#i wrote you a poem | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-sun-n-the-sea · 2 months

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I just wrote you a love poem where you're wearing the ugliest Hawaiian shirt I can possibly imagine but we don't have to talk about that

#taylor-coded #my man #i love you #i'm an insane person #i could be normal and just tell you but i stead im going to vaguepost bout it cuz i think you're asleep #but fr #i wrote you a poem #gayass

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textsandscenes · 19 days

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a poem.

I just want to hold you tight / I just want to bruise your thighs

leaving marks of black and blue / to show that the one I own is... you

#I wrote you a poem #daddy k!nk #older daddy #daddy's good girl #bd/sm relationship #bd/sm kink #d/s relationship #soft dom #18+#my post

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lonesome-dreamsss · 4 months

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his handprint may be burned into your skin but it's still the gentlest touch you've ever received.

#smth smth destiel #cas was always so gentle with dean #he knew of dean's pain and wanted to ease it!!#he wanted to be a good thing in dean's life!!#when he pulled him from hell it wasn't truly pulling #he cradled dean like he was the most precious thing in the world #and honestly he probably WAS the most precious thing in the world to cas #even as early as then #to quote 'when castiel first laid a hand on you in hell he was lost'#god they make me insane #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #supernatural #does this count as fanfic even if it's one sentence #a poem perhaps #idk it's something that i wrote so i'll take it

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bixels · 5 days

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The idea that uni protesters are "elitist ivy-league rich kids larping as revolutionaries" on Twitter and Reddit and even here is so fucking funny to me if you actually know anything about the student bodies at these unis. Take it from someone who's going to one of the biggest private unis in the US, 80% of the peers I know are either from the suburbs or an apartment somewhere in America, children of immigrants, or here on a student visa. I've heard about one-percenter students, but I've never met one in person. Like, don't get me wrong, the institution as a whole is still very privileged and white. I've talked with friends and classmates about feeling weird or dissonant being here and coming from such a different background. But in my art program, I see BIPOC, disabled, queer, lower-income students and faculty trying to deconstruct and tear that down and make space every day. So to take a cursory glance at a crowd of student protesters in coalitions that are led by BIPOC & 1st/2nd-gen immigrant students and HQ'd in ethnic housings and student organizations and say, "ah. children of the elite." Get real.

#also idk how to tell you this but even if it were true. wealthy children potentially sacrificing their educational careers to protest is #a good thing actually. idk how to tell you that caring about people from other nations is good #personal #“this war has nothing to do with most students cuz nobody's getting drafted” idk how to explain to you that we should be angry #that our tuitions of 10s of thousands of dollars that we pay every year for an education is being used to fund a genocidal campaign #also the implication that if you go to a uni institution you are automatically privileged by participation no matter your bg #i didn't /want/ to go to this school. i was supposed to go to a school with an art/animation program. but i realized my immigrant #parents have been working their whole lives to get me here. and turning the opportunity down would be a disservice to their sacrifice #this is getting into convos of “what 2nd gen kids owe their parents” which is different for everyone but. yeah #i just get pissed off at seeing people misrepresenting student bodies as “wealthy” and “privileged” and “elite” when it's such a blatant li #i remember a year ago a friend told me they can't fly home to hong kong for winter break because the plane tickets are too expensive #so they have to find temporary housing around the area #last quarter for a film doc class my film partner made a doc on a small group of marxist grad students from india discussing praxis #during a rally a few months ago in response to police presence the coalition invited palestinian students to speak about their experiences #and lead songs and read poems they wrote. these are STUDENTS. are they elitist too?#this is not to disregard my own personal privilege either.#this whole narrative's just to rationalize a lack of empathy to me. seeing a 19yo student get shot by a rubber bullet and your first #reaction is “HAW! HAW! bet richy rich didn't see THAT coming when she put on her terrorist hood!”#newsflash. these big uni campuses are HAUNTED by the violence of past protests and revolutions and police brutality. we know.#why do you think these coalitions have been making reinforced barricades at record speed

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quotefeeling · 2 months

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I’m not the person you left behind anymore. There’s no one here to miss.

