#blotched poems | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chucklinggg · 14 days

Text

What will it be?

The love for you is of the aching kind

Knowing it won’t be returned in the way I’d like

I stare into your green almost all-knowing eyes,

Conversing to soothe the edges of my mind

But can I ever bring this up?

Storing the secret burns, the shimmering coal

Maybe you’d be flattered, to know that you’re loved

Slightly discomfited but you’d smile and squeeze my hand,

Asking when did I know?

Or more likely, you’d be horrified and you’d smile still,

But that smile wouldn't reach the corners of your eyes,

Either way, the months will turn into years,

You’ll find your first grey hair and think I had forgot,

Of the love that had kept me up,

That let salt-water weave its way down,

Still not realising,

The love for you is not of the fading kind.

5 notes · View notes

shroom-vroom · 2 years

Quote

people in my comics dreamt in cloud bubbles hanging over their heads when they slept. My hand raised itself in my sleep last night, caught the dream of you and me like a kite and tied it to the edge of my bed. I spent the entire morning, afternoon and evening watching it from beginning to end to beginning to end to beginning to end to beginn- “i have buck teeth”, you said your mouth is a carnivorous flower bending downwards to kiss my cheek, its the erect keys of a harmonium with plucked out reeds. It shapeshifts like a mythical being becomes a thick red carpet flashing bright canine clicks watching my jealousy get caught in glass doors of grocery stores before we swallow golden fizz, your apple-burp in my ear roars motorbike engines to life- I turn to scold but vomit a word too strong for early-twenties to digest- a chuckle escapes your cave where names of politicians hang upside down and tosses the four heavy letters away- just around the near future, (I hope). Your mouth is my favourite thing about you, after your hands and your mind and your laugh and how much you talk about your sister. You asked, "Mummy, did you dye your hair?" as a round about way of telling her she looked pretty; My Pappa's snarky comments about my exam blunders haven't upset me since. My hand raised itself in my sleep last night, caught the dream of you and me like a kite and tied it to the edge of your bed where I laid and watched you tell me news controversies through the toothpaste foam in your mouth as you brushed your teeth.

~ 8hrs Dream

#adreameratdawn #poem #poetry #dead poet's society #poet #writer #writerscreed #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #spilled poetry #poetry pardy #blotched poems #creative #literature #lit #authors on tumblr #prose #poetry prose #sleevesofgrass

12 notes · View notes

literatureandpoetry · 2 years

Text

i forget sometimes how much it hurts

to put your trust in someone and have it thrown back in your face

I guess I’ll never learn how to be cautious

- a.s

#literatureandpoetry #poetry #poets on tumblr #poetrycommunity #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #spilled words #spilled poetry #blotchedpoetry #blotched poems #pardypoet #trust poetry #poem #uninspired #poetry on tumblr

25 notes · View notes

sinligh · 1 year

Text

In the name of healing I bite chunks of myself daily, spit them out in my hand with the intention to wash it away later

Eventually, i end up over analyzing them, like everything else in my life

grafts of all the causes I’m still here, glued together by my mother’s fears

be the Alpha female, she said. “feed on your most beloved, a cup of the moon’s blood every night before bed for you to run alone forever, run wild, never slip”

I Shower myself with self-loathing, lick my own wounds close Keep me sane, keep me safe

loneliness to me is just another insecurity that is dangling from my prefrontal cortex, dangling right in front of my eyes… for me to see the world through it.

I spend hours looking at the bloody chunks in my hand, thinking where did i go wrong ? how much can I hold on to this heartache ?

I've been running around it all my life, running around red lines, red lines circle me, i run in circles around myself I’m all that I’ve ever knew, yet, I only know myself in fading

A distant memory, a deja vu…

All I really know, is that the only stable in my life is the fact that I exist, and that it’s a temporary state.

jamais vu.

will the lines fade if i eat what i bit off of myself again ? if i chew and chew and chew… If i teach myself to stomach it will i be whole again?

is holding on to those pieces enough to satisfy my desire to be held ?

