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scatteredthoughts2 · 2 days ago
Hugs So Soft and Warm.
Sometimes I get so angry,
And I make some huge mistakes,
I push your arms away from me,
When a hug is all it takes....
.... A hug can make me better,
And dispel all the gloom,
It can open up the shutters,
And let the sunlight in my room....
.... But I can be so stubborn,
And lock myself away,
When your hugs are waiting for me,
To make everything okay....
.... And when my anger leaves me,
And my sadness is all gone,
You are always there to greet me,
With your hugs so soft and warm.
©Ambrose Harte
©Scattered Thoughts
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dg-fragments · a day ago
If I were to not write, I would be taking away, the power of stories within me, capable of transforming my own self. Yet, I write, more to cope, to salvage the remnants, and less to transform my own self. Am I then, merely a mirage or perhaps, there is some hope, out there, still?
- DG
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riddlemethispoetry · 2 days ago
What No One Tells You, You Can’t Talk About
tw: sexual assault, implied suicidal ideation, gaslighting.
A few years ago, I was assaulted by someone in my local arts scene. They were a little older than me, and I’d trusted them a lot, and it’s one of those stories that happens all the time and is always awful, but not that unique. It was an event that lead me to step back from my performance practice, and is something that I’m still working through and talking about in therapy, and something that exists in my writing that I don’t often share. 
This felt like it was worth sharing.  The worst thing no one tells you about your assault is how you will think about it every day, and know your rapist doesn't think about it anymore.
To them it was just a Tuesday.
To you, it will be like you have written a memory in wet cement then found your feet locked in concrete forced to look at stare at remember remember everything that happened, and to them your name was thrown out on a post it note, or
To you, it will be like you had carved your names into a tree, initialled the letters with forever and found yourself caught in the roots, swallowed up by vines and held there unable to get away from the place it happened the place it happened the memory, to them, they will not remember the mattress you held on to, the pillow you tried to drown yourself in, they will not remember if you had been to see a movie before, or a restaurant, whether they had found you drunk in a club and played at being your mentor,
The last time I spoke to my rapist, I asked them if they remembered.
I told them I needed to know, and they said they didn't know what I was talking about.
I asked them if they heard me say no, they said they didn't know what I was talking about.
I asked them if they smelled the gas of the stove I was cooking on, or if they knew why I was flushed whether I was in the pan trying to jump into a fire, or if they told everyone they burned that their bonfire eyes were pilot lights and that all black boxes were faulty, and everyone else's memories were just as unreliable as mine.
They said they didn't know what I was talking about.
I asked myself if I could trust myself to make it to a new dawn, or whether I'd pour a jerry can of gasoline over every part of me they had touched,
Whether I could wait out until the morning, or if I needed to make myself a new sun to chase away the shadows of my trauma, and for a long time, I couldn't I couldn't I couldn't feel the sunlight dancing across my face, but now
I do again.
Before and after everything else, I am a teller of stories, and I, I have had to keep,
Keep, keep telling this story until I could make sense of it. Until shadow puppets looked
less like my rapist, and more like my own outline; until pillow sighs sounded more like rest
than a threat. It is all still so hard to talk about.
Everyone tells you that you will survive, no one tells you that you will feel alive again;
It took me a long time to find that out, and maybe it will take you a long time to believe me, but
In case you are drowning in the smell of gas and burnt evidence, in case you are
surviving, but maybe not yet living; waiting for sunlight to tell you about tomorrow,
I wanted to let you know.
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nidhibhasin · 2 days ago
“I want you to stay
please stay”
I told him
He smiled
“You can't keep the breeze
can’t make it stay
only breathe in it, only feel it
as long as it lasts”
-Nidhi Bhasin
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imsorrythings · a day ago
Poetry is dead and so am I
Poetry is dead and so am I my pen had a stroke, my well ran dry, poetry is dead and so am I.
Jesus H Christ. Find me a prescription for whatever is going on before I go comatose, hardly daring to get out of bed, barely hacking up a couplet into the nearest tissue.
My new sick is backwards-sick; love, pain, sex - terminal, a boring mess on the floor, coaxed into the shape of a poem.
How I long for the old sick, my tongue in your teeth, your God in my throat, hands as syringes, drawing blood from anything you touch.
For me, this was always my way of talking to you, how I love you, how I hate me. But I have nothing left to talk about and I won't pretend that I do.
On Instagram, they post type-written pieces of paper that say things like "you are my moon and my stars." They must have died, too.
