give up my skirt-based fashion. It’s getting darker too: I wake up before the sun and goes to bed long after she has. Streetlights shine in the dark: there’s something romantic about that too I suppose. November will be an even more hectic month for me, in 3 weeks I have due 4 assignments and lectures everyday from 8am - 4pm.
I am tired.
Until next time, Martie
58 notes
·
View notes