Or does it make me a feral rogue ?

Schizophrenic delusions ticking in my head…

Sometimes I wonder if it’s my fault that I’m this alone…

then again I wasn’t the one feeding myself all the insecurities as a young child.

I wasn’t the one playing pretend.

It was never my fault, my mother thought faking happiness is the way to protect me, it was never my fault father wasn’t interested in the details, as long as I was his perfect girl…

Now, I can’t hold on to anything the way i hold on to the lunatic turmoil that makes me sway and laugh on my own personal misery.

Call it history.

Hide behind defensive humor, get my inner demons drunk on caffeine, mistake that high for happiness cause mama did too…

And wait for caffeine withdrawal to wake us up, both of us…

I’ve never been hangover, but I imagine this is how it’ll feel

The aura ? The migraine?

The urge to throw myself up to be reborn clean.

•••

•Quotes: Olivia Laing/Heather Havrilesky/ Olivia Laing/ Marya Hornbacher/Anaïs Nin/Camille Norton/ Alice Oseman/ eduardo C. Corral/anne carson/ Joanne Harris/ Hannah Green/Hannah Green/Lisel Mueller

•Original context: sinligh

•Art reference:

1. Sasha Hartslief, Late Night Shower, 2021. 2. Getting Up by Vincent Giarrano. 3.illustration by Owen Gent. 4. The Lovers on the Bridge, 1991. 5. "Beverly Edmier 1967' Keith Edmier, 1998

•song recommendation:

P.s: the whole album is a masterpiece ! Give it a try, thank me later.

2K notes · View notes

learningto-write · 11 months

Text

it can't quite explain this feeling

I've heard so much about mending broken hearts, with time, with love, with the right person

but I never hear about the hearts that are so shattered they can never fit back together

I never hear about the hearts that have been betrayed and tormented countless times

I never hear about how guarded and closed off our hearts become, and how truly nothing feels as though it can break through

I never hear about how deep, whirl wind, soul tied love feels impossible - is my heart even capable anymore ?

I never hear, about hearts like mine

39 notes · View notes

protanomaly-0c1420 · 1 year

Text

mania

If I had shouted it loud, across rooftops and valleys Proclaimed it before the world Would the world have given acknowledgement back. A more permanent form. If I pulled myself out of your embrace on that rainy day, shielded my heart from the excitement in your eyes. From the taste of your lips in your car, mixed with the cold of the rain. Pulled myself from the step in front of your apartment the night of our first kiss. Stayed in the warmth of Arizona rather than learning of the warmth of your fingers, lips, eyes, your bed. Guided my eyes away from the sunlight kissing your face in the morning. Stopped it at the start, would my heart have been spared. Kept my palm out of yours in the cold, left your cardigan in the suitcase rather than pulling it tight around me. Never learned how deeply I could love you in the winter months. Would I have kept this mania inside, undiscovered. Would it not eat me out from the inside. Devour me whole in a brand new terrifying way.

5 notes · View notes

cosmicmote · 9 months

Text

The Study of People as Lovers

same painting used as previous Chill Day piece, but with slightly different editing.

does the sun repeat itself?

does the rocket to the moon?

I feel like the poem should be expanded on, in longer form

graphic and words ©spacetree 2023

#artists on tumblr #digital art #digital painting #my writing #poem #poetry #spilled thoughts #poems on tumblr #spilled ink #spilled poetry #spilled writing #spilled words #daily poem #short poem #blotched

0 notes

think-through-pen · 8 months

Text

To My Love (5)

Dear Love,

The wind blows me away like a boat without its oars. I care not where it takes me but would like to be taken to you, drifting into your arms.

As I write this letter, I deceive my heart. Tricking my mind into thinking that you read the letters in my dreams, I stain my page with tears the way a piece of newspaper lies on the cold earth, being trampled to tears. But what can I do if the love I dream to see in your eyes for me is never realised? Am I to dream on, or stop at once?

