#newpoetsontumblr

[claisyxo]

Contradictions

Though he harm me, will I trust Him?

I'm biblically committed to destruction because I'm not a virgin.

As I try to write for God, I contradict Him.

I repent, again, for I have sinned.

He seems callous and indifferent.

Would I have suffered as a child without the sin of my parents?

Jesus Christ and his disciples were blessed with divine gifts.

Why does God neglect the rest, including children?

Though He harm me, I will trust Him, for he changed human action.

Vexed like pigs,

I pray, but he doesn't stop it.

Try as I may not to, I always deny Him.

[gracelesss]

Your hand rests on the space of my ribs where, underneath, something is beating itself soft. My voice cracks like pavement under ice. That’s my heart. I am foolish and desperate and afraid that the only ending I’ve ever known is the only ending there is. This bloody fist in my chest has never stopped bracing for impact. 

— g.p.t., “Calendar Year”

[bone-states]

foundry

fill me with something solid something heavier than gold brighter than silver and warmer than breath something less errant than your curt words less impatient than time and fluid, like water.

[jgreyblog]

It is officially the weekend! I know you guys have a ton of plans for labor day weekend, but if you have literally like two seconds, please check out my latest poem on my website, and sign up for my mailing list to get access to exclusive, never seen before tips and tricks to improve your relationship. 

Again, I have the best followers ever; thank you guys so much.

~ j. grey

[thequeenbecoming]

A calcified serpent, its backbone wears thin. It promises a rise and then threatens a fall, and undulates with the shadow of screams

[blogbatsinthebelfrylove]

#excerptsofneverwrittenbooks #newpoetsontumblr #newpoetsofinstagram #newpoetscorner #excerptfromabookillneverwrite #notsoproud

[zozammer]

On Purity II ** Short

Trying to apply concealer to the big fat scratches on faces, that need spiritual intervention , voodoo , plastic surgery , Ayurveda. Not fooling anyone.

Concealer is Crap.

Your face is pure. In all its gashes and marks. No matter what the magazines say.

Your face is pure, and God loves you.

[deepjams4]

Life & Death!
#life #death #lifeanddeath #thoughts #thoughtsforlife #writer #writers #writercommunity #writersonindtagram #writersonig #writersoninsta #writersofindia #poetry #poetsofinstagram #poetsofindia #poetsofinsta #poetsofig #tumblr #ptumblr #writerscreed #spilledink #spilledinkpoetry #poetsontumblr #writersontumblr #newpoetsontumblr #newwritersontumblr #newwriterssociety #writerssoul #writerssociety #aspiringpoet
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[marissamoon]

Purple Penumbra Pupils

Penumbra: the name given to the shadow cast by a celestial object that only blocks a portion of the light.

The moon girl with auburn hair sat in the shadow of the Moon, it’s white-glow trail reflecting in her ocean eyes. It was dark, but I was still able to see all of the intravenous galaxies inside of her maze of a mind. The moon girl is an aquamarine, conceived at the exact place where sea and sky meet to make stars at the horizon; she is baby blue, like the ocean she should be beside – her blood flowing in synchronicity with the push and pull of her lunar tide. Her skin is soft and as infinite feeling as the warmed-by-the-sun sand; you could fall asleep inside the beaches her forevers, but know that she will leave you there to burn in the sun’s ultraviolet rays in your careless unconsciousness.       I stared and swayed back and forth within her ocean eyes for half of my eternity before I learned that her blue boat has holes; it took me a half-century longer to even realize that I had been drowning the entire time.

I sat, completely convinced that the blurry moon was about to fall straight out of the sky – this was the night that I realized that my existence is not meant to be any contorted reflection of the universe, but some kind of mushy-weird amalgamation of my perceptions and experiences.                                           Pupils were made to absorb, not to reflect; I wasn’t made to know the answers to the questions of which I was asking.

There are some kinds of friends that you are only friends with because you’ve known them for your whole life, and then there are some friends that you have barely known for long at all before they learn fit within your heart perfectly, as if they truly are the cliché missing puzzle piece of your purple heart. I found her after my mother had left me locked up for four days. She was the salt in my wounds that stung in a way that cleansed me but also freed me from my bacterial family ties – she made feel alive again. The moon girl gave me new reasons to exist after losing everything: she taught me how to be fluid, she taught me how to swim away from the burdens of my family –  all 737 miles – rather than drowning beneath them.

