Spilled Ink

revsjones:

Set me free
Or love me
Hold on to me
Or let me go
Clinging
Grasping
Reaching out
To the ghost of you
Lingering
So close
Yet so far away
I soothe you
But I feel painfully free
You move me
Yet you stay religiously.
-s.jones

paradigmpoet:

I dreamed you were
Counting my ribs through
The layers of my clothes,
As if the
Fragile longitudes
Surrounding my heart were
Not strong enough,
As if you knew
It took so many
Breakings
For me to be
Here,
Stilled,
Just for
This moment.

There are
So many bruised
Midnights
In the course of
A lifetime,
So many lonely streets,
Rain slicked,
Outside my door,
So many mosaics
Of me
Spread,
Tooth to tendon,
Belly to bone,
The bulging compass of
My arteries cut,
Poured,
Strung across
Miles I’ve traveled, like
A red rubber road
To lead me home.

And each time I
Break I
Grow
Sharper,
Like a trauma
Remembered
In total recall,
No buffer of
Amnesiac haze to
Block the carnage
Jostling the
Blooms of my organs
On their stems like
Blighted roses
In a gale,
Nudging me
Gently
To fly apart
At the seams.

And I do this with
Poise,
With the grace of
One who knows
The shipwreck like
The veins in her legs,
One who knows there is
Air to breathe
Somewhere in
The swiftwater currents
Of this catastrophe.
A surface waits
To break on
Atmosphere,
Wide open,
Horizon to
Glorious horizon.

I can taste this
Freedom,
Like the tang of
Metal
In my mouth.
I dream it like
Forgiveness
Unfettered.
I hold it like
An ocean
Tamed.

I look gently
Into the
Abyss
Of you,
Waiting
For me to throw
My drowned pieces,
Sodden but
Recovered,
Into you for
Safekeeping.
But there is
Evidence enough
Of my survival
Here
In the eye of
The storm.

I want to tell you
These splinters are
All I know of
Bodies and
Hearts,
Incongruous to
The life I was
Promised.

I want to tell you
I am not a victim,
Not a lamb
Being led
To an altar
Of vanities.

I want to tell you
I don’t care to be
Saved.

I care to be
Whole.

jayarrarr:

Okay — Tyler Knott’s last post has over 1,000 notes. If this doesn’t get more than that, we know what’s wrong with this so-called Tumblr Writing Community. Wake the fuck up and make your voice known. We’re here. If you actually care about this, make it known. This is a numbers game — not for me, for you.

jayarrarr:

I pay attention to things, I do. And I actually don’t care how you feel about features: whether you love them or hate them, think they’re important or think they’re stupid, wish you had more or wish you had less. This isn’t about that.

This is about the fact that there are 27 tag editors of poetry and prose. That means each day we should be entertained with a maximum of 270 new features. Okay, sure, people have lives and aren’t always on tumblr to burn all their features. But there should be at least 100 or so features in any given day, which is less than half the maximum, but it is a duty of sorts for which there is no compensation beyond whatever delight you get from featuring someone, so I’m being lenient. Are there 100 features in a day? No. In point of fact, having reviewed the features over the past few days — there are seldom more than 12 or so — and 9 or 10 of them are mine.

There’s a reason I’m Top Editor, see — the party line is that the pieces I promote are those “most liked and reblogged” by tumblr users — but the reality is that the pieces I promote are basically the only ones there are.

I went through the past 30 features on poetry and prose. The past 30 features shouldn’t be the last 3 days or so, but they are. The reality is that the 30th feature, where I stopped, was dated October 18th. Within the past 30 poetry features, I’ve featured 24 of them — the other 6 pieces were promoted by one of 26 other editors. Prose is just as bad: I’ve featured 23 of the past 30 featured pieces. On any given day, I’m responsible for around 80% of the pieces featured under the poetry and prose tags.

There are thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, of writing blogs on Tumblr. I’m not saying that every one of them is filled with feature-caliber work, whatever that may be — but Tumblr is doing that extensive writing community a disservice by maintaining inactive editors, some of whom have even deactivated (albeit improperly), despite that many active tumblr writers have directly indicated an interest in being a tag editor. There are many who would love to have the ability to share unknown writers with others — give them a chance. I’d love some competition.

shesanargonaut:

I don’t know how to write down all the beautiful things in my head anymore. It’s like I exhaled them all and have suddenly forgotten how to breathe in.

happymonk:

I envy the wind
that embraces the flower
and makes it shake
but does not cling to it.

crleverette:

Poisoned words are
a cancer,
spreading further
and further,
eating away at humanity.

A ruined name,
a vacant heart…

Rumors of war.
Wars of rumor.

(The tongue kills)

pajamaswag:

Memories, memories, play on the lids,
A smile, three words, and kisses forbid,
Happiness based upon nothing but lies,
Memories, nightmares that play in the eyes.