My fingers are peppered with blue ink, for I didn't realise that I had already completed the poem. I wrote and wrote and wrote 'til I filled the page and emptied my heart. The red ink of love is refilled and I write again endlessly about you. Do not read the blotched pages, for there you'll find my imperfections. I can show them to you, but you'll find them so sad that you won't be able to stop your sobs.

Here, I lull my pen to sleep, while I stare at the open sky finding your face among the stars.

Yours Lonely Love,

M

(PS: Please support me on Ko-fi as I want to pay for my college fees. https://ko-fi.com/writer_moin )

Taglist: @most-ment @jordynhaiku @a-moonlit-poet @vixen1012 @hauntedandwholesome @twisted0limbs @distilledmelancholies @sweetwarmcookies16 @sunlovemoon @somebodyssongbird @aaronawbra

#writers on tumblr #to my love #writing #writersofinstagram #creative writing #writing inspiration #prose poetry #spilled emotions #trending #literature

50 notes · View notes

azulsluver · 2 years

Note

If youre still up to write requests,,,may i request for yandere rook that writes letters to his darling? The letter contents, does he spray his cologne in it? What type of paper, how did it end up in your hands etc. Tq^^

tw. yandere, stalking, nasty rook being rook.

rook stans fr/j this seems more like a sort of headcanon than actually making a whole story about it.

Letters were a usual way of contacting old-styled people like Malleus and Crowley. But lately, you've been receiving letters from a particular admirer. Rook Hunt, a man you would see on certain days as you make trips downtown.

You would recognize the letter because of the signature and the smell. I wouldn't say he would spray any sort of cologne, more like his natural musky smell would latch onto the paper for how much he tends to kiss and rub on. And you definitely know it's him, you're not sure if you should be agitated or brush it off as an "It's a Rook Hunt thing, it wouldn't hurt anybody as long as you don't interfere." You would say as he describes how when you rubbed your eye too hard an eyelash fell. P.S he doesn’t stop even if you ignore it, he loves the chase.

Sometimes he sends you letters explaining deeper into your beauty and how he'd love to have you locked up and away. Small blotches of blood would appear in those certain letters. You really don’t wanna know if it’s his or something else dead. You recalled a time you wore an outfit really tight for a day and you got a letter on your bed when you came back from work. Nothing in your room was missing so you went ahead to see what he wrote you this time, although you might need to change your locks now…

The letter was wet. And sticky. God forbid the things he wrote in that certain letter, it was like reading off a 1700’s porn fic. Anyways.

Rook would use a tanned sheet and black ink, all written nicely in cursive. It gives off a nice style if he just wasn't him. Because you'd be randomly receiving your letters, anywhere you go will somehow end up in your hands. At first you would receive them by near death experiences. An arrow shot throw the air that’ll leave those around you cower in fear. You would get use to it at some point, the letter or poem is attached to the arrow with a royal purple ribbon. If Rook felt more creative he would use a white dove as a sign of love, trained to find you. The bird would land near a surface or in your hands if you noticed quickly enough, a ribbon tied around its back to hold the letter.

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #rook hunt x reader

283 notes · View notes

bdslab · 4 months

Text

INSTEAD OF GIVING THE GIFT OF A GRIP TOP SOCK THEY SHOULDVE GONE WITH DADAISTS DO DADS dadaist dads do dadaist doodads

[in reference to this gaston gag & its english translation which just used a poem by Seuuss]

Couldn't find the panels quick enough but the tongue twister they used in english was this:

Give me the gift of a grip-top sock, A clip drape shipshape tip top sock. Not your spinslick slapstick slip slop stock; But a plastic, elastic, grip-top sock. None of your fantastic slack swap slop From a slap-dash, flash-cash, haberdash shop. Not a knick knack, knitlock knockkneed, knickerbocker sock With a mock-shot blob-mottled trick-ticker top clock. Not a supersheet seersucker ruck sack sock, Not a spot-speckled frog-freckled cheap sheik's sock Off a hodge-podge moss-blotched scotch-botched block. Nothing slipshod drip drop flip flop or glip glop Tip me to a tip top grip top sock.

