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i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point

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A little advice from someone studying extremist groups: if you’re in a social media environment where the daily ubiquitous message is that you have no hope of any kind of future and you can’t possibly achieve anything without a violent overthrow of society, you’re being radicalized, and not in the good way.

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“Trapped”

Stone Butch Blues - Leslie Feinberg

@/lilboyblueish on Instagram

Poem by Keaton St. James (@boykeats)

I/Me/Myself - Will Wood

We Both Laughed In Pleasure by Lou Sullivan

cis people asking cis questions by Silas Denver Melvin (@sweatermuppet)

Tomboy Survival Guide by Ivan Coyote

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“Love Affair That Is the Walk Home” by Jill Osier

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love it when people are just a little bit unraveled. hair wisps flying everywhere, wrinkles in yesterday’s t-shirt, pockets reserved for useless things only. fingers kissed blue from the last pen that fell in love with you. laugh on the wrong side of raw. smile on the right side of bizarre. bright eyes smeared kohl dark, hungry mouth stained lollipop red. messy messy messy messy. you are blurry like the edges of my favorite old photograph. each second you’re born anew. you are beautiful and terrible and the most irreplaceable part of living and i could love you forever and ever and ever

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“I crush her against me. I want to be part of her. not just inside her but all around her. I want our rib cages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.”

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and i wonder what you would tell me

if you knew what was going on

i want a hug, i want to be free

of these bullshit obligations

i am so tired

#poetry #poem #sad poetry

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i’m thinking about you

and watching the headlights through the blinds

wondering if you learned to drive

i miss sending pictures of my ceiling fan

the light stretching in fractured lines

i think it misses you

i’m thinking about you

i hope i’m wrong about you

i hope you’re happy somewhere

#poetry #poem #sad poetry #online friends

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What a Gazan Should Do During an Israeli Air Strike by Mosab Abu Toha

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I got to hold a 500,000 year old hand axe at the museum today.

It's right-handed

I am right-handed

There are grooves for the thumb and knuckle to grip that fit my hand perfectly

I have calluses there from holding my stylus and pencils and the gardening tools.

There are sharper and blunter parts of the edge, for different types of cutting, as well as a point for piercing.

I know exactly how to use this to butcher a carcass.

A homo erectus made it

Some ancestor of mine, three species ago, made a tool that fits my hand perfectly, and that I still know how to use.

Who were you

A man? A woman? Did you even use those words?

Did you craft alone or were you with friends? Did you sing while you worked?

Did you find this stone yourself, or did you trade for it? Was it a gift?

Did you make it for yourself, or someone else, or does the distinction of personal property not really apply here?

Who were you?

What would you think today, seeing your descendant hold your tool and sob because it fits her hands as well?

What about your other descendant, the docent and caretaker of your tool, holding her hands under it the way you hold your hands under your baby's head when a stranger holds them.

Is it bizarre to you, that your most utilitarian object is now revered as holy?

Or has it always been divine?

Or is the divine in how I am watching videos on how to knap stone made by your other descendants, learning by example the way you did?

Tomorrow morning I am going to the local riverbed in search of the appropriate stones, and I will follow your example.

The first blood spilled on it will almost certainly be my own, as I learn the textures and rhythm of how it's done.

Did you have cuss words back then? Gods to blaspheme when the rock slips and you almost take your thumbnail off instead? Or did you just scream?

I'm not religious.

But if spilling my own blood to connect with a stranger who shared it isn't partaking in the divine

I don't know what is.

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In 1909, the biologist Jakob von Uexküll noted that every animal exists in its own unique perceptual world — a smorgasbord of sights, smells, sounds and textures that it can sense but that other species might not. These stimuli defined what von Uexküll called the Umwelt — an animal’s bespoke sliver of reality. A tick’s Umwelt is limited to the touch of hair, the odor that emanates from skin and the heat of warm blood. A human’s Umwelt is far wider but doesn’t include the electric fields that sharks and platypuses are privy to, the infrared radiation that rattlesnakes and vampire bats track or the ultraviolet light that most sighted animals can see.

The Umwelt concept is one of the most profound and beautiful in biology. It tells us that the all-encompassing nature of our subjective experience is an illusion, and that we sense just a small fraction of what there is to sense. It hints at flickers of the magnificent in the mundane, and the extraordinary in the ordinary. And it is almost antidramatic: It reveals that frogs, snakes, ticks and other animals can be doing extraordinary things even when they seem to be doing nothing at all.

~ Ed Yong, NY Times Opinion, 6-21-22

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everything u need to know about me can actually be explained by the fact that i read that poem about the serving girl wearing the pearls so they're warm for her mistress when i was like 11 and it rewrote my brain chemistry forever

like this Changed Me

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I leave town to see my friend

Because his mom doesn’t like us hang out

Because she thinks I worship the devil

Or maybe I am the devil

Which means the devil can’t drive a car

And often can’t speak

Or tie his shoes

So I don’t really see what she’s worried about

#poetry #poem #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #poets of tumblr

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hypothermia (from my drafts, 8.16.23)

[Text ID:

you're so cold, that house's a morgue you're so alive, you're dead all the anger, all the sadness it kills your head you can't tell flame from frost it burns the same it burns the same (edited)

End ID]

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I’m not afraid of the dark anymore,

Can’t feel my heart race

If you close the door.

I’m forgetting how to face

All the things I can’t erase.

I’m sorry

#poetry #poem #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #poets of tumblr