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#dark poetry
metamorphesque · 2 days ago
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It is August. My life is going to change. I feel it.
1. raymond carver | 2. big fish (2003) | 3. emily brontë | 4. niall mcdiarmid | 5. pj harding, noah cyrus | 6. niall mcdiarmid | 7. ilya kaminsky | 8. call me by your name (2017) | 9. mary oliver | 10. norwegian wood | 11. sylvia plath
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writewhatyousee · 3 years ago
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I wish I could give you as much satisfaction as that cigarette killing you.
F.S @writewhatyousee
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chandlerwilde · a year ago
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Independent Study In Academia
Okay, so I noticed that no one gives independent studiers in the academia community credit. By independent study, I mean people who are not in college/uni but still study history, art, philosophy, etc. 
So, here is my take or what I think a independent academia aesthetic would be like.
The Writer- A sunlight bedroom. Notebooks and papers scatter everywhere. Turning your room into a literary wonderland. Subtle upbeat music plays softly around you. Encyclopedias and dictionaries are laid out on the bed. You glance at them every so often, making sure that your grammar is correct. Your hair is pulled back into a bun. Loose strands kiss your face softly. Glasses sit on the tip of your nose. You push them up as your writing intensifies. Your room is being filled with the harmony of typing. Your hot tea is going cold. Your favorite sweater cradles you as you work. You glance out the window, just to take a break for a moment. Imagery of your story, plays in your head like a movie. Filling your heart with bliss.
The Painter- The moon shines through your studio windows. You throw your hair back in frustration, as you fix the shading of your painting. The sleeves of your shirt are folded. Your hands covered in cheap paint. Red acrylic colors your cheek, as you wipe your sweated brow. You look to your phone and notice it’s past your bedtime. It’s Saturday night and you have nothing else to do. Your craft is your life. Your art is your outlet. You clean off your brush, turning the water into melodic colors. Prepping the brush for the next color. You reference your sketchbook a few times, making sure that every detail is perfect. As you come to the last details, you step back and marvel at your work. Making a few criticisms in your head. You pick up your phone and snap a few pictures. Excited to share your work with the world.
The Photographer- It is the prime of the day and you’re out on the prowl. You put on your headphones and turn up the music. Your favorite song plays as you turn on your camera. Looking for subjects, to turn into art. Your camera hangs low to your heart. A smile on your face, as you snap a few strangers. The moment is captured, the photo is crisp. You reach in your backpack as you search for another camera battery. You stand in the breeze as you capture some flowers. Your shoe is untied but adds to your charm. A lovely old couple volunteers for a shot. You frown disappointed that your camera has died. But the memory is filled with beauty that could make someone cry. You smile victorious, as you head home. Eager to post the photos that will thrive.
The Bookworm-You’re finally in the comfort of your room. Everyone is out. Work has long been over. You finally get some time to yourself. You stumble around the stacks of books in your room. You grab your favorite books, along with some snacks and a beverage. You close your room door, shutting the world out. The tv is off. Your windows are closed. Leaving you alone in your safe haven. You pull up your blanket and dive into a new world. Leaving everyone and everything in the noiseless void. You face brightens up, as the book takes a turn. But your phone starts to ring and interrupts your flow. You answer it and rush off your beloved friend. Then reenter into the story again. 
The Historian- You sit at your desk as you spin a globe. You check your watch. It’s half past noon. Your papers are organize as you take notes on ancient Nubian. Your coffee is hot and you take a few sips. You poke your head up as a documentary comes on. You’ve seen it before but you watch it anyways. Pushing away from your desk, you grab a book on ancient civilization. Every book in your care is alphabetically organized. It’s how you’ve always preferred it. Your brows scrunch up as you compare ancient cultures. Wondering about their primitive ways. Recognizing their genius in certain matters. You get a thrill out of translating your favorite sonnets. You search through the web, in search of new books. As you snack on some food. No day is complete without an essay or two.
The Scientist- Your room is cluttered with models and crystals. A half built robot, sits in the corner of your room. Your desk is cluttered with sci-fi magazines. Your floor is covered in figurines. The walls are covered in periodic tables and notes. Sometimes you study them, as you clean your room. Protective gear hangs over your door. For a moment, you chuckle at a failed experiment. Your notebook sits beside you, as you write down new ideas. You reference your Darwin and Hawking’s books. They are the only thing that keeps you interested. You study them and compare their ideas with your own thoughts. Your hair is messy over your eyes, as you doodle an alien. You turn off your bedroom light and flick on your black light. Illuminating all that is around you, as you turn in for the night.
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alex-a-roman · 3 months ago
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“Poets are romantic”, they say.
I write poetry because I cannot commit To anything longer than half a page Before I get sick of it On my bad days, I even rip apart the paper After I spill all my pain  So no, I’m not nice, don’t get too close  Unless you want a broken heart, Unless you turn the tables  Give me a taste of my own drug And maybe then I'd beg  And scream and pray for you to stay, Maybe then I'll wake up  And realize I wrote my life away. 
~ A. A. Roman
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yoursecretmuse · a year ago
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Muted wildflowers. Coffee rings. Impressions on your face from where your glasses were. Bitten lips. Dark whispers. Red stained white shirts. The scent of old books. Silk wrapped around your chest. Dark eyes with golden sparks.
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requiem-on-water · a year ago
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realoliversheppard · a year ago
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The final lines of the Decadent poet James Elroy Flecker's "Lucretia" from 1904. Supposedly this poem inspired the Sisters of Mercy song of the same name. - 0liver
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drink-it-write-it · a year ago
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Trust me, darling, you don't want to fall in love with me.
— I'm rotten just like the rest of the world
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