#twitter archive

11 notes · View notes

chucklinggg · 1 year

Text

Maybe you were a transitory stop

A mere collision of coincidences

A lesson that needed to be taught

Full stop

A feathery touch whose memory

Stubbornly, vehemently refused to fade

As I’d spin and spin in euphoric delight

Beneath a starry sky

At the end of each day

All soft smiles and softer words

But I see it now

I am not the priority, the one you seek

Delusions and spectres of hope

Nothing more

How could I have not known?

I emerge beaten

Heavier, limbs like not my own

I will trudge on

But my innocence is now lost

My heart forever closed

Full stop

7 notes · View notes

shroom-vroom · 2 years

Quote

you ask me, with the innocence men i think hide in their tight fists holding steering wheels "how do i play with your hair?" that touching my raven locks lumped, hanging from a rubber band is a foreign language you long to learn, determined to not misspell. i only have boys touch me or talk before touching me in dreams; they are safe. So when you wonder about instructions on how to play with a girl's hair, i want to pull your face and whisper, "are all boys like you?" and because i'm not the nicest girl i want you to say "no." I want to know the boy i have visit my dreams is the kind other girls can't even dreamt about.

~ question answers

#adreameratdawn #spilled ink #spilled feelings #spilled guts #spilled thoughts #spilled poetry #spilled heart #poet #poetry #poem #prosepoem #love #prose #creative #lit #literature #poetry pardy #dead poet's society #blotched poems

4 notes · View notes

ambermaitrejean · 3 months

Photo

your kiss is a poem each word delivered with a caress of your tongue tracing my lips rhyming with my soul searching my heart for one more word of love

dip your pen in the well of my desire spattering blotches of passion across the white expanse where you write your intentions slow and sensual a declaration of your wild heart captured yet free to love

Poem by Amber Maitrejean

#poets on tumblr #Ai art #poem #text to art

3 notes · View notes

sinligh · 1 year

Text

When i die, I hope the blueprint of my soul stay behind that it doesn’t fall into abeyance nor stay as a work in progress in someone else’s hands…

In this life time, I traded it for a collection of long lost chances, and dreams that are brushed in passing

On a good day, I’m a hybrid of my family’s coping mechanisms..

On my worst.. i’m an abandoned painting a mixture of their insecurities Covered with the skin of a temptress

One that never feared speaking her mind yet, always ended up romanticized.

I carry the potential of growth with me wherever i go. A ladder I never bothered taking a single step on, favoring whatever stability i cultivated in my own bones

A hundred thousand words, six to seven hours wasted time; wasted love...

Ignorant, i saw all my chances hanging from the branches that grew from me.

thought they’re mine to harvest…

now I’m living in borrowed time, barely stable with one foot in this year While the other has gone ahead to the upcoming one…

so unlike me, to try and set roots…

I don’t really want to reflect, but if i have to guess then that’s just a reaction, a skill that I picked up to deal with all that i denied myself viciously until i broke and indulged taking no account of how alone i’ll feel carrying all that mess around to the next year

Disappointment ? I learned that it can look like every other feeling you know; if you were taught that you have the ability to be just another one of its definitions.

Growing up, my mother always told me: that the only thing she loves about being alive Is me…

I used to fear looking in the mirror, how ugly can love be ?

As ugly as wasted potential a voice answered me

The same voices that tried engraving in my mind that a woman must never be a disappointment

Yet I somehow am.