Iain Thomas // I Wrote This For You

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nathanielorion · 1 year

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Nathaniel Orion G. K. / March 2023

#sent this to my partner and said #‘i wrote you a poem but you have to wait fifteen minutes to read it #so i am no longer embarrassed i wrote you a poem’

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yrsonpurpose · 5 months

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Happy Christmas, Henry

#rwrb #rwrbedit #red white and royal blue #alex x henry #firstprince #userninz #userveronika #chrissiewatts #usersteen #usernuria #userclara #usermegsb #mine*#merry christmas to those who celebrate!!!!!!#this is your canon reminder that henry's holidays are no longer lonely now he is spending them with alex :')#casey's brain was massive when they wrote this letter to alex from henry #bc uuhhhhh writer henry writing alex love letters and poems is exactly what he deserves #anyway to anyone still reading this and still putting up w my gifsets then i appreciate u loads #i hope you all have an amazing christmas🥺

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thoughtkick · 1 month

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Everything has changed and yet, I am more than I’ve ever been.

Iain Thomas; I Wrote This For You

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perfectquote · 1 month

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Everything has changed and yet, I am more than I’ve ever been.

Iain Thomas; I Wrote This For You

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inkskinned · 1 year

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your phone is still saved in my car's bluetooth memory and my phone still has nick's speakers system saved and every time i switch my pillowcases i do it the way regina taught dominic who taught me how to do it too.

i still flinch because of how [ ] hurt me yeah but a few weeks ago alex and i sat on their floor and talked about how i am able to touch the people i love now, when four years ago i couldn't stand any human contact at all, horrified by the way it made my skin crawl

i didn't remember about the trip we took once up into the rivers and mountains, how you'd been there too, wading deep in the water, how i gave you a rock after. i was scrolling in my instagram history trying to find something else completely and then all the sun of the day came back, how you and me and crisco and maddie all howled songs in the car the whole ride home, my foot to the floorboards, absolutely speeding. i take a lot of pictures because my brain barely holds my own name (it's like the scene in spongebob all the time up there, i tell ziara, because i talk on the phone now, a lot, the way you taught me to enjoy) and the pictures are really good because they're filled with my friends and my activities and the light in my life and the pictures are also really bad because sometimes i am reminded that i used to be horribly in love with you, the kind of love that blots out the sun and moon, no matter how many times other people said she's not good for you

so i go through my memories carefully like stepping through a blackberry bush because i don't know if im embarrassed or hurt but it doesn't feel good and my spotify still has the playlist saved from your birthday party like four years ago and google maps still remembers alison's old address on melrose street even though she moved like forever ago and in my notes app i have like 106 non sequiturs i can no longer parse but they must have been important enough to write down so i don't delete them just-in-case their meanings reveal themselves like fog parting over the bluegreen hills

the birds are singing and i know how to identify a robin because of edie and i know how to make a souffle set properly because molly showed me, her hair untangling from her high bun, gentle and pretty; and i know how to bake because my mama taught me and i had forgotten i wrote you a love poem but then onedrive says today in your memories

#poetry #been a while since i wrote a proper poem #writeblr #something something something #the body keeps the score #and so too now does everything digital #it remembers what ur heart wants to forget #the good news is - it also remembers what you DONT want to forget #hard kind of weight to hold

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sualne · 5 months

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braining and storming

#undescribed #my art #ive been sketching for this illu since october. i originally wrote the poem for it too. hopefully this time is the one 💪#mingo killing cora is like. The defining moment. been obsessed with it since 2016. i have to draw this. i have to. ○|￣|_#doomed siblings when i get you.

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lukaherehelp · 9 days

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A garland, quick, I’m dying! Weave it now, sing and moan and sing! For shadows my throat are clouding and again the January light comes in.

