Big Book Pages One Hundred And Fifty Two - ABAW Publishing House - jt-steiny.com - #ducksinarow #words #poem #poetry #timepoem #melodypoem #moneypoetry #rhythm #comics #panelsnarrated #dogdance #dogs #pigsin #piggoo #pigwords #dogs #cows #simplecows #lettersandwords #ok https://www.instagram.com/p/CpDggcRvKGQ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
0 notes
Wretched 20's...
I'm in a state of dreaming
Lost in mazes
Of make believe
That I created
To help pass
This useless time
To ease old pain from flaring
In this young heart of mine
So I sit and watch the clocks
Race forward and backwards
All at once
Hoping all is not lost...
2 notes
·
View notes
L'Amore non teme il tempo⏳🕰️💞 Love does not fear the time . . . #poesiatempo#poesiaamore#antoniomassimorugolo#lovepoem#timepoem#poetrylover#amorenontemeiltempo#lovedoesnotfearthetime#frasibelle#leggerepoesie#scrivereemozioni#booklover#writingemotions#readingpoetry#instapoem#instapoesia (presso Mantua, Italy) https://www.instagram.com/p/CBTbC22CY5i/?igshid=17vts85vi9e64
0 notes
"When as a child I laughed and wept, Time crept. When as a youth I waxed more bold, Time strolled. When I became a full grown man, Time RAN. When older still I daily grew, Time FLEW. Soon I shall find, in passing on, Time gone. O Christ! wilt Thou have saved me then? Amen." - Henry Twells
0 notes
In One Minute
11:59 pm
in one minute,
in 60 seconds,
the day will be over
and a new one will began.
today will be yesterday,
and tomorrow will become today.
it's quite surprising,
how all the things you said,
all the things you did,
became a part of the past,
they became merely a memory,
a moment to never forget.
time is a gift
use it wisely,
it comes so soon
and leave so quickly.
today is ending,
but tomorrow has just begun.
in one minute,
time will start again.
12:00 am
Today.
-megan demuth
0 notes
It's been a long time but chronic illness gets the best of me some times but thankyou to @brutehonesty for inspiring me to get writing again, I needed the release 💛 #poetry #poetsofig #poems #PoetryCorner #poemsoninstagram #poet #poets #poetrycommunity #PoetryCorner #poemoftheday #poemsociety #poetsofinstagram #POEMS #Poemoftheday #feels #sadpoems #PoetSociety #darkpoems #darkpoetry #depression #anxiety #anxious #panicdisorder #ptsdsurvivor #fibromyalgia #fibrowarrior #chronicfatiguesyndrome #timepoem https://www.instagram.com/p/BrYroV4hs1i/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1rwpb2mr8qk9n
2 notes
·
View notes
T I M E ⏱️ . . . . #accept #perspective #time #poem #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetryisnotdead #change #poemsofinstagram #poemoftheday #poemsofig #poemsociety #igpoetry #igpoets #blogger #blog #journal #artjournal #artjournaling #artblog #timepoem #timepoetry #poemsdaily #instapoetry #bymepoetry #bymepoetryasia #theuncannynecromancy (at Mumbai, Maharashtra) https://www.instagram.com/p/CBgDnLxjdxD/?igshid=1eh862dm2twea
0 notes
calendar feelings
(january)
some months begin
like this: i midnight kiss
in a corner i twelve times
kissed the first boy i loved.
the hot tub is salt reflections.
we drive the desert in silence,
mouthing music as if it is gum.
these weeks are gummy—
each city sticks to the next:
brine valley pacific lines seeped
tea abbeys.
i dance in the sundown light
even though my arch hurts
& i have forgotten what
it feels like to move, to betray
home with parched eyes.
(february)
if we begin with blue rain,
it will all fog. cheap wine,
flower wine, wine he buys
me the night he finds
my doorstep. we make floor
love this month;
it is carpet war.
everyone is fighting
for something. chase
dies & it all
bursts: the beginning
of spring
is interrupted blooming.
the paris streets are green
& we flit the streets in black,
eat ghosts in bed for hours.
i have snuck into this pent
house. i have snuck into
this city for coffee and flaky
butter & all the myths
of the rodin gardens:
every stone is human,
& it is okay to look back
with an apple wedged
between my jaw each night
and noon.
(march)
store street espresso
is four blocks from my room.
if you walk ten minutes
on gower you may find
a stone bench with a man
in torn shorts, eating flowers.
but i cannot draw a map
of this city. too much
is sketched underground.
(april)
i admit, april is difficult
to date.
we are travelling. we are caught
between images,
culled only in city light:
our tongues and bones
too lost
to write what city is.
(may)
it all leaks. it is as if
the earth has paused
mid-pivot & the sun
has moved closer
& we can’t tell
time of day.
these hours are april transposed:
& in april, we eat eggs with wine on stone corners.
we cry below a bridge.
we take a train to milan & fly to berlin.
we buy cortados from airport vending machines at 4 am.
we live on the 6th floor. we sleep in nine cities.
we decide to be friends. we pick keys
to the roof and scale the wall. we are falling
on street corners. we are locked
out. we are locked into this moving. i kiss
these town walls and they build a cardboard
tree house in my dreams.
i fly home drawing squares,
smelling of espresso and rain fall.
(june)
this is a waiting time.
they can’t find my visa in the stacks of paper.
i drive home with my brother, but we don’t live
in our house anymore. the u-shaped hills
are calling and my heart feels four years old.
i fly to see my grandmother because she is sick
but doesn’t know it.
(july)
we celebrate her birthday toasting
ginger drinks with cardamom rims.
my lips are sugar and i believe
in astrology this time of year.
the stars misalign & we are drunk
in the vineyards.
(august)
this month is phone
dead. this month is spider
bites. this month is sunrise
sunset beers on the stoop,
sideways glances.
this month happens
in a stranger’s friend’s
room. this month happens
in his car, happens four
years ago. this month
is dragged across nebraskan
plains. this month
is an unsettled midwestern
sky—a blue dust arch.
(september)
here, everything is tapping wood,
is re-beginning,
is foam.
(october)
we fly to austin for music and iced
coffee caramel drinks. this is a muddy
fall & i say what i didn’t mean
twenty nine months ago.
he knows
only where
to put hands,
place eyes, squeeze
limes with tart lips.
i am twenty
two this month, in a room
i thought i’d never be.
(november)
there is one day
i remember best:
waking on their floor
on a pink mattress,
meeting her for americanos
& seeping egg toast,
walking the Chelsea market
for whiskey caramels &
picking books & postcards,
highline city light,
the line between afternoon
and evening, margaritas
& subway buzz.
(december)
it is hard to write
something so close.
time is unwordable
in this way. it rains
in the sun. we drive
the salt hills kissing
in the trunk. we ride
the ferry city underground.
i am not wanting calls,
wanting to call.
i am on the street corner,
maybe needing home,
maybe wanting water.
it is hard to see the surface.
2 notes
·
View notes