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#poetic prose
nutnoce · 6 months ago
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I think I may be attracted to arrows, whose trajectory doesn’t end in my body. 
We’re loose and flying, in the same direction. 
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iambrillyant · 2 months ago
“there will be days when disappearing feels lighter than showing up, days when silence shifts you more than words, days when solitude fills your cup more than anyone else’s presence. there will be days when you need you more than anything else, and there is nothing wrong in that.”
— iambrillyant
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literatureaesthetic · 3 months ago
i’m afraid of getting older
scared i’ll never write anything
worth reading again
that i’ll disappoint the people
who are counting on me
that i’ll never learn how to be happy
that i’ll be broke again one day
that my parents will die
and i’ll be alone in the end
— Rupi Kaur, Home Body
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heartofmuse · 8 months ago
There are people who change you, forever. They are the people who plant seeds in you, who take the time to deposit into your soul, something so precious that it takes root, and whether they are there or not, it will grow and forever change the landscape of your heart.
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stormsofartemis · 20 days ago
His eyes are the color of old books, coffee, forest floors, tree barks, amber bottles, oak desks, chocolate, and rustic cabin floors. They have the strong gaze of earth’s unfettered beauty and at the same time the sweetness of cinnamon rolls. They remind me of abandoned castles and brick houses and cozy cottages. They have the warmth of a bonfire and the comfort of a cardigan. Rich. Captivating. Decadent. Subdued yet riveting, something a dark academia poet would write about in the window sill of an old library. They speak in the language of dried flowers and autumn leaves. They turn into pools of honey the moment sunlight finds them, and when I look closely, they had completely melted in his irises and two planets are now staring back at me.
— autumn artemis, "Vincent II"
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pplaidshirt · 3 months ago
When it gets a little too quiet
I scream
To know if I still can
And that the silence hasn't claimed my voice
For its own.
I count the number of times
My heart beats in a minute:
How do I know that?
I tap my feet to the count of my heart beat
And hope for the best.
My feet are bare and so are my arms
The silence makes me feel more naked than I am.
A cold gust of wind makes a squeal.
I take joy in a sound I can't make.
The wind blows from an unknown direction
The walls are high and closed
The lights very bright
I have often thought if this would be the last night.
I am always counting
Beats and taps
Of my heart and feet.
I think I just said this.
~ aranya
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agatheringofthreads · 2 months ago
listen: movement and stillness both speak. they speak of old days made new by shifting scenery, by quiet pockets of time and space that change the fabric of memory.
listen: the moth and the moon both speak. they speak of flame and fluidity, of short lives lived long and curiously.
listen: to every piece a story.
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oceanskiees · a month ago
Grief has a strange way of working
You see,
Some days, I'd rather wither away in bed
Other days, I'd rather drink and neglect
It hauls you back and forth like a twisted game of tug of war
When you think you're on the verge of victory,
The other side pulls you in and suddenly you’re stuck reminiscing
Curious as to when shit will feel normal again
Or when the melancholy will creep it’s way back in
Fearing it’ll drag you under again
Fearing this time it’ll make itself a permanent resident
Like this time its demanding its own room with 24 hour service and a breathtaking view
Grief has a strange way of working
You see,
It slips away like the bottle of wine you’ve finished before midnight
And somehow, someway you’ve convinced yourself that you’re fine
You’ll go walking through life as if everything within you didn’t just die
You let the smile plastered on your face fool those around you including the reflection in the mirror
Days seem a lot longer
Nights seem a lot lonelier
With the exception of the startling 2 a.m. visitor who comes knocking down doors
You wish there was a tighter lock
You wish there was a better hiding spot
But grief will always make its way to you
And truthfully, sometimes I just allow it to
I let grief consume me because there is nothing shameful about a good cry
There is nothing shameful about clearing my eyes
Some days are more difficult than others
But that’s alright
Because no one expected me to be fine
Except for me
Grief has a funny way of working
You see,
It never officially introduces herself to you
Doesn’t offer a warm welcome on the porch
Or extends her invisible hand forward
And you find yourself relentlessly trying to pinpoint the moment in which you two met
Are better days ahead?
Can anyone answer this, truthfully?
I’ve let grief live in me for quite some time
But that’s the funny thing about her:
She’s taught me how to let her go without a proper goodbye
But I know its not the last I’ll see of her
Grief { @oceanskiees }
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moonbirdy · 10 months ago
the best revenge isn’t moving on and pretending not to care. if you really want to disconcert people, stick your fingernails in and bring out your insides. leave them there on the table. no one wants to see you cry. that’s why you should do it. 
