#wtwrites

[schuylerpeck]

Dear Stranger,   It’s been a while since we’ve talked. I know the days keep coming like the dam broke and I’ve used all my fingers to try to stop it. We’ve got time wading around our ankles.   How have you been these days? I think of you when the moon is round and full; how so few things can escape from being touched by it. Whether you’d like to admit it or not, you’re like that, too. So far away and knowing. So quiet and glowing.   I know, at some point, I will have to end these ramblings, this self-talk to a stranger, but it won’t be today. I will keep writing until you know that you’re never too much, never unnoticed, never not thought about.   So, ‘til we meet or miss each other again,   Yours.

Schuyler Peck, I Wrote This For You (3/30)

[fragmentedpoetry]

I wrote a thing! #wtwrites #day6 #nationalpoetrymonth

[filter-kaapi]

‘If the wound is where the light enters, how do you heal?’ {From @wintertangerine ‘s prompt}

for @divzybxtch

[mga-antigong-salita]

my body - a hall of scars

full of disgrace,

disgust

and broken trusts;

remember when,

you gave me one?

you promised me it won’t be visible

to everyone

but it was clear to all

even without the help of the sun.

my body - a hall of scars

but it is where

the truth sailed

under the glistening stars;

where i can only grasp the beacon of light

when a part of me is shed.

[greekgodoftragedy]

she stayed up late for him, the moon has become her good friend, smiling at her like Cheshire, as if he knows a secret she doesn’t, and maybe he does. the stars twinkle, encouraging her to open her eyes. she’d sneak a cup of coffee to her room, downing it in big gulps, hoping that it’d keep her awake. she waited and cried when he didn’t come. she smiled madly when he did come, 5 hours later. yes, the moon did know a secret she didn’t know. she couldd write pages of poetry, long strings of sentences, and palaces of paragraphs about him, for him. and yet, he couldn’t even write her a one-paragraph letter. she clings to him like life support, when he was live wire. she loved him dangerously, risking everything just for him. she has risked everything. and so here we are now. she will not be missed.

-- elegy to the part of me who loved him endlessly (tel, 2018)

[aninsomniacsink]

This Body, an Open Wound

There is nothing about these fever hands that suggests healing,

too many icicles beneath my nails to ever scratch the word cured

onto anything but a piece of paper.

God forbid these freckles spread like a rash down my spine.

How many times can my throat close around a word

until we label it as sick.

How shallow these arms are,

How swollen these eyes are

with all they have seen

and all they have dreamed.

This skin so full of every little ghost caught in my eyelashes,

every shadow I tried to wrench from my chest before it  

made a home in my memories like a nest of spiders

spinning their tiny webs tighter around my wrists.

And still,

there is nothing about these fever hands that suggests

we are any closer to healing these wounds in our palms,

any closer to sliding the collarbones from the nape  of our necks

and stitching this body back

to where it began.

[vatofrain]

4.1.18

WRITE AN ODE TO YOUR HEART

here’s to you. you frightened monster. you may be a fuck up but at least your mistakes come cheap. you ghastly void. you try to hold things bigger than your size and the stretch makes you ugly. here’s to you. you hideous thatch of light. you curl of ink in water on the shoulder beneath the skin. you raise a glass to your mouth and drain the amber liquid before it can be snatched away. always all in. always afraid. so here’s to you: you patient motherfucker. you coil of spine. you desperate snarl. here’s to you. the whole fist of you.

[notoriouslywritten]

again and again

you take care -  you hide and shield your heart. then it happens; you scrape against  the sharp of a bad memory and you start trying to fix again. 

the truth is, the fix won't come. you will scar and that sign of indelible resilience - that is how you heal. 

@wintertangerine national poetry month prompt day 3: if the wound is where the light enters you, how do you heal? 

[starlit-symphony]

my planet

inspiration: #wtwrites 30 day challenge day 6 & the little prince song: through the night // iu

I live on a planet. It’s quite a pretty planet, full of green and yellow and things to do.

I water the plants in the morning after they wake up from sleep. They must be very thirsty, these blooms of rose and gold and pink.

I like running in the fields, where the grass grows higher than my head, and their yellow stalks hide me. (Though from what I do not know.)

When all is said and done, I stare up at the black sky, watching the white lights twinkle, as if they’re slowly waking up.

One of the stars is my favorite. It has holes and bumpy rocks. I know this because I saw it up close once. (Maybe it isn’t a star but a bigger bumpier rock.)

I put my hands together, close my eyes, and whisper quietly, “I miss you. Please don’t forget about me.”

[watsonswritings]

See more on my Insta @wtwriting

[schuylerpeck]

[fragmentedpoetry]

Day 9: write a poem your younger self needed to read #wtwrites #nationalpoetrymonth

[greekgodoftragedy]

to oliver,

tell me

did you ever see something

that made you remember him?

ever saw a piano

and thought of him?

ever saw a pool

and thought of him?

ever saw a new book

and question yourself if he knew the author?

did he ever cross your mind

even when you built a new life?

did you smile

when he did?

did you pray

for his happiness?

did you know about the hole you left?

or did you not care at all?

or did you forgot about him?

forgot those little moments

that were grand phenomena to him?

tell me

so i at least have an idea

of how he felt

when he left

like how you left.

-- to oliver ; a letter to my favorite fictional character (tel, 2018)

[aninsomniacsink]

Foxglove

He arrived at school with chalk hands,

the kind that stain purple from picking too many foxgloves.

Outside the porch the ground shifted with red dust,

the fox almost camouflaged into the edges.

When he first told her about the fox visit she didn’t believe him,

didn’t know why something so sharp would release its baby teeth.

All bite, all howl,

bloody claws and torn ears.

This is what she had been brought up to expect.

They lay on their stomachs on the hot porch floor

and watched the wind make the dust dance for two hours

until he appeared,

fur streaked with mud.

His tail dragged along the ground,

paws scrabbling at the bread the boy had left out for him.

The porch groaned and she got once glimpse of his almond eyes

before he was gone,

their secret visitor blending into the horizon.

[myrealityishere]

15/30 My Favorite Alternate Universe Been on tumblr A LOT lately, and I swear there were like 4 other versions of this poem that were a lot more... fangirl-y. Maybe I’ll post those some other time haha ;) 

[ink-smudgedfingers]

papa doesn't believe in survivors, he likes to list names of people who never got back up and I know he’s tired / but when did we all stop believing, when did I start waiting to be a statistic? / I learn silence in the unsaid words, Carlene says she hates pop culture and we don’t ask why, just begin avoiding the mainstream / I want to learn how to love the silence that hangs over our lunch table, ignore the pain swelling in between / wait for it leave my house where dinner never tastes good anymore – I think not enough space in my mouth to chew & swallow & taste everything I wanted to say / everything I wish I could tell people (starting with “you are beautiful & smart & talented so fuck getting bad grades, you have a future, and I believe in you”) / but I'm not invincible unless I’m with these girls and their chipped nail polish and maybe that doesn’t matter / maybe I shouldn’t care how silence sounds in the kitchen, how the window bend & twist / you know, I'm still learning how to exist for myself, trying to be less likeable, embrace the happiness when it stops by my flat / I try to take up space without apologising like papa spreading his legs on the bus & expecting the woman beside him to shift / I hate watching them shrink so he can expand / this anger never goes away but I practice breathing deeply, breathe out the unsaid words & breathe in the silence.

the sound of silence by rachana hegde (inspired by @wintertangerine‘s prompt)