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#poets on poetry
eefrostpoetry · 8 months
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sing me a song while i sleep so that your voice may enter my dreams
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abhidubey · 1 year
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@loveandspace.dust on instagram
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creatingnikki · 2 months
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you tell me you don't like poetry. that you prefer a messy text with bad grammar but authentic emotion. and I smile and tell you that my poetry is a lot like that, a list of drunk texts at 2 am I never sent the person I wrote them for. minus the bad grammar. but authentic emotion? but words that aren't pompous? expression that's human? that's what my poetry is. and now at close to 2 am, I want to send you some texts. authentic emotion. lower caps. lacking punctuation perhaps. but what would I say? I'm not drunk. and I'm not in love. maybe one day you will read my poetry and wonder if in another universe we would know each other better and how wonderfully authentic that would be, how spectacularly human.
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lovelyydarlingg · 6 months
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“The desire to be touched by you in multiple different ways is unbearable, touch my heart , body and soul all at once.”
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puchipi · 9 months
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“You touch me and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I'm not sure what peace is supposed to feel like but I think it may feel a lot like you"
anatomy-of-rains (via wordsnquotes)
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If a poem hasn't ripped apart your soul, you haven't experienced poetry.
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necroticintellect · 4 months
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A Note To Poetry Writers 🌹
You may at times convince yourself that poetry is hard to write—but really, it’s no harder than life. In fact, it is life’s escape tunnel. But I also know that at times, that tunnel can look terrifying, because there is no light. It’s dim…you can’t find that golden match of a metaphor to guide you through. So, instead of braving the dark, you turn around and walk away.
Well, I’ve got something to tell you. Take off your shades, and you’ll realize the tunnel was never that dark. 
As poetry writers, sometimes we’re given a pair of shades to wear by critics. These shades represent expectations. We’re expected to use a bunch of synonyms in every other sentence, and we’re expected to have this intricately emotional outlook on life. Or we’re expected to have someone’s eyes-that-sparkle-like-diamonds to sit around spewing paragraphs about. That may be life’s escape to some, but not all. So as we that don’t find an escape this way look at our own writing through these shades, we begin to convince ourselves that maybe, we just aren’t good at it. Maybe, poetry is too hard to do.
Take off your shades, and realize that poetry is beyond expectation. Grief is poetry. Anger is poetry. The pins and needles you feel in your feet are poetry. Anything is poetry. Life is poetry. 
Notice how I didn’t call you a poet? I called you a poetry writer. To me, the term poet tends to cause you to stick those shades right back on. That’s of course just a personal thing of mine…because the day I quit trying to professionally call myself a poet, it was easier to throw those shades in a locked drawer. I still obviously have to say poet, but I don't personally put myself at that standard.
Due to the expectation that some people have of what a poet is…calling myself one only got me a snarky “you’re not a poet, this isn’t poetry” comment.
They’re right. I’m not a poet…I’m a poetry writer. The prose type, to be exact.
That’s another thing, there are so many different styles of poetry, keep that in mind.
But like I said… life is poetry. You are alive and breathing, so there’s never an excuse for no inspiration. This makes poetry unique by default. 
I don’t agree with the idea that fancy words/abstract topics are the only recipe for emotion, or that you can’t write about ‘worn-out’ tropes.
We’re all humans going through this journey that is life. Some of us live a simple life, some of us live a hard life, some of us live glamorously, and it’s the inevitable to at a point walk the same path as someone else. Just as we won’t always relate to eachother, we always at some point, will. 
At the end of the day, each journey is of equal importance, just as each piece of poetry. If not to critics—then at least let it be important to you. It’s not an overused trope, it’s the essence of empathy.
So if you’re sitting around telling yourself poetry is hard, I want you to think of what you did today. Or yesterday. Or maybe even a week ago. Think of something someone did to you, whenever that may have been. If you want to say “I hope so and so goes to hell, that is where they belong”, fine. That sounds pretty emotionally fueled…and to me, that’s poetry. 
