ecrire

[ecrire]

Write a poem about your favorite color. Describe objects of that color in vivid detail. For bonus points, never name the color.

[ecrire]

(1/?)

[ecrire]

a few weeks back i stopped writing. maybe i was afraid of what would come out if i didn’t. strung words together in my head instead and i forgot them an hour later. thought-poet. a few weeks back i stopped singing, wary of cracks and slips. maybe i was afraid of what wouldn’t come out if i did. i listened to the same music that my father listened to when he walked the same streets thirty years ago / didn’t think about the way my footprints always faded into his, made me into a shadow all over again two days back: jagged risings and strange beginnings — my dawns are in the dead of night. i suppose having the same mornings blinds you to the same darkness.  right now i told myself it didn’t matter, any of it. if i grew up to work with words or with computers instead or if i never found someone who looked at me the way i have trouble looking at myself. looked at me and saw the stars. right now i have my own stars, a little dimmed but they always wait for me. this morning in the middle of the night, i started writing again. i’m singing again.

02:26 / ecrire (via ecrire)

[ecrire]

“MY MOTHER ASKED ME TO STOP WRITING ABOUT HER 1 When my best friend was a child, her mother used The Game of Life as a metaphor to explain sexuality. “You can have two pink guys or two blue guys, you know,” she explained. My best friend is so straight, she doesn’t even masturbate. Still, she always knew that even if she wasn’t, even if someday she ended up shotgun to another pink piece, she would remain loved and supported. She wouldn’t have to ask for forgiveness. Of all the things she was taught to apologize for, love has never been one of them. 2 My mother doesn’t bring up my sexuality anymore. I think she is tired of arguing. She is sick of reading about her faults in my poetry. She hates my selective memory; how I only remember the sharp things, the slammed doors, the heavy whiskey. “I used to sing to you before bed every night,” she reminds me icily. “but you must’ve forgotten that story.” Last week, she silently folded up her old flannels and placed them at the foot of my bed. I know this is probably just a coincidence, not a peace treaty or an attempt to understand me. But for my own well-being, I have to take this as a sign she is trying, even if it isn’t.”

— MY MOTHER ASKED ME TO STOP WRITING ABOUT HER, by Blythe Baird.

[ecrire]

WRITEBLR INKTOBER

so this was an idea i had for a while but @infinitelyblankpage and @calliopestablet motivated me to do - basically this is going to be a little fun opportunity for everyone to exercise their creativity, especially before everyone starts nano in november. I know there’s probably lots of other prompt ideas already out there, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to add one more - Jot-Ober!!

the prompts:

we will be using the official inktober prompts. these are a word a day, and they can be found here, scroll to the bottom of the page.

the writing: 

the idea of inktober is that each day you create something based on the prompt. in our case, you can write however much you want and however often you want on a topic somehow related to/containing the prompt word. however, try not to just cut and paste from things you’ve already written - even if every day you only have the time to write just one sentence. 

share it! 

post your writing with the tag #jotober2018. track the tag, so you can see other peoples’ writing, too! and of course, you can also tag it with the official inktober tags #inktober and #inktober2018!

that’s it! hopefully everyone will have a ton of fun creating things, and i’m excited to see what everyone creates!!

i’ll tag some people who said they’d be interested - reblog and spread the word! the more the merrier :) @drowsy-quill @sunforgelf @gwyndia @the-ichor-of-ruination @thespeckofstardust @griffinwriting @pantheraqueen @ratracechronicler (thanks for the name idea!!!) @starry-skies-writes @corishadowfang

[ecrire]

June 2018

[ecrire]

the city awakens, rubs her sleepy eyes, yawns a few cars onto the open road / mouth split-open, teeth white & dream-misted. every wistful daydream unravels itself into the dawn like a ribbon of light, a tangle of sun.

from LOTUS BLOSSOM, by t.e. (via prcserpina)

[ecrire]

Ada Limón

[ecrire]

count the amount of times i’ve died in the breaths between us. all the unspoken words. all the kisses we were too scared to share. all the times you looked at me and did not see. i keep telling myself not to let thunderstorm boys with pretty eyes ruin me, but i decay under your stare anyway. honey, i just came to say i love you. i’m saying it like it’s a death sentence, but i’ve already created a graveyard of all the ways i’ve died without you noticing.

[ecrire]

Spokes on Saturn’s rings, seen by Cassini (2008, gif) [512x512] [OC]

[ecrire]

What do I remember of crying? When my mother slapped me          for being dirty, diseased, led astray by Western devils, a dirty, bad son, I cried, thirteen, already too old,          too male for crying. When my father said Get out, never come back, I cried & ran, threw myself into night.          Then returned, at first light, I don’t remember exactly why, or what exactly came next. One memory claims          my mother rushed into the pink dawn bright to see what had happened, reaching toward me with her hands,          & I wanted to say No. Don’t touch me. Another memory insists the front door had simply been left          unlocked, & I slipped right through, found my room, my bed, which felt somehow smaller, & fell asleep, for hours,          before my mother (anybody) seemed to notice. I’m not certain which is the correct version, but what stays with me          is the leaving, the cry, the country splintering.

— Chen Chen, from “First Light,” When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities

[ecrire]

i lose one of my teeth every time i lie through them. you didn’t understand, so i showed you the holes in my gums, each one a symbol of lost desire, my tongue running over the gaps where the past used to be. see, i only lie about love and sometimes divinity; i guess i lose the good things so hard it makes my mouth bleed, like one day i’ll lose everything, and maybe then i won’t speak. maybe then i won’t need words, though i barely need them now; words don’t bring back the dead, and i’ve still got infinity left to resurrect before i get back that feeling i once had. once, briefly: i was five and gaptoothed, smiling like a mosaic from Pompeii with my teeth under the pillow, waiting for disaster when it was supposed to be gold.

[ecrire]

My dear, it was a time, butchered from time, that we must tell of quickly before we lose the sound of our own mouths calling mine, mine, mine.

Anne Sexton, from To Bedlam and Part Way Back; The Expatriates. (via xshayarsha)

[ecrire]

sweet, i have a (really gay) heart by adam b.

[ecrire]

[ecrire]

pressed antique leaves found in old books 

[ecrire]

your name stays tucked beneath my tongue. this strange love. this prolonged fever dream, all smoke and mirrors. our bodies mangled in a fun house.

Angelea Lowes, excerpt from hopeless fountain kingdom dictionary (via angelealowes)