Trembling bushes and the air of stars lie between your love and mine, a dense mass of anemones picks up an entire year with a muffled moan.

Revel in the open country of my wound, break apart its reeds and delicate rivulets, drink from my thigh my pouring blood.

But be quick! And then, together entwined, with love-broken mouths and frayed souls time will find us utterly destroyed.

- Sonnet of the Garland of Roses, Sonnets of Dark Love, Federico Garcia Lorca

#i feel you linger in the air #i feel you linger in the air the series #ifylita #thai bl #thai drama #bl drama #listen I was researching lorca and decide to read his queer poems #and they came to my mind as I was reading this one #and it destroyed me even more that Lorca wrote this around 1935 #were he was still pretty much in contac with his “no-homo but intimate straight friend” Rapún #whom died only two years later in 1937 #and Idk the thought that an almost a decade older Yai could have crossed paths with Lorca and this poems before they were hidden away #is 3:20 AM and i should be sleeping but now I'm fully sobbing

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girlfriendpato · 5 months

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It Was Like This: You Were Happy by Jane Hirshfield

Merry Christmas clara @frickinsweet from your secret santa <333 I hope you have a wonderful 2024

ps I've absolutely butchered this gorgeous poem (cutting out an entire stanza and a half) so obligatory link to the poem!

#f1 #f1edit #kirian.edit #i wrote a really long note and analysis on media in f1 + the narratives in sports but then decided that will be for another day #i really hope you like this bestie know you only stated 3 drivers as your favs but this poem just did not work with them so vouwbrvu #once again merry christmas and hope you have a great day ahead of you <33

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quotefeeling · 2 months

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I don’t know if we’re alone in the universe but I’ve met plenty of people who are alone inside themselves.

Iain Thomas. I Wrote This for You

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perfectfeelings · 17 days

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I don’t know if we’re alone in the universe but I’ve met plenty of people who are alone inside themselves.

Iain Thomas. I Wrote This for You

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cuubism · 8 months

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i said i might write something based on Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda and well. yeah.

--

“Have you been thinking much of this time?” Dream asks.

They are at the beginning. The ancient, smoky main room of the White Horse, all the way back then, when that sweet, starlit entity had loomed over Hob with challenge and strangeness and then swept away again, leaving the start of a story in his wake. Only this time, Dream is sitting with him, and the rest of the room is faded out, as it had when Hob had first seen him, this collected truth of the universe.

(Dream does not believe in objective truth—of course he doesn’t, he is made of dreams—though he would not articulate it that way if asked. Hob, meanwhile, knows at least one truth, and it’s what he feels when he looks at Dream.)

“Don’t you think of it?” he asks, wrapping an arm around Dream’s waist, fingers over his hipbone. It is a dream, but that distinction does not matter to Hob much anymore.

“I suppose. I think of much.”

“‘Course you do.” He strokes his hand up and down Dream’s side, and Dream hums. “I wondered about following you. Think if I did you’d have been gone into smoke already.”

“Yes. I did not care to stay long.”

“Nor I,” Hob admits.

“Truly?” says Dream, with surprise.

“Was thinking about you too much,” Hob says. “How could I go back to just chatting with my mates when I had seen you?”

“Why did you stay, then?”

“You have to take time with your mates while you have it,” Hob says. “Didn’t need six hundred years of life to know that one. Just a couple dozen deaths. Had the rest of eternity to mull over you, after all.”

“And did you?” Dream asks.

“Oh, yes.” He pulls Dream close. Slides over until he’s half in his lap, straddling his thigh, perfectly placed to kiss him. Hands on his shoulders, his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw. Once, Hob had held him from afar, like a wish. Now, Hob holds him close, as dream, as friend, as lover, in his human way, with sweat and time and hands.

“I mulled over you like fine wine,” Hob says, twisting his fingers in Dream’s hair, and Dream smiles. Hob kisses him again. Sips of his mouth like mulled wine, indeed. But his love for Dream is nothing so fleeting as spice on his tongue.