I am not a sinking rock; my existence is light in all ways and I am the sea the moves me.

After I got her kicked out of her house I wore baby blue nail polish on my paper fingernails for four weeks, like the painted walls of her cubic palace-prison cell; like her wavy, wary and wide ocean eyes; like the endless sky we sat beneath on sunny summer days of somber sentiments and half-felt feelings. The first time I met her she was crying ocean tequila tears because of the first blonde boy that bruised her heart by only half-loving her back. The last time I saw her she was crying the same liquid-gold tears, but for a different reason: my manic moonlight misfortune; my inability to handle reality, my “fucking insensitivity”.

I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but I did it anyway. I remember washing my face with every girl-potion I had, thinking that maybe, somehow, I would be able to wash myself of the guilt; maybe my feelings and skin-dander would clog the sink and give me a different problem obsess over. The smell of the cucumber face wash, the cherry-blossom exfoliator, the salicylic acid mint moisturizer, the cocoa-butter face-mask, the lavender-infused cocktail of bad dreams and worse realities –  it all reminds me of the defeating feeling of inevitably intertwining my future with the regret and the shame I feel as a result of my inability to stop myself.

I looked in the mirror and the lightning-strike-of-life struck me in my left pupil, electrocuting all of the preconceived ideas I had held internally about myself and the world around me. I couldn’t continue carrying myself in the same way; I didn’t like how I was interacting with my world around me; I didn’t like how my puzzle-piece self fit into the bigger polaroid picture of life. I was existing in another dimension; I was thinking thoughts that required complete use of my brain – a level of functioning that is completely foreign to the human condition. I felt myself stretching outwards, into other worlds and time zones, but time was no longer a linear construct of which I was humanly forced to subscribe to. Minutes felt like hours, and it was all a waiting game to feel okay again. I was the electric-blue static line that existed 5 feet above the horizon line; I was God, but

I was bleeding – bad, and I needed help.

I have never put myself in such a vulnerable position before, and I could never have imagined that it could ever end so horribly. I didn’t mean to interject my solid self so firmly between the fragile framework of her freckled family, I didn’t mean to get the locks changed or make her parents call her a fucking slut. I thought she would WAKE ME UP, I thought that when the moon finally went down behind the Rocky Mountains, when the sun would finally come up and once again paint my world a warm yellow-orange – I thought things and time would stop blending together. I was going to clean, but I never did, and

the unsolid memory of this night still litters my messy mind; it echoes endlessly back and forth in the empty space between my ears where I know my mind should be but isn’t.

I remember swinging: the swing at the end of her driveway rocked my rattled reality back and forth into a dazed dreamland, threatening each time to throw me right off of the edge I was peering over. I laid there for hours, just watching the moon move and grow throughout the star-filled sky. It was stretching outwards, becoming bigger and bigger as the night progressed, threating to consume my whole world and everything in it – and my purple penumbra pupils copied it, reflected it, but never once did I absorb it.

We are both mountain girls – moved by the moon, but moving our mountains takes much time. We feel things in phases and we take our time to move through the pain, but the white haired people still found us the next morning, and left us both with beehives in our bellies.

I hate that bad things have to happen in order for us to be aware and appreciative of all that we are surrounded by. We got matching crescent-moon tattoos to signify our endless commitment of shared platonic love, but I still ran 957 miles away the next day without even saying goodbye.

That night ended, but I never stopped questioning myself and my relationship with my reality. Even after years of setting my world own world on fire, day after day,

the moon girl is who made me realize that I am the center of my own universe. I have always found myself easily able to fall back into the easiness of being small, of being insignificant -- there is something altogether too calming about being so tiny in comparison to the ultimate vastness of the universe; there is a special kind of tranquility in how easy it is to fall backwards into the smallness, letting life occur with the mindset that nothing matters, because you don’t really matter and you wont really do anything that matters. But the moon girl made me realize that I am not tiny in my own world – I have a huge impact on my environment around me; I am the sun of my own self.

The memory of this night manifests itself into continual and constant reevaluation of myself and my universal positioning. The lessons of that night bleed into my every day; there is always some truth to be learned within each 24-hour period my human circadian rhythm. I think that if I were to tie up all of the loose ends I hold inside myself, the loops, ties and tangles would eventually cosmically come together to write the word “careless” in the constellations of my consciousness (in cursive). I have never been an observant person; I easily gaze over the things that matter most, unaware of my own celestial significance.  

