Posts tagged writing
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.
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.
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
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
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
The brittle cache
Within a broken heart
For that feeling now lost
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.
I love the desert. It calls out to me in ways that no other place does, maybe because I was born there. I would rather live there than two miles away from the ocean, and every time I go to visit I feel a calm kind of excitement. Endless beauty that tries so hard to live, and while some may see it as barren all I can do is see the perfection. Landscapes are more than just plants, its the way the rocks are formed, and how the ground seems to settle in waves. It’s purple wildflowers growing on steep mountainsides and even the black charred remains after a brush fire. Because after a couple years, it will look like nothing even burned.
Its the feeling of leaving a windowless air-conditioned hotel and feeling the dryness envelope you like a warm blanket and the air so thick you can taste it when you breathe. Its the hot winds that smell like fresh water and cigarette smoke. Pockets of civilization shining like stars against the blackness around it, and mountains that have never been conquered. Its the feeling of getting out of the city and into a place where you can look in one direction and not see anything, buildings, people, cars. Somewhere so wide and empty that you can see the rolling clouds of a thunderstorm from miles away, and actually see the sun sink behind the horizon. Somewhere where you can hear the simple acoustic guitar even when there isn’t music playing.
Lots of people see the deserts of California as just a place to vacation, or a place to pass through, but to me, its my favorite part of the trip.
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
but I still tried.
Upon a canvas of skin
He paints passionate sin
Commanding her to remain still
Into flesh his teeth sink
For her blood is the ink
And his fingertips the quill.
You are the broken wind
that fills my sails…
and leaves me stranded.
I sailed and I am lost-
and maybe tidal forces
will beach me, save me;
maybe they will rip my hull
and dash me on the rocks.
But the wind’s the one
who put me there.
You’re the one
who put me there
and can now pull me out again-
with or without the tide.
- Streetlight cat fights, nameless warriors pouring their screeching anguish into the restless streets while I lay tangled in my thoughts and my sheets.
- The way every creature has eyes, for though they are the most beautiful feature to feast upon, they are unlying portals, delicately devastating reminders that we carry our souls from our wrists like plastic bags.
- T-shirts so ugly that no one will will wear them; sweatshop suffering resulting in boatloads of shit is an introspect on the grittier parts of survival that I seem to be incapable of turning my head away from every time.
- Watching a grandmother with parched lips and bones too tired to hold her ancient frame upright calling out to an immigrant woman who dreams of more.
- Passing a thousand faces in the hallway and never learning what lies behind them, not getting to know if they are haunted, scared, patient, kind.
- The boys who smoke cigarettes and skip stones at lunch, who leave the world with scars and rubble but no lingering stars.
- Not knowing myself, what to put down in a description box, what truly lies behind my smile.
- Not know you. Never, after even one thousand conversations, having you lift the metal garage door in your chest and show me your heart.
- An infinite array of tomorrows that will all be shot out of the sun by the next time I blink, time spinning like a pool of water being sucked down a rusted drain and never knowing if it’s only me who sees with blurred vision.
I’m sitting at my desk where, not two weeks ago, beside this same open window, there was sweat on my forehead in place of these shivers down my spine, and the sunset sky was a three-word poem I almost understood, reading orange, purple, pink. Now it’s a Russian novel, thick with clouds, relentless, overwhelming, exhausting even to look at.
I wonder if I’m the one that’s changed. In two weeks? But why not.
Every day is a silent birth followed by a quiet death, each one amounting to little more than an unfinished thought that sits comfortably like dust on an eyelash — that, combined, becomes the blurring forest from the passenger-side window.
It’s been a while, since I’ve allowed my damaged heart to unfold and scream through English literature. My thoughts scatter across an open field filled with wilted roses; surrounded by the smell of your voice. Lingering from one petal to the next until red fades to grey, and everything we once had is now buried and swimming with the roots.
My eyes search for something more, and eventually a naked tree stands tall. Sprung from memories, a single silver sparkle glistens from a distance; the closer I manage to drag my heavy feet toward the sparkle, the more it rusts away and turns into dust. While nature takes it’s course, I come to the realization that from a distance we looked so perfect, but in reality we were nothing more than chipped Chinese cutlery forever stained with heartache and salt water.
Face to face with the once glistening silver sparkle that has now turned into grey powder, I took a deep breath; allowing everything to hit me one last time, then blew. The dust flew with the wind, and tumbled across the lands to find its place in the ocean — adding more to the ocean’s beauty that can only be seen with the sun’s smiles shining down. Families living on the coast enjoy this view, reminiscing in memories and nostalgic smiles. What they don’t know is for every sparkle the ocean reveals is the pain from love that was born from a broken heart, now forever buried in the waves of secrets.
Do you still think the ocean’s sparkles are beautiful now? I don’t. Now I refuse to dive in, and allow myself to feel the arctic submerge my existence. I say goodbye to wilted roses, sparkling trees, and glistening waters. Goodbye to my heart, goodbye to love, goodbye to the world.
My bones easily break
Beautiful delicate shells
Belonging to the sea
A million miles away
Belonging to me
Dying from the ache
Of not belonging
Where I sleep
I got lost
Trading the nightmare
For a dream
The moment I rejected
There is a scrape in this heart that aches:
Festoons of bloody tissue and leathery hate
Like plumage on a wild bird or burlesque girl
Springs forth from the gaping gash, curling
Licking, biting and snarling, chasing up the skin
Freckles like ash and eyes ember. This is our sin.
There is a stake in this heart that aches:
Broken from the branch of our friendship tree
Dividing the ribs like Moses did the Red Sea
Guts clawing their way up, beggars for light
Cross-shaped and vile with wood that cuts deep
Religion does not save us; we do not sleep.
There is a break in this heart that aches:
Watch it grow with widespread arms and legs
Watch it twitch and jangle like a marionette
Listen as it sings lullabies of griefs and fears
Listen as it snaps the chords and bindings tear
We cannot be saved; we are not there.
There is a quake in this heart that aches:
And it is louder than the humming of lungs and brain
And more numbing than the tick of death’s untimely clock
This vibration whispers as it whirrs: fool and child
Forsaken by man and woman alike; how dare you live still
While beloved compresses roll in their graves, rotting, ill.
There is a snake in this heart that aches:
And I am its reflection
At the same time.
To be synonymous with.
I want you beside me
because I do not know the words
for any other type of desire.
My problems….my problems
are solitary ventures without the “ad.”
But you are the one
with the dictionary. You
are the one pretending
we are not surrounded to begin with.
So it’s up to you
whether we discover more desires
or fulfill the ones clinging to us.
Both require words
and perhaps we will emerge
immersed in the same vocabulary.
I call this monster
Bizarro Sesame Street,
where Bo could count.
And I can count
(and The Count can count)
on being calmed and neutralized
None of this means I expect
a freedom from anxiety-
stay the same on that front.
But I front the theory,
that forward I should maintain better.