•••

•Quotes: Anaïs Nin/ Clementine von Radics/ Mahmoud Darwish/Clarice Lispector/ Anaïs Nin/Rainer Maria Rilke/Louisa May Alcott/Clarice Lispector/Susan Sontag

•Original context: Sinligh

•Art reference:

1. Detail from a painting by Alex Venezia. 2.Kleopatra Elin Danielson-Gambogi. 3. Detail from a painting by Nick Alm. 4. A Creation by Lisa Lach-Nielsen. 5. Overwhelmed by Valeria Duca. 6. Caído por Federico Ferro. 7. Fallen Angel by Chris Young.

1K notes · View notes

clockworkblogs · 1 year

Text

TW: this post will discuss the emotionally distressing aspects of DID, such as time loss, dissociation, apathy, loss of control, meaning, and existentialism

Of course, I can never find the words for it. But it’s grown with me like a fungi on my skin since I could remember.

It hung above me as a child, like a dull, vague fog.

When I played piano keys, the notes had no weight. They buzzed through the air like a soft, monotone static.

When I laughed sometimes, played with toys, and dress up, I was the watcher of my surroundings. I was in a water-like dream.

When kids looked at me, and I spoke, I didn’t understand my words. They fell out of my mouth and dropped to the floor like weightless bullet shells. I didn’t feel anything. Everything was far away.

I lived in a shell of an openly inhabited body, a hotel of sorts for distant spirits. I existed only in pieces, through a camera lens, inside a phrase, in-and-out of earshot. I was a vague and un-vague flicker of consciousness, sputtering on and off like flashlight.

I grew up, in a fairytale, did school alongside crystal air and floating tables, i ate food that made me bigger and smaller, and I spoke to friends alongside caterpillars whispering into my ears. I woke up in the morning and forgot everything.

Any time a glass cup dropped, a child screamed, or a smell caught my nose,

I was ripped apart from the universe above me, spun around in little fragments and weaved in and out of movie segments.

It was dark, sometimes. It was cold, sometimes. I cried tears with no sadness, and moved hands that were made of cotton.

I fell back into a dream, and treated my realities like child’s play. I wasn’t here half the time. And neither was I. Or me. Or me. Or me.

I wasn’t supposed to be there half the time, but I was pulling apart at sowing needles and colored strings without knowing their importance. I broke vases and tracked in mud without understanding gravity. I had a veil over my head and teeth that spoke over a shriveled tongue.

I am an adult. Or I think. I’m supposed to be. I live in a big body, i big house, and a big environment. The air weighs heavy on me. It feels like little crystals.

I am a fool of my own words, a game to my own ears. I play piano but forget the melody. I made toys but they’re built for weaponry. My hands are not my own, and I fail to understand the world around me. A glass cup shatters, a woman yells, and a dire situation hangs over my head. But time is shorter. Time is ticking. And time is eating away at my strings.

I can’t even begin to understand that cards I have been dealt. I know what it means when I say “I dissociate” “I have DID”, but my voice feels like it’s nothing familiar to me. I work through a world of fantasy, and smash keys that unlock doors to reality. I am broken apart between space and time, memory and empathy.

This body will cry, it will ache, it will want to go home again. It will want its fragments back, to become compressed into something tangible between this life,

But both you and I know now’s not the time.

Then again, I’ll speak words, in cycles, again, about the labels of my pain, I’ll pull on heartstrings and edit the frames of doors, of something that once made sense, but lost its meaning.

Your ears are deaf, your hands are cotton, and your face is blotched out.

You will do this again, when you wake up tomorrow.

[A poem/short write about Dissociative Identity Disorder, dissociative amnesia, fugue, from the perspective of a persecutory part]

#vent.txt #complex dissociative disorder #dissociative amnesia #dissociative identity disorder #log entry #did vent #cptsd vent #vent poetry #writers and poets

15 notes · View notes

protanomaly-0c1420 · 2 years

Text

always in my head; forever present

and I said I love you, chanted it alongside your name like a prayer in my head. over and over as if it was beyond my control it repeated. as if it were the breath in my lungs that kept me alive, the blood in my veins was the love that pounded in my heart and in my head, filled me as if I was a cup, and poured over the edges

1 note · View note