elizabethdecent

elizabethdecent:

winabagel:

“there’s no escape. Only a constant reminder”

 

I really miss you

which is idiotic because I never even knew you

everything I thought to be truth concerning us

crumbled

when I examined the dates

but my heart refuses to listen to reason

once again

and breaks

splinters

into hope

regret

I want to slap her

naïve little smile

shout

kick

make her a bloodied mess

that you would never want

the devil the devil the devil in me

the one who won’t smile at strangers

my bad self

that smiles at strangers

the discontent

the bored

the restless

he makes work for idle hands

I get out the old letters

and weep

and I know what will happen

every time

but still I open old wounds

the dark whispering of me

the one that tells me to cut

this is a crimson baptism

washing you clean

my love

to fall from grace

to leap

perchance to dream

of betters things

The fact that its you;

and it makes it so much more soul destroying’

the closest I have to I love you

I love breathing in the smog of you

even now after you’re gone 

that is my darkest truth

I would have followed

the worst

the one that I am most ashamed

(but I think the most easily forgiven)

is that when I said I didn’t want you to destroy your life over this

I was lying

If by doing that meant leaving me behind

I wanted a suicide pact

One of the lines from this ended up in Bukowski Blues, despite the two being about different people, they have similar themes of longing for what you can’t posses and address my darker qualities. I am usually much more revealing in my poems and songs than i am in real life, probably because it’s a lot harder to take things seriously with a constant G Major chord twanging beneath them.

fuckyeahandreagibson

sapphrikah:

“One male poet approached me after a performance and said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but do you ever write about anything other than the struggles of women?” I replied, “I don’t mean to be rude, but take your finger off the trigger and I’ll stop.” After all, who among us ever wanted to speak about these things? What little girl dreams of growing up to write ‘rape poems?’ About violence? About the muffled voices of women worldwide?” -Andrea Gibson

"there’s no escape. Only a constant reminder"

 

I really miss you

which is idiotic because I never even knew you

everything I thought to be truth concerning us

crumbled

when I examined the dates

but my heart refuses to listen to reason

once again

and breaks

splinters

into hope

regret

I want to slap her

naïve little smile

shout

kick

make her a bloodied mess

that you would never want

the devil the devil the devil in me

the one who won’t smile at strangers

my bad self

that smiles at strangers

the discontent

the bored

the restless

he makes work for idle hands

I get out the old letters

and weep

and I know what will happen

every time

but still I open old wounds

the dark whispering of me

the one that tells me to cut

this is a crimson baptism

washing you clean

my love

to fall from grace

to leap

perchance to dream

of betters things

The fact that its you;

and it makes it so much more soul destroying’

the closest I have to I love you

I love breathing in the smog of you

even now after you’re gone 

that is my darkest truth

I would have followed

the worst

the one that I am most ashamed

(but I think the most easily forgiven)

is that when I said I didn’t want you to destroy your life over this

I was lying

If by doing that meant leaving me behind

I wanted a suicide pact

therealspiderman

therealspiderman:

So You Want To Be A Writer - by Charles Bukowski

“if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.”

needykitten

Listen, I know there were days you wanted to die

when the sky was so clear
you’d stand obnoxious underneath it
begging for stars to shoot you
just so you could feel at home.

I know about the ways you misplaced all the right words,
stockpiled every important social cue you ever missed
from the first time you learned you were wrong,
waited to make it right
once everyone stopped watching.

I know you let them beat up your beauty in bed
because redemption was still alive in you, howling relentless, gathering strength.
Felt like ecstasy when they pounded it out of you in the hard dark.
Those days of dead weather
got all strung together
and they spoke for you,
wore you down to telling everyone here it was a good life
so you could run back into the wails of your windfight.

I know the parts of your past that haunt you the most
are the days you weren’t being yourself,
and I know that’s why most of your past haunts you.
There were so many who found you out,
and they were right.
You were good.

So
un-
numb.

Buddy Wakefield, Healing Hermanm Hesse (excerpt)
punch-in-the-face-poetry

"A Question of Climate," Audre Lorde

poemfull:

I learned to be honest
the way I learned to swim
dropped into the inevitable
my father’s thumbs in my hairless armpits
about to give way
I am trying
to surface      carefully
remembering
the water’s shadow-legged musk
cannons of salt     exploding
my nostrils’ rage
and for years
my powerful breast stroke
was a declaration of war.

