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hauntedbythenarrative · 5 months

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We, afflicted by ourselves, gladly needing to be afflicted. We, who sleep with our anger laid beside us like a knife.

Psych Ward Lover, Meggie Royer// “Antistrophes", The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke//House of the Dragon (2022-)

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writingsforwinter · 3 months

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Pretty rusty after some writer's block, but here's my first poem of 2024.

-Meggie Royer

#poetry #meggie royer #poem #hereditary #trauma

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sinligh · 6 months

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I’m soft spoken,

In a way that contrasts my sharp teeth and my pointed corners.

Unapproachable, unapologetic yet, open and falling apart at the seams

Fierce, and guarded with expectations that are as high as my walls, the same walls I spend my days painting the colors of all the flowers I have never received.

Lavender to grey Girlhood to decay

I yearn for things that will wither if I dare to embrace and my moral compass is almost always out of my hands reach. I exchange a piece of it for every new defense mechanism i pick up, and I regret nothing…

not even my tongue that is still stuck in my windpipe because in my hast to run away from spotlight I forgot to tuck it right.

I hold on to ghosts of sentiments that i let filter through me

I, a distant soul that walk through earth aimlessly.

I linger but my traces refuse to hold I don’t get close because i can’t afford being left behind, I dwindle, but i don’t let anyone touch me because being starved taught me that we don’t need to overanalyze the intentions behind every touch; we just need to prevent ourselves from getting hurt.

It’s a collective we, because I learned to stand behind a wall of who I’m supposed to be.

Even if I do it inadequately.

I’m hypersensitive, yet i’d rather shed my own skin than cling to unwanted love that have no potential for growth.

I’m lovable, that much I know

but I don’t believe in falling, It’s not that I don’t want to believe in an unadulterated emotion..

but however I look at at love. it seems fabricated

So now, i only want it with a pre-negotiated price.

With a clear definition and stable steps that I can take one at a time.

That’s how it goes for kindnesses too, as something in me believes that we need to earn it.

Maybe it’s the part of me that i inherited from my mother,

the same part that is still searching for ways to sacrifice more, otherwise we’re selfish.

•••

•Quotes:Louis Tomlinson/Roland Barthes/ Taylor Swift/Meggie C. Royer/ Nikki Giovanni/ Helene Cixous/ Margaret Atwood/ Sylvia Plath/ Anaïs Nin

•Original context: Sinligh

•Art references:

1.Playing Games With Paranoia by Guillermo Lorca (details). 2. Art by: John William Godward (details). 3.Art by: by Ivan Olinsky (details). 4.The wave by Guillaume Seignac (details). 5.Art by: Edward Hopper's (details). 6. The Repentant Mary Magdalene by Francesco Hayez. (Details).

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uaravsh · 6 months

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“I want things to hurt —

cigarette smoke to burn my lungs,

glass shards to cut my skin,

pavement to rasp against my knees.

I do not want beautiful;

I want a goddamn tragedy.”

- Meggie C. Royer , Tragedies

#tragedies #meggie royer #writing #poetry #tumblrpost #literature #quotes #relatable #art #dark academia #lit #quoteoftheday #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #spilled words #books and quotes #books and literature #november

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osemanobsessed · 3 months

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The Morning After I Killed Myself, by Meggie Royer.

(TW: Suicide and depression. Gather your tissues before you read this.)

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

#alice oseman #osemanverse #tori spring #heartstopper comics #solitaire #heartstopper #hope this helps anyone who is currently struggling #poetry #mental health #meggie royer #TW #sad poem #sad poetry #poem #poems and quotes #cant stop crying #mental illness #depression

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aestheticallyapoet · 1 year

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The Morning After I Killed Myself — Meggie Royer

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cem3terydr1ve · 5 months

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#girlblogging #girl blogger #self destructive behavior #poetry #meggie royer #self mutalition #tragedy

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calamity-unlocked · 11 months

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Meggie Royer - The Morning After I Killed Myself

#poetry #meggie royer #suicide tw

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we-are-gods · 5 months

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#female rage #quote #meggie royer #the no you never listened to #words

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quote-tournament · 8 months

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Hi! I have to recite 6-8 lines of poetry for my drama class, but I don’t have any ideas. I know this blog has reblogged some poetry and people have sent asks with poetry, so could you or anyone who sees this suggest some good poetry? It has to be something you can say with full commitment and passion.

Ho for sure! Once I had to do a similar thing for a class, by giving a "gift" and my gift was Wendy Cope's The Orange, since it is one of my favourites.

Others of my favourites include Victor Hugo's Melancholia, Laura Gilpin's The Two Headed Calf, Stephen Crane's In The Desert, Meggie Royer's The Morning After I Killed Myself (poems under the cut)

If you want some more I recommend you check out @poetrysmackdown @apoemaday @havingapoemwithyou

The Orange by Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange - The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave - They got quarters and I got a half. And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It's new. The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I'm glad I exist.

