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#web weaving poetry
sageandscorpiongrass · 6 months
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I think I hate my father.
The Sun is Also a Star, Nicola Yoon | Woodtangle, Mary Ruefle | pinterest comment | Anatomy of Cat and Dog Skeletons, William Cheselden (quote unknown) | Father, The Front Bottoms | I'm the Villian in his history., Nat (Oh Fathers, Key Ballah) | @/inkskinned on tumblr | Thomas Builds-the-Fire, Smoke Signals, Sherman Alexie | no children art print, Rainboon | Untitled, Franz Wright | Franz Kafka in a letter to his father | Seventeen Going Under, Sam Fender | Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong, Ocean Vuong (from Night Sky With Exit Wounds)
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basilpaste · 1 year
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Love isn't the sacrifice, it's the act of giving.
letters from medea, salma deera | giovannis room, james baldwin | all i ask of you, phantom of the opera | because dreaming costs money my dear, mitski | water lilies claude monet | bittersweet, rumi | in case you dont live forever, ben platt | quote by sade andria zabala | photo by leonardo papèra | the rockrose and the thistle, the amazing devil | radio silence, alice oseman | this is how you lose the time war, amal el-mohtar
a silly little web weave based on perrie.
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you are the result of the love of thousands
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nashira · 6 months
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fireflies by owl city / @.petfurniture / read my full poem here
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lakesloverboy · 6 months
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on hope and simple days.
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softsweetwhispers · 9 months
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my mother's eyes used to change color. 
as a kid, i was obsessed with them, jealous of the way the way they could be foliage green in the sun, but then change to tree trunk brown when indoors. sometimes, when the sun was setting and tangerine and peach painted the sky, they looked blue – cerulean overlapped with navy overlapped with onyx in the dark. i imagined them an ocean, a safe place to get away when it all became too much. 
i don't remember a time when she wasn't slipping away, her mind frayed at the edges the way the hem of my t-shirts did when i was younger. she seemed in a constant state of unawareness, a sort of disconnect with reality. i never understood it – maybe i was too young or too naive – but i remember feeling bitter resentment at the universe and its cruelty. the disease that took my mother away would've never shown itself if there was a god, i was convinced. i hated everything when she left us, though i was careful not to show it. i knew i was looking for a scapegoat; i knew it wasn't my grandparent's blind faith or the way my father couldn't love my mother the same way she did him, or even her biological parent's that we're at fault. i just didn't have anything else to blame. 
there was a glass ball in my chest that grew every time i thought about my mother's ashes in a cardboard box because we couldn't afford an urn. everytime i thought about my younger sister i didn't – and still don't – know even though it's been nearly five years. everytime i remember my mother laying in a hospital bed, the beeping of the breathing machine the only thing keeping her tied to earth, the only noise in that suffocating quiet. it was the only time in my memory she'd been completely still when she was alive. 
i knew what it was too, because even then, with my father's eyes and my mother dead and a faith i'd never believed in in the first place shattered, i knew. i knew she'd never be proud of what i'd done. she wasn't looking down on me because angels didn't exist, but if she was, i knew she'd be disappointed in what she saw. the glass in me shattered; it cut me up inside and tore me open and left no room for mercy. 
i thought, how unfair it is that legacies aren't chosen. i thought, how unfair it is that i might be subjected to the same fate my mother was because of genetics. i thought, me and my mother and the generations before her and the generations after me deserved better than a disease that took everything that made my mother my mother away. 
now, i am sitting on the edge of a tin roof. the night is filled with empty space and the stale sort of quiet you get when the world is quiet. the moon is out tonight, pearlescent and luminous and bathed in pale oyster light. my mother would've called it a yareakh, and i would've looked at her as she pronounced it for me carefully, like she did every full moon, because i could never quite say it right. i wish i would've known then that time was so limited and there were only so many nights i'd get to see my mother. i would've memorized her ever changing eyes – the foliage green and tree trunk brown and cerulean and navy and onyx. i would've thought of how the blues of her pupils reminded me so much of a lake and i would've thrown an anchor into them to tether her to me.
see: this post
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joshatchurch · 10 months
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unrequited love hidden behind a relationship of rivalry
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rosealouette · 1 month
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ credits! all quotes are from "woesome is clarissa" by rose alouette nightingale. photos: the three graces by edmund thomas parris, conversation in the garden by oliver rhys, un bouquet de fleurs by pierre paul leon glaize, a painting by auguste toulmouche.
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poetryorchard · 8 months
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hello friends! this friday, we'll be reading + writing about grandparents, elders, and memories from our childhood.
while this workshop centers grandparents, you are invited to join even if you're not close with your own grandparents or blood relatives at all! it's going to be a sweet time where we share memories with each other and preserve them in writing 🥰
sign up here!
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ineedibuprofen · 9 months
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cool about it, boygenius // i don't want to hear any good news or bad news, elisa gabbert // ana mendieta // this post, @inkskinned // drowning sailor, jack nichols // you are jeff, richard siken // everything i wanted, billie eilish
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goodnessandgrief · 11 months
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Michael Cunningham, from The Hours (1998) / @gay-hamlet on Tumblr / @tieflinggay on Tumblr / Anna White, Mended: Thoughts on Life, Love, and Leaps of Faith / Tim Kreider, "I Know What You Think of Me"
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Love, On Its Way Out.
Two Week Notice, Leanna Firestone | Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines, Pablo Neruda | Conversations Over Sanguinaccio Dolce, I.B. Vyache | Seaside Improvisation, Richard Siken | I never went to that movie at 12:45, Dolly Lemk | In a Dream You Saw a Way To Survive, Clementine von Radics | Quote by Kate McGahan | Pillow Thoughts, Courtney Peppernell | Bluets, Maggie Nelson
(This isn't prompted by my real life so much as it is my love for that first song and also. blorbos.)
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basilpaste · 1 year
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On Love As An Ending.
Mary Oliver, Dogfish | Hozier, Like Real People Do | Etel Adnan, The Spring Flowers Own & The Manifestations of the Voyage | Joseph M. Martin, The Awakening | Richard Siken, War of the Foxes | Mary Oliver, Dogfish (Cont.) | Hadestown, Flowers | Julian Gough, End Poem | Mary Oliver, I Worried | The Altogether, Goodbye | Everybody's Worried About Owen, To: Myself In Colorado | Emily Palermo, What I Could Never Confess Without Some Bravado
fine fine the poetry blogs in my notes win, ive made another web weave.
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what a blessing to be earth loving earth
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ludocorradino · 7 months
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September
Septemper, it comes quietly and awfully fast.
September, be gentle, gentler than august for your bittersweet days alone are enough of a punishment: lie here with me and allow me to rest within your sorrows.
Autumn will prepare me well enough for the looming, ghostly winter waiting to haunt me.
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Settembre, silenzioso e terribilmente veloce, giunge.
Settembre, sii buono, più buono di agosto poiché i tuoi giorni amari da soli saranno sufficienti a logorarmi,
giaci al mio fianco e lascia che riposi tra i tuoi strazi.
L’autunno mi preparerà abbastanza per l’incombente, spettrale inverno pronto a tormentarmi.
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lakesloverboy · 6 months
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