Piper

Come now children, down to the river

Your family waits for you there in the waves

You’ve heard them calling; I merely deliver

They’re dying to see you, they told me to say

 

The music I play on my pipe, do you like it?

A tune that’s been passed down from days of old

You’ve heard it somewhere before you think, lad?

Well sailors will sing it sometimes I am told

 

My boy, your eyes they look so familiar

And something about the corner of mouth

May I say you have a look of my sister,

Maybe you’ve seen her round and about?

 

She once would dance on the sand on the beaches

Under moonlight, but that was back in her youth

I think she acquired a job at the manor

We’ve not spoke in a while, to tell you the truth

 

My dear have you heard those mysterious tales

Of the seals who sometimes emerge from the drink

And can strip off their animal skins to unveil

Creatures of loveliness – are they true do you think?

 

Oh your nursemaid would sing you such stories you say

As you lay in your beds on stormy eves

In my childhood our mother would do just the same

Cautionary tales of other men’s greed

 

It begins, as you know, with a seal

A young pooka who shed her coat on the shore

Each night her exotic physique she’d reveal

Her hair was wild, and dark, much like yours

 

A noble would view her display in the evenings

Never before had he seen such a dance

Reckless, she possessed a refreshing freedom

His eyes shone with longing as he watched her, entranced

 

For her beauty, they say, was somewhat bewitching

And though he was married, and against his wifes will

He offered her lodgings and work in the kitchen

If at night, for a time, she would dance for him still

 

The pooka, I’m told, politely refused

He said, he must have her, whatever the cost

As she tried to retreat, she looked round confused

Her sealskin coat, it appeared, was lost

 

Reluctantly she followed the rich man home

For humans they cannot live in the sea

Instead of grey blubber, she now wore his wife’s clothes

And he hungrily watched as she danced, so sadly

 

In the manor next spring, two babes were born

Yet how strange, you would hear the village remark

That the Lady of the house spent last summer abroad

And the children’s hair, so incredibly dark

 

Now some years passed and the pooka existed

Trapped on the land, in melancholy

Though he tried to capture her heart, she resisted

For it could only ever belong to the sea

 

And though the man felt joy in his life

The maids sorrow, he could clearly see

And something struck him once said by his wife

“If you love something, set it free”

 

He went into the attic and found the old chest

Where he’d hidden the sealskin so long ago

He was suddenly filled with overwhelming regret

And remembered his maid dancing free in the shadows

 

He recalled the delight that had once possessed her

As she flailed her limbs so wild on the sand

He thought he could tame her if only he dressed her

But he can’t truly own her, he could now understand

 

He went to his room, laid the coat on the bed

Then went off to fetch the young maid

But the first to discover was his wife instead

And here she made the exchange

 

Neglected for years, the wife had grown bitter

Of the youth and attention the young woman received

The beautiful coat made her eyes bulge and glitter

She wanted it for her self, and so fueled by greed

 

She switched the sealskin coat with another

She’d constructed from her wardrobe, an elegant costume

The two coats were so similar in texture and colour

Then she hid as the man and maid entered the room


The young pooka discovered what she thought was her skin

Overjoyed she did not wait

To learn in fact the coat was a twin

Instead she grabbed it and left the room with haste

 

She ran down to the beach, dressed in the coat

Finally knowing that she would be free

But submerged in the water, she began to choke

For humans they cannot live in the sea

 

She did not understand that the skin was a fake

Heartbroken, she questioned why she could not return home

The young pooka she sank, and the waves did break

And her face became tears and her body sea foam

 

The ending is different from the one your nurse would recite

In your beds all those years ago?

Well I regret to inform you, my ending is right

But if you could correct it, children, would you do so?

 

Tell me, how long since your maid disappeared?

How strange you’ve not come to the beach before

I wonder what it was your parents feared

Would happen if you placed your feet on the shore

 

Come now children, down to the waves

Your true family waits for you, I give you my oath

I do not lead you to watery graves

Though raised on land, you can live in both.

 

 

talkativolive
Daydream delusion
Limousine Eyelash
Oh, baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I am a delusion angel
I am a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don’t want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we’re going
Launched in life
Like branches in the river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I’ll carry you. You’ll carry me
That’s how it could be
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?
David Jewell - Milkshakes; from the film Before Sunrise (via talkativolive)