Waking and sleeping the pain never fades,
Rememberance always, no hope for escape,
A heart that was true fell for one that was not,
And the heart that was true, it never forgot.

For the one that was true the memories play,
but for the unfailful the remembrance fades,
So where is the justice for one that is haunted,
By nightmares of memories they never wanted?

desdaily:

It’s safe to say I’m awfully tired 
of these rollercoaster rides
of ups and downs, sudden rage, 
and relentless glass tides

Chloroform lullabies are
heard in lazy afternoons
along with compelling breaths to
dance alone in my adynamic room

virginiasinthelighthouse:

Greater wonders have been seen
Than words caught in bounded books.

A thousand golden gleams
In a single hidden look.

And calls of undead lovers
In the chasm of a heart;

To capture just these wonders
Would tear page and spine apart. 

unbearablysharp:

You –

the hole
in my life raft

the un-opening
parachute

the incomplete 
first aid kit

the blocked
emergency exit

the silent
smoke alarm
(batteries stolen
to use in remotes,
torches, sex toys)

You –

the blatant
disregard for
safety

the accidental
overdose

the death
of me.

virulent-tuber:

The beauty of the tumult
Paved liberally before me
Mapped paths rerouted
And potentialities unrealized
Dim though they were 
So my stoic tread passed
Allied with arrogance
Nurtured by indignation
Into idealism
Rare in form in me
This exotic emotive entropy
This turbulent facade
Most convenient to assume
Could not outwit my consciousness

The banality of the calm
Purged listlessly what was
Now surveys a dank meadow
Green not with life but covetousness
And bitter leaves
Now unlike nothing
Doubt allies with time
It decays matter’s crescendo
It fades without grace
Into the dregs 
Of pining
The brittle cache 
Within a broken heart
For that feeling now lost

cameronadelia:

She was an expert
in every species of
hopelessness
like little towns along
a Nebraska highway
she learned their nomenclatures and nuances
back alleys
backstories
bacteria.

Once she had the
distinctions down
she boxed each neatly in her head
made them navigable for
future visits
and
like any good double agent
learned to change her accent
seamlessly.

thegirlwithoutapearlearring:

Take me back to the days of being

a puppy in a laundry basket, an Indian princess,

a fairy on the bridge in your neighborhood, we’d create little

rafts out of sticks and grass for flowers to ride under the creek.

Back then I knew I was beautiful, but now I’m not so sure.

Back then I would laugh so hard that I’d roll on the ground,

All my crooked little teeth shining and back then I’d cry

if something upset me, and now I always ask myself if it’s worth

crying over instead of just feeling and back then I’d tell you

all my darkest secrets under blankets late at night,

and we’d stand in front of your full-length mirror, dressed as glamorously

as old Halloween costumes allowed and we’d be models and we’d

sing loudly for our mirror friends, walking the runway of your periwinkle

bedroom, but now I don’t dress up and now I know I’m not a model,

now those days are gone and so are we,

spread thin by the eternal human flaw that is growing up.

thenatureofdaylight:

There was a crystal water pouring,
dreaming of rose starlight and
oxygen, galloping in dream’s track to
fields built in a bleak day reverie.

There was a paint blush heart
crushing in forty degrees, and it sounded
like Fire Island’s shore — hose bursting;
spear fantasy; a drum that tapped
under my ribs.

There was a god,
a beautiful quiet god,
and she didn’t want to be called
by her name or her voice
or the way
she built
the earth;
but I still tried. 

notamish:

I hate your fucking flower talk.
The false lilt in your voice you use
to pretend you’re smiling.

I hate how you stumble when you put
your shoes on.
How you bring me wrapped tea cups
and shirts with sequins clinging on
the shoulders,
as if I’ll never get too old
for your pretending,
I “don’t let you know me”?

I took my time to realize
It’s not wrong
to hate “who made you”;
It’s just wrong to show it.

I’ve gone to lengths
to kill the garden you grew from,
But it’s best component
is your misery.
I watch you kissing your thumbs
to pull blackberries
from the bushes out front,
Watch you top your tongue
with them,
on the way back to our door.
Take what you can when
you can,
What’s waiting ever good for

I can’t forget you.
How I held you
on the kitchen floor
in a wake for the pile
of crushed ferns in crosses
Atop the yellow tiles.
I draw spirals in their memory,
Clusters of curves to depict
that shadow-flooded scenery,
You hunchbacked, collapsed
over onto your own knees.
You said you loved me,
in between your love
for sympathy.
I couldn’t touch you.

The trees kiss me
for all the times
I’ve tried to love them,
but could only reach for their leaves
with the hate you gave me.
I turn to splintered branches,
and broken soil
to prompt me.

I hate the wrong
into which you’ve brought me;
Your fucking flowers.
Those fucking ferns.
And how you put your shoes on
to walk into our living room.