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I'llsleepwhen I'm dead.

After your dreams have all died and morning isn't morning, what are you?
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23.

whale-bone:

He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.

I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.

Posted 1 year ago      with 86 notes      ↳↴
39. This is about anyone and everyone I know.

whale-bone:

I hate when people touch me. I hate that my hands are always cracked. I hate that I can’t wear headbands or lipstick or short skirts. I hate how forgetful you are. I hate that you dream of someone who probably isn’t me. I hate that I hated it when that other boy said I was “different.” I hate that you would always say making love. Call it like it is. A cheap fuck. I hate that you got that new haircut. I hate that I keep subconsciously digging my nails into my arm. I hate that I want you to see me doing this. I hate that this has no rhythm. I hate that I had to use spell-checker to make sure I spelled “rhythm” right. I hate my birthmark. I hate your fucking know-it-all attitude. I hate that I keep writing poems about collarbones. You can’t even see mine, I’m so fucking fat. I hate that you write poetry now. I hate the shape of your mouth. I hate that you won’t touch me in front of other people. I hate that my understanding of relationships is so distorted. I hate that I am so unwilling. I hate that I miss being choked. I hate that I am living this out through you. I hate that I am always searching for problems. I hate that it took me so long to write this.

Posted 1 year ago      with 32 notes      ↳↴

angel-veins:

I don’t know how to reach for your hands.

Posted 1 year ago      with 14 notes      ↳↴

I PLAYED WITH MYSELF JUST TO EXCITE YOU

It happens sometimes in the mornings or
at night after dinner. It is a pointless
gesture: nostrils of ashes, hived ears–
you have it all. I say your name just
to tempt you.

I have not gone yet, even though you’ve
missed all our appointments. Even the
ones where I spread someone else’s
legs and eat out their poetry. I have
stopped asking why

you never come. Out in the dark womb
of Philly, you look around for American
Buffalo, waiting for the gentleness of men
greased from the swamp. Nobody knows
where you’ve gone.

Joanna Valente (via ivannabesenovsky)

This was originally published in Thunderclap Press

(via foolswild)

Posted 1 year ago      with 14 notes      ↳↴
This is about anyone and everyone I know.

I hate when people touch me. I hate that my hands are always cracked. I hate that I can’t wear headbands or lipstick or short skirts. I hate how forgetful you are. I hate that you dream of someone who probably isn’t me. I hate that I hated it when that other boy said I was “different.” I hate that you would always say making love. Call it like it is. A cheap fuck. I hate that you got that new haircut. I hate that I keep subconsciously digging my nails into my arm. I hate that I want you to see me doing this. I hate that this has no rhythm. I hate that I had to use spell-checker to make sure I spelled “rhythm” right. I hate my birthmark. I hate your fucking know-it-all attitude. I hate that I keep writing poems about collarbones. You can’t even see mine, I’m so fucking fat. I hate that you write poetry now. I hate the shape of your mouth. I hate that you won’t touch me in front of other people. I hate that my understanding of relationships is so distorted. I hate that I am so unwilling. I hate that I miss being choked. I hate that I am living this out through you. I hate that I am always searching for problems. I hate that it took me so long to write this. 

(Source: whale-bone)

Posted 1 year ago      with 32 notes      ↳↴
23.

whale-bone:

He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.

I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.

Posted 1 year ago      with 86 notes      ↳↴
38.

angel-veins:

Lately, I have been collecting facts about myself.

1. I am a horrible storyteller.

2. I get over heartbreak in about twenty minutes.

3. I blush. A lot.

4. Occasionally, I will solve SAT math questions in my sleep.

5. I do not know the meaning of burden.

6. No one will ever be able to love me the way I want to be loved.

Posted 1 year ago      with 11 notes      ↳↴
Writing poetry is like lying to yourself.

Posted 1 year ago      with 19 notes      ↳↴

WRITING TIPS. (by shirtlessbanjosunshine)

Tip 1) NEVER use an analogy, metaphor, or simile you’ve heard before, unless you’re trying to make a point by using something that is really cliched or the situation calls for it.

Tip 2) Write as if everything is a metaphor for something. Creative writing is alllll about metaphor. 

Tip 3) Erase or improve everything that doesn’t surprise you. If it doesn’t make you go “Wow, did I really write that?” it isn’t enough. Obviously this isn’t always the case, but for the real zinger lines it is most important. Which leads into:

Tip 4: Always pay attention to the excitement level of a line. It should build and fall and do crazy stuff in a pattern, or an order, or something. It has to make sense. This is sooo crucial and nobody has any idea. You can’t just throw things on a paper and call it writing, it has to flow.

Finally, Tip 5: Watch waay too much pornography. Read a lot. Listen to lots of sad music. Laugh at your own suffering. Drink lots of soda out of glass bottles. Pine endlessly for people that don’t exist. Dream about killing yourself in your favorite place. Put your body, spirit and mind on the page, and don’t be afraid to hurt people’s feelings when you write about them obviously. 

Posted 1 year ago      with 20 notes      ↳↴
Thoughts.

All of the songs on my current top 5 are reminiscent of how our relationship meant nothing.

(Source: whale-bone)

Posted 1 year ago      with 4 notes      ↳↴
I added a 'Submit' button, so if you guys ever want a place to submit your poetry or writing of any kind, you can submit them here :) ↘

Posted 1 year ago      with 1 note      ↳↴

"I do not want any of these boys to be the one that saves me"

angel-veins:

A thought I had while looking around the room in my math class today.

Posted 1 year ago      with 10 notes      ↳↴
5 minute writing exercise- Well this isn’t depressing at all..

whale-bone:

I have no idea left of what to write. What the fuck. Is this all there is to life? Empty sex, pop-shit music and dick pizzerias owners? No fucking stability anywhere. Maybe in ten years I will have enough feeling to form an actual fucking piece. Piece of work piece of art, peace of mind. Take my fucking heart or something, give me ideas. I don’t love you. This is on repeat and I never fucking get enough of it. Did you hear me? I said take my fucking heart. Eat it swallow it i dont care. Maybe i will care, someday. do you think I have enough emotion left in me? It will never be the same and FUCK. STOP it, my subconscious is not even me, it is someone else, it is too many someone elses. Nobody will ever be able to give me what I want and maybe I’m just being stubborn and unwilling but fuck, that’s in my nature. I will never help anyone with that, guide them no. How is it that my thoughts come out so clean on paper disguised by messy handwriting and I see everything, i can see it, its layed out in front of me but i cannot even tell stories out loud. I am a failure. I have a job but it doesn’t count for shit. I’m fat a fat fuck and everyone knows and nobody wants to touch me.

Posted 1 year ago      with 12 notes      ↳↴
34.

angel-veins:

Its been six weeks and the “peace be with you” sessions in church are still the closest i’ve gotten to finding comfort in another human’s touch.

Posted 1 year ago      with 6 notes      ↳↴