Melancholia by Victor Hugo (extract)

Où vont tous ces enfants dont pas un seul ne rit ? Ces doux êtres pensifs que la fièvre maigrit ? Ces filles de huit ans qu’on voit cheminer seules ? Ils s’en vont travailler quinze heures sous des meules ; Ils vont, de l’aube au soir, faire éternellement Dans la même prison le même mouvement. Accroupis sous les dents d’une machine sombre, Monstre hideux qui mâche on ne sait quoi dans l’ombre, Innocents dans un bagne, anges dans un enfer, Ils travaillent. Tout est d’airain, tout est de fer. Jamais on ne s’arrête et jamais on ne joue. Aussi quelle pâleur ! la cendre est sur leur joue. Il fait à peine jour, ils sont déjà bien las. Ils ne comprennent rien à leur destin, hélas ! Ils semblent dire à Dieu : « Petits comme nous sommes, Notre père, voyez ce que nous font les hommes ! » O servitude infâme imposée à l’enfant ! Rachitisme ! travail dont le souffle étouffant Défait ce qu’a fait Dieu ; qui tue, œuvre insensée, La beauté sur les fronts, dans les cœurs la pensée, Et qui ferait — c’est là son fruit le plus certain ! - D’Apollon un bossu, de Voltaire un crétin ! Travail mauvais qui prend l’âge tendre en sa serre, Qui produit la richesse en créant la misère, Qui se sert d’un enfant ainsi que d’un outil ! Progrès dont on demande : « Où va-t-il ? que veut-il ? » Qui brise la jeunesse en fleur ! qui donne, en somme, Une âme à la machine et la retire à l’homme ! Que ce travail, haï des mères, soit maudit ! Maudit comme le vice où l’on s’abâtardit, Maudit comme l’opprobre et comme le blasphème ! O Dieu ! qu’il soit maudit au nom du travail même, Au nom du vrai travail, sain, fécond, généreux, Qui fait le peuple libre et qui rend l’homme heureux !

English translation by Geoffrey Barto

[Where do these children go for whom nobody laughs?

These sweet, pensive beings wasted away by fever?

These eight-year-old girls you see walking alone?

They go to work — fifteen hours in the mill;

They go from dawn to dusk, eternally repeating

The same motions in the same prison.

Stooped beneath the teeth of a somber machine,

A hideous monster that chews who-knows-what in the shadows,

Innocents on the chain gang, angels in some hell,

They work. Everything is bronze, all is iron.

Never do they stop and never do they play.

And what paleness! Ash upon their cheeks.

Barely it is dawn, already they are tired.

They understand nothing of their fate, alas!

They seem to say to God: “Little as we are,

Our Father, look what the men do to us!”

O infamous servitude imposed upon the child!

Stunting! work whose stifling breath

Undoes what God has made; that kills, senseless work,

The beauty of their faces, the thought in their heads,

And which would make — here’s its most certain fruit! -

A hunchback of Apollo, a cretin of Voltaire!

Evil work that takes tender youth in its grasp,

That produces wealth by creating misery,

That uses a child like one more tool!

Progress of which we ask: “Where are you going? What do you want?”

That breaks youth in bloom! that gives, in sum,

A soul to a machine and yanks it from a man!

That this work, hated by mothers, be cursed!

Cursed as a degenerative vice!

Cursed as damnable, cursed as blasphemy!

O God! be it cursed even in the name of work,

In the name of true work, healthy, fecund, generous,

That makes the people free and makes man happy!]

The Two-headed Calf by Laura Gilpin

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum. But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.

In The Desert by Stephen Crane

In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, “Is it good, friend?” “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered; “But I like it “Because it is bitter, “And because it is my heart.”

The Morning After I Killed Myself by Meggie Royer

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels. The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed. The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication. The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach. The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

#not a poll #poems #poem rec #wendy cope #victor hugo #laura gilpin #meggie royer #stephen crane

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oldwinesoul · 2 years

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“They say a woman's first blood doesn't come from between her legs but from biting her tongue.”

—Meggie Royer

#poets on tumblr #dark academia #aesthetic #spilled poetry #words #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #19th century #vintage #love poem #dark acadamia aesthetic #dark academia books #renaissance art #renaissance #poetry #dark academia lovers #vintage classics #dark acdemia #Meggie Royer

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writingsforwinter · 2 months

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-Meggie Royer

#poetry #poem #meggie royer

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sinligh · 2 years

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A woman, so lost in the rules of my being…

Lately, I don’t think anyone have a choice really. Especially us women, cause the moment we blink is the moment everyone else decides to take a bite of our rights and if its taste doesn’t satisfy them…

Well, that’s when they decide we don’t get any…

For so long I felt welcomed, because i was stripped of knowledge.

Basics were privilege, ignorance was a bless.

I used to dream about being a mother, i still do… And I don’t know, if this dream belongs to me

Or all the women, that life buried in me.

I dream about versions of myself that i exiled long ago. I dream of the reincarnation of my madness.

About purifying my soul, by sacrificing rage.

Maybe my temporal lobe too ?

A REM phase dream with no way back to.

Emotional attachment, a phone call Two kids, friends and love.

Nothing could be further from the truth…

•••

Quotes: Clarice Lispector/Fyodor dostoevsky/ albert camus/Adrienne Rich/ Meggie Royer/ Shakespeare/ Franz Kafka

Original context: Sinligh

Art reference:

1. Art by Welder Wings 2. Art by Gail Potocki. 3. Art by Henrik Uldalen. 4. Art by Henrik Uldalen 5. The Martyr of Solway (detail) by John Everett Millais. 6. The Death of Albine by John Collier.

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contremineur · 10 months

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And every man always looks at you before he comes, as if something new will be there that was never there before. And he says I’m going to come, that’s what they all say, and you think, Wherever you are coming, I hope it is somewhere better than where I’m at.

Meggie Royer, from On breaking down and hooking up

from here

#meggie royer #poetry #quote #lit #excerpt

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imaginemirage · 1 year

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They say a woman's first blood doesn't come from between her legs but from biting her tongue.

Meggie Royer

#meggie royer #quote #quotes #poetry #poem #poet #feminism #patriarchy #blood #silenced #women

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thirdwednesdayorg · 1 year

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Chaos Theory / Meggie Royer

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#Literary Journal #Meggie Royer #Poem #Poetry #Third Wednesday Magazine

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