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drunk-on-writing · 12 months ago
you know that character you love so much? (you know -- the one from that movie you always watch when you’re feeling sad the one from that show you’ve seen so many times you can quote the episodes the one from that book or comic you’ve read more times than you can count) think about how much you resonate with them how they’re like a mirror image to the way you see yourself how they empathize with pieces of your soul in ways that a real life human cannot how they feel like a representation of you you see so much of yourself in them and you love them so much so why can’t you love you too?  if you can find it in you  to look past their flaws  and see gold shining in their cracks maybe you can do the same for yourself after all if your favorite character is a reflection of you, and you love them more than words can say maybe its possible for you to love you too
(cc, 2020)
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rudranurag · 5 months ago
Normalise liking poetry because you like the way it sounds and art because you think its beautiful. You don’t have to understand the deeper meaning of something to appreciate it - poetry is bloody difficult to analyse and art requires an extensive knowledge of movements and artists to properly get - so please just wonder around art galleries and decide which pieces you’d buy if you could, and read out lines of poetry simply because they have a nice ring to them.
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stormykatie · 2 months ago
Tumblr media
if i pass away,
my pen will mourn me longer
than my friends will ever do in a lifetime
it will sit cold on my study table,
its own bereavement fester
with the lifeless body buried somewhere
reeking of lost poetry
an ocean of mystery that seems
unsolvable now that the lead vanished
like smoke
it will try to recollect the words
it used to scribble
and the emotions they carry
it will marvel at the depth of the scars
that resonate on the seemingly flawless pieces,
how many times in a day did i survive
the pangs before i decided the culmination
of a barren life
such a tragedy that it could only lie there
thinking of the past as its yearning
to be held burns with the candlestick
-mourn me longer,
katie, 16th of July 2021, 16:45
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mortalghost · a month ago
Is it wrong that I wish to be the first thought of your morning? The last kiss before bed? The dreams that carry you across the lands and wish you a love that will always be endless?
-H. Murcia 8:51 AM 8/20/2021
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pplaidshirt · 2 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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scatteredthoughts2 · 23 hours ago
Alien Lights.
There was strange lights in the sky that night,
Zigging and zagging every-which-way;
Dimming then blazing, dark and then bright,
First black as pitch, then as bright as the day.
People were gathered at the top of the hill,
From all over town they came for the show,
Excited and eager and ripe for a thrill,
As the lights in the sky continued to glow.
I watched from a tree house a mile out of town,
With my high powered glasses I saw everything,
As the lights in the sky sent beams shooting down,
And the crowd on the hilltop started to sing.
They sang in a way, so eerie and strange,
T'was like alien music you hear on TV,
T'was a sound no composer on Earth could arrange,
And the sound that they made sent shivers through me.
Then the beams started glowing and fading away,
Getting weaker then stronger then sizzling the night,
The sound of the music continued to play,
Then nothing but darkness; and the night deadly quiet.
When my eyes readjusted to the dim and the gloom,
The hilltop was empty, not a soul to be seen,
The night was so silent, as quite as the tomb,
With the grass softly waving, where the people had been.
Half of our townsfolk were taken away,
And maybe they're gone to a home out in space,
And at night I go to the hilltop and pray,
That wherever they are, they are in a good place.
©Ambrose Harte
©Scattered Thoughts
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dg-fragments · a month ago
is perhaps only what we need in our prime,
we try to detach ourselves only to never part,
like stars twinkling within a spotless night.
- DG
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endlesswordsonapage · a month ago
I feel like I’m drowning
and yet somehow,
with the force of a mountain,
with the will of fragile steel,
I push my way to the surface,
to sip
a precious breath of air,
only to lose my grip
once more
and fall
to the silent depths,
drowning again.
- Life, on repeat
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a-moonlit-poet · 2 months ago
Some days,
I feel everything at once.
Other days,
I feel nothing at all.
I don't know what's worse:
Drowning beneath the waves
Or dying from the thirst.
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poetbitesback · 6 months ago
Yesterday, the shelf above my kitchen table where a small hourglass was housed came crashing down. I won’t ask for more. Time and I have always had a fickle relationship. The give and take becoming more give and break the longer we’ve run around one another. There is glass and sand beneath my feet. I knew they were not the most delicate lover. I sit. I wait. Five more minutes and then I’ll clean this mess up. Five more minutes to tell myself that I too have not shattered. Just five more minutes, so I can pretend that Time has not also run out on me.
Five More Minutes // Olivia Larson 
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stormykatie · 9 months ago
If we will ever come to a point where goodbye is inevitable, I will not ask you to teach me how to forget. Instead, I will ask you to show me how to remember. We made so many beautiful memories together, it's a shame to erase them all just because we have to part, and can no longer go back to the beginning to fall in love again. No, no matter how much it will hurt, I won't ask you to teach me how to forget. I will walk all the paths we've trodden and remember how your laughter sounded, how your fingers curled around mine, how your hair smelled under the sun, how your lips tasted. I will remember every bit of you, so when I am finally ready to let go, I can let all of you go the way I've let all the kites fly away when I was young and life was innocent and gentle and kind.
-let go,
katie, 17:30
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