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cassieona-cloud · 2 months ago
i went out on a saturday morning to buy poetry books which i could read to you while you fall asleep.
i sat on the floor of the bookshop in the town where i was born, skirt in a puddle on the wood, and dreamt of you in a place far away.
and if handing over the dollars folded up in my pocket in exchange for words that might soothe you isn’t love, then what?
opening the book, finding it new and the pages untouched, i crossed my legs underneath me and started to read
the cadence was just right- it never is when i read new poems and yet-
maybe it was your presence, the sound of your pillow rustling and the quiet way that you mumble
i love you
when i ask, are you okay?
are you okay?
i love you.
the answer is sufficient and you, more than.
you fell asleep and i whispered i love you’s into the darkness and found- is this the first time? maybe-
that i didn’t mind the quiet, in exchange for your rest.
i suppose, the love was never in buying the books after all,
but in the listening to you sleep.
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honeyandbloodpoetry · 2 months ago
A Poem For My Parent
You see me.
You think you do, at least.
You see a pale moon hanging in the sky,
Sending down pools of silver unto your earth
And pulling gently at the tide.
You call me Daughter,
And I smile
I am the ocean,
Vast as mourning
And kind as a fawn's first breath.
I am solace and I am storming,
I bring life
And I bring death.
(And aren't those two things everything?)
But wait!
I am the sun.
Burning hot,
Singing red onto your cheeks
And bringing brightness to your crops.
I am the life-giver
With a someday expiration date,
I am the fury that drives men mad
And the summer breeze that makes them
(But isn't that the same thing?)
And then!
I am a faraway planet,
Completely removed from earth.
My rings are shattered,
And my face is cursed.
Acid rains down from my skies
And dying microbes lie in wait
Deep within my core.
I spin alone through the Universe
And I could not be happier.
(Yet still I want to be close to you.)
I am the bird breaking free of its eggshell,
The snake shedding its useless skin,
The first morning dewdrops on the grass,
The watermelon juice dripping down your chin,
The bite of a blade in a war,
And the song of sadness
That echoes in every creature's heart.
But alas,
I am the joy that comes with the early dawn
And the hopeful distance between our spirits and the earth
And the kindness of someone you will never see again.
I am so many things,
And I hope that one day,
You would hold all of me
And call me
Your Son.
If you like my writing, consider donating to help fund my transition and pay my bills!
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fraiserire · a month ago
Have you ever cried over a time you’ve never belonged to? Such as you have this feeling that you’ve never belonged here, that there’s a sense of nostalgia you feel when you see certain images, hear certain songs, watch certain movies? You can visualize yourself in those situations, places, and feel so at home and happy listening to them. For example, anything “vintage” belonging to the 40s/50s era? Or even later or earlier eras. Have you ever felt such an overwhelming sense of pain, like you’re mourning something - not necessarily someone but just something- though you could never really place what exactly it is? You just feel so heartbroken, so lonely, sometimes even numb; and suddenly you just feel so out of place, out of time; and there’s nothing you even do. What could really scream about? You weren’t there. What could you ever tell someone? How could you ever begin to explain to someone that you’re heartbroken over something you never existed in? What could you ever really do when someone asks if you’re okay? Other than saying playful “oh, yes” with a melancholy look in your eye and sad smile. What could you ever do or say?
- A. Nicole. M
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stormsofartemis · 13 days ago
There are hours I spend in the warm arms of solitude; staring at the ceiling, listening to the rustle of leaves outside, my mouth dry after having too much coffee, haunted by the past and all the writings I didn’t finish. There's a familiar weight in my chest and I'm wondering if I should cry or not. It’s funny that I have thousands of ways to tell you about my pain, but never where it hurts.
— autumn artemis
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jswets · 27 days ago
there's a hint of a feeling
that suggests it has healing
and a memory of a place i want to go
in the eternity of my consciousness
hiding the shadows from the day
because in the dark nothing looks the same
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dame-nostalgique · 4 months ago
"...And she would always bring flowers wherever she went. She was picking them on the way there, quickly spotting something blooming in soft colors in the grass by her feet. She loved the wildflowers, a wildflower herself. She was the first sign of Spring in the early days of April, when she was entering my home with a bouquet of forsythias and dandelions. Sweet and deadly smell of Lily of the Valley in the warm evenings of May. Left them in the corner of my house, never prepared a vase in her absentmindedness. But when she was gone, the fresh air of a flower garden disappeared, leaving me with a nostalgic emptiness. I'd find, days later, an abandoned, browning pile of lilacs on the counter. A sad, colorless violets by the window and a single pressed lavender between the yellow pages of a book. And then I realized, that it was not her true self. That under all that sweetest, instead of a romantic rose, there is an atmosphere of decay, and the smell of something rotten(...)"
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