#indie poet

[ramblngz-of-a-lunatic]

Remember

I still remember,

Remember your hands

How they felt around my neck

Stifled me, stole my breath

I still remember,

Remember your eyes

And their dreadful effect

In them I confronted death 

I still remember, 

Remember your mouth

A snarling and foaming smile

Loving the power complex

I still remember,

Remember what you spout

Excuses to do the vile 

Your sins, you did project

I still remember,

Remember that night

Alcoholic in denial

Blacked out, pain architect 

You’re so fucking good at it 

Good at drinking ‘till you forget

I remember,

Remember everything

A painful curse of sobriety 

-BB Bunny

[poettrista]

Starfall

The night sky, a canvas of darkness

Augmented with counterfeit diamonds, shimmering

There is nothing more beautiful

Than the star-studded eyes

That gaze up in wonder and awe

Starlight shining on spiderwebs

Casting intricate patterns of light

Creating a celestial dance

That captivates the soul

And fills the heart with longing

But as the stars begin to fall

Their light fading and dimming

Reality warps and shatters

Like a mirror reflecting

A fractured, distorted world

The fireflies emerge

From the ashes of the fallen stars

Their glow casting an eerie light

As the night sky fades

Into a haunting, empty void

The beauty of the night

Is replaced by a darkness

That consumes and devours

Leaving only whispers

Of a once brilliant sky

And in the silence

The echoes of lost stars

Whisper of a time

When the night sky

Was filled with magic and wonder

But now, all that remains

Is a void of emptiness

Where the stars once shone

And the fireflies danced

In a world forever lost

As the stars fell and turned to ash

[lyricspoetrylife]

why can’t things happen the way I picture it in my head? it’s eating me up inside, like how ants devour a cake at a picnic.

are you thinking about me right now? I don’t know how much longer I can take having this brain anymore. It creates scenarios in my head that just aren’t real yet…

the butterflies that erupt in my stomach whenever I see you are endless and I don’t know if I like it.

these butterflies feel like they are flying into my ears and itching my brain, chaotic but exciting.

no one understands this brain, this brain has always been too much for the world. But when I speak to you, I don’t feel this is the case anymore. I feel like I can truly be me, I’ve never felt like I could ever be myself before…

being me has never been good enough to anyone else…

being me always makes everyone hate me, but with you it’s different.

~ LJ

[reyofsunshne]

"Lost Skills, Lost Workers" (2024)

poem by R.J.C.

[andileighwrites]

Shop Sale!

I'm having another sale in my shop! Get any PDF ebook or printable bookmark pack and save 10% when you use the code SAVE10. Offer expires Saturday March 30.

Get your digital copy of my latest poetry collection I Can Picture the Ghosts Here, now $5.85 with the discount!

Shop Now

[hotwraithbones]

My latest full-length book, In Residuum, arrives February 20th from Kith Books! 💜 For those who like discounts, pre-orders are open RIGHT NOW! Meow ⬅️ (preorder link)

In Residuum is a collection of texts built from the frantically gathered residue of thoughts, drafts, literature, lost family history, the darkness and emptiness that tend to replace suppressed memories, and incomplete experiences. Together, these are all cultivated as a way of drawing the metaphysical and abstract from a number of writings, and letting the rest -- a faded mass -- slowly fall away. In this are truths -- some personal, some general -- otherwise invisible to the naked human eye. Moreover, in its visual elements and weaving of metatext, shadowtext, and blatant lack of regard for chronology or order, this is a book that can be read differently by each person no matter how many times they read it through.

{FEATURED POEM "[im]mortal decline" 1st Published in warning lines magazine Volume 04: OTHERWORLDS

An examination of colonization, classic, Renaissance, and medieval European texts, the role of ancient languages (Sanskrit and Pankrit) in religion, prayer, family, and modern poetics, C-PTSD, psychosis, mental illness, sexual, domestic, emotional, mental, and physical abuse trauma, intergenerational trauma, sexuality, gender, patriarchy, culture, ancestry, and 4D spaces, In Residuum is an encapsulation of countless items and ideas forged together in an attempt to create something greater and stronger -- something honest and potentially hopeful. The pieces are all fractured and mismatched, just as mine are, but all the same, even in all the ways they grind and splinter against each other, this messiness and chaos works together among, within, between, and around itself to form something somewhat whole. In other words, this book is my humble attempt at the portrait of a survivor. In it, I use my rawest, most vulnerable, most sabotaged, and most slaughtered self for reference.

"Specializing in badass hybrid work and subversion of western literary expectations, Ami J. Sanghvi continues to utilize language as an artistic medium with In Residuum. Technological word processors may "insist all [their] words are wrong, but there is always something invigorating about Sanghvi’s work that Microsoft Word could never possibly hope to understand, as well as a perpetually unerring sense of both aesthetics and poetics."

