"Don't bend; don't water it down;
don't try to make it logical;
don't edit your own soul according to the fashion.
Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly".
— Franz Kafka
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I think about this sososososo much this is poetry to me
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• Constellations •
@lovergirlpoems
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In groundbreaking news this week I found a poem I loved in high school after 10+ years of not knowing what it was called or who wrote it!
Wings of Song, by Don McKay (as featured in the 2005 Griffin Poetry Prize book)
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Hey can I show you guys some very rough poetry??? I hope you guys like the horror or eating and being eaten or whatever
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my heart, undeniably and unequivocally, is yours
everything i say about you becomes part of you
good thing i adore you so unabashedly
so i can build you up, show you how i hold your heart
carefully, carefully, carefully.
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hello, i love my mam.
hello, she is fifty three and is still learning. she will be the first to look at herself and go: yeah. what is needed here.
she goes to choir once a week because she likes singing but more because she likes laughing. she tells me that they all like to laugh a lot.
when i was seven, my dad told a joke in the car on the way to kerry — an inappropriate one, involving a priest, i don't remember details — and i remember seeing my mam laugh in the mirror. i remember how her eyes crinkled at the sides and the lines around her mouth. the way they deepened. i remember how it sat in her face. i remember thinking: i want to be able to do that.
my mam has a great laugh. it's not one of those ones that tries to hide. you can hear it through closed doors.
i never used to lie awake listening to my parents argue but i'd often stare at the popcorn speckled ceiling as they laughed downstairs. this is what i generally fell asleep to as a child. this above all else is what i am thankful for.
she sends me little cards. used to pack them in lunch boxes when i'd go on a school trip. i'm twenty one now and i'm up in [redacted] for the summer and she tucked a card in my hand before i ran for the train and all it said was: have a great time. get arrested and you’ll get a slap. go for a swim for me. i love you.
(i've never told her that i collect them. i feel like i should.)
i have a letterboxd playlist that is titled movies my mam loves and i watch them when i need to. when i miss her. when i want a hug. it happens more times than i would've ever thought. i'm becoming okay with this.
she loves me. and i think she likes me too.
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hot manic nights in december / hanna
( @eliseinmemphis here it is!)
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can yall proofread a poem i wrote for my friend as a christmas present <3
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@lovergirlpoems
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Tag game for the poets and poetically inclined
I was tagged by @wordrummager to take this little survey:
1. A poem that tends to pop into your mind
2. One line in a song
3. One line in a movie
4. A word you'll avoid for fear of over-usage
5. One word that is you, metaphorically (no explanation)
My answers:
'suburban monastery death poem' - d.a.levy
"Pablo Picasso never got called an asshole" - 'Pablo Picasso' by The Modern Lovers
“You talking to me?” - Taxi Driver
Underwear - I resolve to use it less
5. Absurdity
As always I tag the willing!
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To-do lists
Restlessness at my fingertips. I’m filling my ears with words and sounds, my eyes with colors and shapes. Everything too little. Too inconsequential. Too empty, like the silent howl steadily bleeding from my soul as I wait - for a sign, for the quiet, for sleep.
Boredom thrumming in my chest like a second heart, coursing through my veins like ants; I feel it, and it’s both the cog that makes my hands fly over the keyboard and the sand stopping the mechanism that allows me to do, to create, to live.
There’s the anger, too, self-pitying and hateful. Anger at myself, at the people around me - those who don’t know I exist and those who do, those who despise me and those who care. I want to bite, scream, cry. So many ties that I want to cut, choking me and keeping me from falling at the same time.
I am dreaming of a house in the woods.
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i breathe
breathe in through my nose
hold it
for a little while
i breathe out through my mouth
my head tilted back
face to the sky
except the sky is not in sight
the sight is nothing but a ceiling
a ceiling in a room filled with smoke and sounds
the breath that could have been so beautiful
so perfect
it could have been just right
but it’s nothing but a chase for the high
the breathing through the nose
just to get it inside
the holding of the breath
the breathing through the mouth
my head tilted back
all just to keep it inside
to keep the courage, the pleasure, the bliss, the powder
the powder is the point
the point is the powder
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