writteninjoy2

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It's my 11 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

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BOOMERANG

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I've never seen a field full of poppies before. This is at Courtyard Farm at Ringstead, Norfolk — mycathardy

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The most violent thing about love is how quietly it leaves. – Charlotte Eriksson

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the vase

i never sit down thinking, now’s the time for poetry. no. it’s more like a slow leak- a thought drips out, then another, then a goddamned puddle on the floor.

so i gather it up- the scraps, the cigarette ends, the busted shoelaces of meaning- and start sorting. it’s a mess. it’s always a mess.

i try to make something decent- like arranging roadkill into a parade. or flowers -sure, we’ll call them flowers. but they’re bent, with missing petals, some still stink of last week’s rain. and yet i put them in the vase.

every time i do, there’s always that one that doesn’t belong. a tulip with a knife in its stem. a daisy that screams. a weed that reminds me of you and your unbearable forgiveness.

i try to pull it out but somehow, you like it there. you say it makes the whole thing honest.

and god help me- i believe you. i leave it in. we call it art. we call it love. we leave it to rot on the table.

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after the blink

i always thought i’d know the moment, the exact second when i’d cross some invisible line, and become the version of myself i've been pursuing-

but nothing happened. no trumpet call. no enlightenment. -just me again. still here. still circling. like a bug trapped between panes of glass, only one of them is me, the other, a reflection of who you think i am.

i don’t lie, exactly, i just leave things out. the way some people skip meals when they’re too tired to chew. that’s how i’ve handled the truth. just… left it untouched on the plate.

there was a better me once. he wrote poems in margins, and saved voicemail messages because the sound of a voice meant something. he believed in things, or at least he believed in believing.

i don't know where i left him. somewhere between a goodbye, and an empty room.

and now? now i live in the pause between explanations and silence. the door is open. the lights are off. and if you blink- you won’t hear the sound of me leaving.

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unfiltered

swimming in this flood of pixel-pumped plastic faces. every smile premeditated, every sunset edited with a ring light, and a forced laugh.

some call it content. i call it -nothing.

i can almost feel them out there, polishing their lunch for likes, filtering reality through ten-dollar apps and calling it authentic.

is any of this real? hell, i don’t even know if i’m real anymore, or just some ghost, haunting the leftovers of an analog life.

it’s too easy now no blood, no blisters, just tap, scroll, repeat. and nobody’s keeping score because the scoreboard got bought out by a brand that sells hope in 30-second clips.

i keep scribbling these thoughts on napkins, receipts, backs of envelopes- and they all get swept up into the landfill of a collective shrug.

a sea of facsimiles, and not a drop of the real thing left to drown in.

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I'm still waiting for you,

To come back tomorrow,

Now the sun is gone,

And it's still today.

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i admit i almost missed it, the forgetting comes so quietly these days and when apathy knocks, she comes to stay and lingers, lingers, lingers i almost missed it happiness almost slipped straight through my fingers i was open palmed and trembling i was shaking in my knees caught up in the drudgery of existing, persisting, in spite of it all in spite, in spite - spite comes to visit me, too, but he is a bitter, brutal thing and unrelenting, unyielding but he belongs, too, all of them, a seat at my table, the cacophony of noise spilled drinks, dirty dishes and all else in-between because in the midst of my suffering so too came in the beauty of belonging and though the mess is great, this wretched mess is mine and the clutter on the table just gives the sun more surfaces upon which it can sparkle and shine, and boy, does it shine - it shines.

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energize & glow up

* big fish swallow whole any small fry gets in the way & day by day the meglo's get swole;

with a so-narrow path to glow-up 'cept at their own peril, like Pauline in the old funnies for most indie bunnies, should you blow up...

here, there - traversing curses, dispersing tokenship & bad commercials from a sow's ear to a silk purse in reverse, but ...could be worse.

you could be denied any role in a cast; no lines, no credits, a hole in your ship's ballast & no Dutch boy's thumb to plug up the gap,

no wharf, no scarf or feather for your cap, no fine weathered friends to tuck you in for a nap;

your dinghy's adrift or on two feet of snow, in an icy current's whisk with an undertow - itsa no-go.

‘cept one day you'll start to realize no one’s coming to rescue, to no great surprise; you'll have to become captain of your own fate, your savoir faire keying the golden gate;

despite rhyming toward triteness, ( you know that i'm right ) might sometimes gets frightened in a one-on-one fight.

so pick & pop roadblocks - one jab at a time; grab an steady bystander to hold onto the line 'fore your high-flying leap thru the wind, off the ledge of trepidation & doubt, no hemming or hedge; to find one day soon you're at a filling station gassed up, classed up with a reservation for yourself, your cute boo ( or two - you do you...) for a damned exhilarating rendezvous.

all because you dared empower a self-powered line & the shock of it all is... you’ll be feeling just fine. * 1/23 - 3/25 - lebuc - energize & glow up

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Specific ways of feeling good

Matter

Today I touched lilacs as if I was saying wait with my fingers, tugging a shirt so the person inhabiting it would turn to me. I don't know who I was pulling back from the other world. Maybe my friend who died, the one I dreamed

walked past the line of torches on the beach marking that property from this, past a sign he did not care about. It was only for me. Maybe I touched him—but I don't believe we become everything. He's not the same as the flower. He is somewhere,

and I'm grateful that I don't understand because it means I'm still alive, stupid, partial, desiring specific ways of feeling good, crying on the couch because it's light so late and the birds won't stop singing. It's light, and it doesn't matter what I want.

Sarah Green, from The Deletions

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I am absent of malice

My pitchfork past has faltered

We are human

Even if this radio stays silent

I wish you music, I hope

You find forever

That you fall softly

May you find a way to flower

After every frost

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Memories Alone

Everything is temporary birth to death a single breath we quickly discover this too shall pass yet sadly it seems we learn too late that memories alone will last

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Cleaning for Unexpected Company / David Jibson

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Entanglements (Please Return)

We are but cosmic

entanglements

of particles and light;

chaos, seeking purpose,

and overcome by wonder.

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There is nothing

More beautiful than

A laughing woman