— nat raum, eic of fifth wheel press and author of the fine line + you stupid slut

___

Snag your copy while supplies last!

[gutslutpress]

“An Ode to Darkness” — from Melanin: Black by Dre Hill (Gutslut Press ‘22) 

{image text} 

An Ode to Darkness: In the shadow of the void, that was the universe, was the light of life born. It poured out of the gate of the woman covered in the dark, exploding into a series of stars and planets across a blank canvas. Rocks shattered and merged, rolling, and molding together. The cosmos spiraled and kissed her neck. Like the sun, she watched over the formation of the Earth, blowing the breath of her life into its soil. From the dirt and mud sprang the first woman, molded like clay, in the likeness of she who is darkness. From her loins she grew the first man. It was a tedious and arduous process. She raised her hands to the sky, locking her fingers with the woman clothed in the cosmos. Together they knead the Earth and birthed the first continent, Africa. This is the ode to darkness. The spiritual song rooted in the depths of humanity, connecting the light that is black, with the darkness that is white. This is the story, of herstory, the birth of all peoples from the original woman. This is the balance of nature, the dispelling of chaos with order, and the immortalization of the black body.

[xindistinctive-purgatoryx]

Word Quote Game

Here’s an idea

Send me an ask with a word, and I’ll answer with a quote from my WIP that contains that word. If my WIP doesn’t have it, I’ll send a quote from a previous work

[daisyxpoetry]

From my book Dandelion in the Desert

Available on @amazon and Barnes and Noble online.

[amoderndemise]

Find Me on Instagram, where I post frequently!

@s.l.b.rambling

[poettrista]

Aeternitas

I can never be

Your sharpened sword

Or gleaming shield

But I am the poisoned dagger

You keep hidden beneath your pillow

And never will I yield

[danalockhart411]

I don't want too-good-to-be-true love,

Only give me that happily-ever-after love.

Enjoyed this excerpt? Get the whole poetry collection, In the Deluge, on Amazon free until April 30:

[fakeboitherottengirl]

Tribunal (Testimony of the Refuser)

By Luke

Good lord isolation Glued to imaginary spaces Wander the wide black hall and discern nothing Basking in your dread I gaze skyward Ecstatic Effervescent in the noxious power I take from your fear I the assassin I the Refuser I the left handed angel of the tormented earth The flier of the flags of fire I the prosecutor of light Electrocuted moth berserker flitting into skinny dust I am the dark stone that fell hard Forming the walls of this geology The stimulator of the eyes Casting your gaze from skies painted like cloths Consumeth, you sows of fear and feeble pride; Feed now at my troth The blue honey that leaks from such enigmatic fruit Wine of blistery berries corrupted in light destroyed by adjudicated shadows in transit Bearing your holy lantern light through a sparse yet lavish limbo Designed by worms who feed by the glow of my figure carved out of the moonlight These halls contain Withold and deny They sift the gold from your heart Leaving the clogged meat behind I, Salter of gardens Blighter of corn and wheat Sire of serpents who rend with fang your highest hope Provocateur par excellence' Donning every shape and void of form as what little came before me I've pushed every jumper from his perch I, the nullifiyer The ruined incased in ice forged in grief At the bottom Cursing you all to death Accusing you of poisoning the universe by existing whilst leading your wobbling march towards oblivion Banish my hands with a star by yours I will never stop swallowing I, nothing I who brought flies to the perished; head hunter of all miracles Your greatest shames the bonds of my work Stunter of enrichment Tillman of innumerable hardships The diamond walls that partition love Seiging and starving its bonds Mutating light with shade Consternatng as catastrophe cuts vital cables in the heart and spills all its colors I make the mess Always I The destroyer Wood floors pucker at my footfall Walls warp above where I dream Miasma swirls at my flanks and freezes the dew My larval mites scale the homely shafts of orchid Their nests making feculent slime in their blossoms There nurse nightmares in waiting The walking waste In the breadlines of blunder Gasping aglow in the grid of my electric sea.

[hotwraithbones]

“Multiplaning”: Digital Art (2022) by Ami J. Sanghvi (@HotWraithBones)—Published in The Cutbow Quarterly, Issue 2

[xindistinctive-purgatoryx]

Welcome to 2023! It's a new year, and with it comes a new edition of Quiet Writers. The aim of the Quiet Writers projects is to help new and less-known writers get their work into the world. Submissions for our March release are now open until mid-February. The theme for this edition is "hope". As always, the theme is open to interpretation, use it in whatever way you see fit. Feel free to shoot me any further questions. Further information regarding this can be found on Wordpress (as linked) or Twitter (quietwriters)