[Image description: A vocabularyclept poem. Every time the words "good art" appear, they are highlighted in green. Transcription is below.]
---
good art
sets off downward
unstructured and
obsessive
wishes to
destroy
empower
celebrate ugliness
good art
hints at obfuscation, lies,
resentment
makes you feel weird
clarifies the
divine right to
whining,
coping, seething
good art
confuses the mind
spiral
spiral
spiral
spiral
faster
good art is a scam
a drug metaphor
essential
momentum
good art
a terrible duty
join or burn
---
A vocabularyclept poem is a poem which is formed by taking the words of an existing poem and rearranging them into a new work of literature. | original post
2K notes
·
View notes
i’ve been obsessed with this format of poem ever since i first read warsan shire’s ‘backwards,’ a piece where the second stanza is a repetition of the first in reverse. i love the idea that the exact same lines can mean entirely different things in the context of what came before and what comes after, and how this can shift mood and tone.
12 notes
·
View notes
all thoughts are like clouds;
do not ruminate on each
one that passes by.
14 notes
·
View notes
chemical messenger
I'll describe myself for you in two words
"dopamine seeking"
can i blame this on my parents?
my dad apologized to me for inheriting his crazy
i don't mind.
to me manic just means in love with life
and theres no good reason i can't say no
and there's no good reason i can't stop
can i blame this on my parents?
i don't tell Devon this but
people want to be like people like us
they cosplay our crazy
but get scared by it's genuine face
can i blame this on my parents?
whether I'm up for thirty-six hours straight writing
or whether I'm in the backseat of a strangers car
there's something beautiful about madness
something lovely about being incurably me
can i blame this on my parents?
7 notes
·
View notes
Leaving a trail of hope for myself to follow
Care to join me?
Playful steps marked on paper
Tiptoe
22 notes
·
View notes
From birth
Sacrificed my only life
I don't recognize her
But she's doing all kinds of new things
7 notes
·
View notes
A poem I wrote about mushroom picking 🍄✨️
62 notes
·
View notes
Acts of Service, Pt.1
You're so annoying, I'll do anything for you:
Stress about the romanticization of my public image;
Stay hours after everyone leaves so you won't close alone;
Attend every one of your events (max commute: 3 hours);
Automate professional copy to assist with your interpersonal lack;
Be the communal martyr for your passions;
Cover your shift so you can fuck some guy (tears);
Let you touch me even…
View On WordPress
7 notes
·
View notes
[Image description: A cut-up poem. Transcript as follows, "old men fast in the kitchen / most are not well // most mean little to me // my head / my hate / are cooked and fashioned / like this southern meal / I believe I should be food / girls and women collect my corpse / feed on my body".]
---
on: making feminist art from tradwife facebook memes
342 notes
·
View notes
Time travel
So little room has been left
Into which we can manoeuvre
Relative to this narrative
Quantum shifting enabled
Shyly taking a large order
Knowing the power within
Credibility might have suffered
Many meaningless affirmations
Not selected for invalidation
Dissolve into insignificance
Long-held oft-repeated position
Caught in a web of lies
How robust are these ideas
Will they resist this test
Surviving the fall from collapse
Now we turn to play the host
Catalysing a chain reaction
Travelling like lightening
Air evaporates mid motion
Memories dragged from the past
Robbing them of context
Times no longer inhabitable
Further receded than it seems
Yet now we reopen dilemmas.
View On WordPress
Exploring the complexities of time, memory, and reality, by delving into the enigmas of existence, questioning the robustness of ideas and beliefs . . . as we navigate quantum shifts and ethical dilemmas . . . what happens when reopening past wounds when time no longer holds its traditional meaning?
8 notes
·
View notes
black maple,
wrapped in bolts and clamps and wires,
its smoky, earthy syrup contrasts
with mulberry,
cascading into different flowers,
its sweet, delectable berries;
i'll let you guess which tree i am.
one tree is beauty, soul and grace,
and all the inherent goodness in the world intertwined.
the other is entangled in only God knows what,
constant inner musings and machinery.
one tree is open,
more approachable, free.
while the other tree is not.
mulberry is prone to revelation,
whereas maple is drizzled in isolation.
bolts and clamps and wires have always made their home in my heart;
that's why when words lunge at me, i feel them as art.
though it unsettles you,
it is like a tart balm to me;
that is what makes us different,
two vast trees.
onlookers tap into my tree,
they sip the sap i mull upon.
i think they get more out of mulberry
than they do out of me,
and though we are different when we are chopped down,
i love you all the same.
10 notes
·
View notes
there's a piece to the ship - it's piece full
last night i didn't sleep a bit
i feel as though my body is a sinking ship
like patching holes in hulls
something breaks add chemicals
Adderall in the morning at night alcohol
in between, caffeine and nicotine
top it off with something green
4 notes
·
View notes
15 notes
·
View notes
Now I know
What it feels like
To grieve and start anew
To leave the first you
9 notes
·
View notes
ok so i saw this
and i hit the middle auto complete button many, many times and it created... what almost feels like poetry? so ive cleaned up some sections of it and turned them into poetry, here it is lmao
jesse, we need to turn my attention to you
and that's why I still have not been working with you on the beach café yet
and I can't fix the issue of a bee in my head, off the walls
your love and your love and joy and love your love and love and kisses, someone else
and you will be a disappointment.
the kind heart of your ribcage in a ditch someday
and I love it, so I see you
but I think we're going down with them on Sunday.
they will not be liable for their own bodies.
the future is a bit like a cat, and I can't fix it for a few days.
I love you, and that's a good thing for me to do.
I can't sleep on your bed.
if I become a universal man, and a daughter in the dark
a spooky little girl
and a daughter in a song, because she has no idea what is going down
and it's not perfect gold
and the future suicides in a box.
you can call me bella
5 notes
·
View notes