Or as fleeting as Dream sometimes thinks it will be. Dream is a living love poem to creation. But he does not know how to be loved in the way Hob wants to love him. In the way Hob does love him. Hob thinks that Dream knows how to be loved as a dream is loved, as a hope is loved, as an ideal is loved: held in glass, or in the sky, distant, perfect, disappointing up close. Parts of him are held as bubbles in different souls, but never in entirety.

He knows how to be loved as a nightmare is loved, bloody fear and history, raw closeness, curling in the humors of the body. He has been loved as a story is loved, which is to say, as creation is loved, as transmission is loved, as distance, as connection, as hearts on radio waves, as endings are loved, the pathways of him, container and fill.

Dream does not know how to be loved as a person is loved.

Hob loves him still when he grows teeth, and when a sweet taste comes to his mouth. Hob loves him as potential, as uncertainty. Story unset in stone. In softening belly and uneven step. Hob will show him how to be loved as a person is loved, because Dream is a person, especially when he insists he is not, and Hob loves him as one, has loved him as one, and Dream, who is used to being loved as dreams, cannot comprehend this.

He asks, sometimes. Why? Not even in a hurt, self-hating way. In a genuinely curious way, for he is not used to it. Hob hasn’t had the answer to that. Just trust that I do.

This moment, kissing Dream in the smoke of memory, is an answer. This is the beginning, but a fragment of words comes back to him, read in the between-time, when they were apart.

“You wanted to know why I loved you.” His lips are to Dream’s skin as he speaks, moved to his throat, his chest, pulling open his high collar, as Dream shivers under him. In the Dreaming, things can be like other things in a way that makes no sense in the Waking; Dreaming-sense is like a collage, the distant truth of collected fragments. And so touching Dream’s skin is like stepping out into the earliest morning, before the human world’s woken up, and feeling what’s un-meant to be felt.

“I do not think love needs a why,” Dream says. “Yet I have wondered.”

He gets it, Hob thinks, except that he doesn’t let himself.

He traces the harsh line of Dream’s collarbone with his mouth. Dream is full of harsh lines and seems incapable of letting softness stick to his bones. “‘I love you because I know no other way than this.’”

“I am familiar with the poem,” Dream says, but his voice is caught on Hob's words, his long fingers disbelieving in Hob’s hair.

“Are you?”

“Between shadow and soul is where dreams reside,” says Dream.

“And what about Dream?” Hob says, looking up at him, stressing the singular.

Dream’s lips purse, and Hob goes back to kissing his chest, up his sternum, over his heart. “I know,” he says between kisses, “no other way. Than this.”

Dream tangles him up, long arms, legs curled together, shadow and star around him. Hob’s loved him so long that he doesn’t remember what it was like not to. He has been tangled up in Dream since the beginning. It is what he is.

“A dream resides where it is wanted,” says Dream, finally answering his question. His voice has roughened, his breath has quickened, affected by Hob’s touch, by the words of the poem. Each lick, and kiss, and bite coils the Dreaming closer around them. One day it might be harder to wake up than to fall asleep.

“It’s wanted,” Hob says, and claims his beautiful mouth, pressing him back against the wall. His hair in its uncontrollable frissons, his eyes in their changeable void, his needy starvation of a thousand unanswered love poems—this kiss is a response to those missives. Dream is in the shadowed parts of him, in his turning points, in the words he speaks. Hob sees his answer in the tears that bead along his eyes but refuse to fall, in his darkness and whimsical creations, and his surprised, gentle pleasure when he’s kissed.

Hob loves him so. There’s no moral or end to that story. Hob’s love for Dream is. Full stop. End of sentence.

#this is a little weird bc i was trying to capture how poems make me feel in the style of how i wrote it #hopefully some of you might like it because of or in spite of the weirdness XD #dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #my writing #inspired by poetry #me writing this like i'm just gonna start putting verbs where theyre not meant to be used and making things negative in a way it's not mean #to be. let's see what happens XD

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