Take those shades off and let your emotions flow. Metaphorically…simple-sentence-ly…I don’t care. Just quit doubting yourself.
Only when you're dead does your ability to write poetry die. Obviously you aren't, you read all of this, didn't you. So GO WRITE!
Have a good day ✨.
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wotchergiorgia · 1 year
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slowfalter · 3 months
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Solar system stickers on the ceiling
to remind us of our limitless potential
from the safety of our beds.
Infinite freedom,
tucked in tight
with crushing expectation.
You could be an astronaut.
You could be a poet.
Anyone can write a poem,
all you have to do
is take all that is most achingly beautiful,
vastly small,
and terrifyingly true,
and make it about you.
A poet is a black hole
with a heart of densest everything,
supermassive in your chest,
crushed like a can.
I want to grasp the universe
and paint with it a discount shadow.
I’ll take the Milky Way.
It’s the only way.
Poetry is the edge of space
and I’m a billionaire
in a private shuttle,
expelling carbon faster than the speed of light.
It’s the impatient toe tapping of the nuclear apocalypse,
it’s the heat death of your parents’ marriage,
it’s when you want to eat the clouds,
don’t force it.
Poetry is having a boner for the world
and then crying about it.
It’s that trickle down your body
when you’re getting kissed
or hope is draining out,
for one last time.
For the last time,
don’t forget that
you have a galaxy inside of you,
nobody can see.
You could be an astronaut,
metaphorically speaking,
you have limitless potential,
anyone can write poetry.
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ardent-reflections · 9 months
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A poem Begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Robert Frost
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phoebe-a-poetry · 4 months
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No one told me how violent peace was. How much blood in my veins had to be spilt in order to no longer have the want for offering my body up for slaughter. To be unwilling to negotiate the value of my life in careless hands. Disconnecting desire from the word prey, that to be hunted is to be sought. If that is how you love, I do not want to be loved.
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thejournalofveronica · 9 months
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God I hate writers, they're so dramatic.
They'll take their misery
And transform it into art.
They'll use their sadness as an ingredient
in every recipe.
And thy will all taste great.
They will use you as their material
And you would not be able to object.
Because they have used you when things were nice too.
They'll say you're their inspiration
And it will seem romantic
But it isn't.
They'll lead you on with their writing
Let you sympathise
And feel things
When they're not even sad anymore.
They do the best they can
With what they feel
And sometimes
A person only has to
Feel
.
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abhidubey · 17 days
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~ "closing ceremonies", abhidubey
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tearinmyside · 4 days
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day 14...
when we drove through the rain
you stared out the window, watched the water dance in horizontal lines, then scamper off the glass— a metaphor, an unspoken revelation you bore in the quiet—family photos excised, pinky swears and ring finger tan lines, you lend a hesitant touch, a soft circle in the palm of my hand, ruminate on reclamation and repressed want. we build an escape playlist, pull over into the parking lot of a long dead pizza hut at midnight, push the seats back and stargaze after the melding.
-kab
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winterimsommer · 11 days
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I was born under a gray, cold sky,
Covered in sadness.
All I've ever known were storms,
Your hand offered me sweet wine,
Then I realized those storms were just winds.
You burned my heart like a witch,
A dance around fire and embers,
You watched my bones turn to ash,
And in the end, I clapped my hands for your performance.
I forgot that I was born under gray, rainy clouds,
I fell for your exhilarating lips,
Cherry-sweet words,
I cried my thoughts through the universe,
But it was deaf.
You burned my heart
Like there's another in the cupboard,
A dance around fire and embers,
You watched my dreams turn to ash,
And in the end, I still dream of you. 🔥
© winterimsommer
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writingonmydesk · 1 year
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be careful, they say
because salt looks like sugar
be cautious they warn
because lies look like love
watch out they shout
a fish never gets caught with its mouth closed
but sometimes its so easy to get distracted and just keep it open
and sometimes being caught is just what you need
the sugar wasn’t salt it was acid
and it burned straight through my tongue
and the only lies i was told came from my own brain
all the lies that made me think it was love
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