I remember my mouth being sticky. I was unable to swallow the mouthful of salt she left in my mouth.  I stared through my skylight soul at the sunlit moon as it mirrored the purple-maroon color of the mountains below and the ink bled from my eyes to my heart. Everything was purple.

[jgreyblog]

The deepest regret, is knowing you could've done something, but out of fear refused to.

Excerpt from the book I’ll never write

[blogbatsinthebelfrylove]

#excerptfromabookillneverwrite #newpoetsontumblr #newpoetsofinstagram #newpoetscorner #poetsoftumblr #poetsontumblr

[zozammer]

On Purity

It's easy to love something pure and good. ( How does pure and good remain pure and good? ) Try loving dark and gnarled, and in need of redemption. Light is contagious, as is its embrace. Light embracing the dark and gnarled and twisty, as all anger and fear dissipate. And it may arrive again, mangled. And it may be embraced, acknowledged, and welcomed in the presence of light. All there is, is light. It is easy to love a beautiful face. It is not easy to love a mangled one. The mangled face deserves as much love, and yet seems to always fall short despite sincere action and intention. The mangled face is ugly. To be authentic is to be ugly - Dorothy Parker Everyday , he washes himself to feel pure. To justify yesterday. To justify the lack of sleep. To justify weak action, words, and thought. The lack of him is bothersome, tiring, impure, and impatient. And everyday he applies a little more patience to the ever growing wound. Wounds open one to new skin, new dimensions, and new beginnings. Wounds leave scars. Wounds are salty, dry, hopeful, and welcoming. Wounds are all over. The body is battered. The body is barely human. The body is hurt. The body needs intensive care. The body needs saving. Wounds are crying. Wounds are the only openings, and through these openings, they sing. Words slipping out of wounds, Damaged, broken, gnarled, twisty, aching, tiny. Tiny words. Big screams. Souls are screaming. Lonely souls scream in silence. Lonely souls either dwell by the morning window . Or blissfully climb the snow peaks. Or turn to every page on google looking. Looking for ways to kick their wounds, To heal their wounds, To keep the hurt at bay, To connect with more souls, To hold on the glass images of a previously preferred way of love. **Trying to apply concealer to the big fat scratches on faces, that need spiritual intervention , voodoo , plastic surgery , Ayurveda. Not fooling anyone. Concealer is Crap. Your face is pure. In all its wounds. And scars. And zits. No matter what the magazines say. Your face is pure , and God loves you.

[the-illegal-poet-blog]

Watch Out For The Fire

My tongue is a flame of fire Sharp, quick And always wanting a hire It flicks out like a snake If it bites you Don’t think that’s a little mistake My temper is a five alarm Blazing extremely brightly only if you make it If you do It’s gonna cause harm My fists get very, very angry and upset So if you get to close to this temperamental girl Your nose is sure to be bright red and wet

[j-crafton]

JAZZ

Those nights the Jazz clung to the Corners of the ceiling and hung there Waiting for me to make my next move

I just sat. I’d light another one . Flickered heat.

It was always dark then and I never slept.

Just jazz, cigarettes and sweat.

[citrusuicide]

With my Brooklyn aesthetic And my tongue so poetic I'm still just a kid but my future? I've wrecked it

Bad life choices - 10/01/16 - 12:28

[aninsomniacsink]

The Year you Lost your Heart Playing Poker

Car rides where all you remember is cherry blossom

and your fathers voice. This is the year you exchange your last

milk teeth for love, the year when your molars change

shape under the weight of your first lovers tongue.

Days of crimson tights and the tingle of legs

that have never been touched. This is the year

you start to wear lipstick and learn to ignore the waxy taste.

The year you test your voice like a wind instrument

and tune it to match the sound of those around you.

The year your hands become fevers, your eyes, rivers.

All skin hardens, eventually.

It can only take so much fire before turning to wax.

This is the year your shoelaces begin to fray

and the wind pushes you ever closer to the edge.

The year the edge starts to look like the only the beginning

and the world unfurls like a rug beneath your feet.

This is the year the you lean forward and jump

before you have time to look back and wonder.