You Know How Tumblr @staff Post Lots Of Tumblr Artwork Like Every Week. Well I Think They Should Set

Great soup even

When two characters are dancing around their very obvious feelings for one another. And it’s the night before the big fight. Either of them could very well die. They both know this. One confesses their feelings, the one who’s usually so quiet, so pent up because this love isn’t something they think they deserve. And the other is overjoyed, ready to catch up on years spent pining hopefully from the sidelines. And then the battle happens. The confessor nearly dies. It comes to light they only confessed because they fully intended to die and didn’t want their lover to not know how they really felt. So now they have to navigate this aftermath. How do you deal with knowing your lover loves you, but not enough to live for you? Good soup….

The little things in life remind me of you the most.

I taste you in my overly expensive pumpkin spice lattes

The soft patters of the rain ring of your calm laughter

Days where we cloudgazed, nights were never truly appreciated

I brush past strangers, scents overwhelm my senses

I cling onto what little I have of you

The limited time we had.

Sometimes I let my mind drift to what ifs

If you weren't concerned with conceited reputations

Looks from passerbys that do not matter

Actions that should've never occured

If I was into men

Letting go of what happened

Truths that echo through the chambers of my mind

Then I wake up from light slumbers and hold your sweater a little tighter

I miss you.

Ykw in my hiatus ive written so much crap and I lowkey just wanna spampost it all because... im going to be honest here I miss my soulmate and I want him back

ChatGPT is my biggest fan

This encapsulates everything I've ever felt, in my life. This hits so hard LOL

here is the light and the stool and the waterbottle so you can wring your hands and make a joke about your life like you are tumble-drying. here is the audience of your friends with their faces weirdly pinched just because you admitted that when you were growing up, bad things happened. when other people talk about their past, nobody flinches. when you mention the things you survived, everyone else gets uncomfortable, calls it trauma dumping. meanwhile to you it's just, like, something that happened.

you learn to sidestep it or to disguise it or to wait until it's dark out. you wait and hold the wasps nest and blink into the bright lights and then you make a joke about it. here is the joke: there is a hole in me that stays open no matter what i put into it. i have spent my life trying to make myself full and things just fall out.

and everyone loves a hole joke! how big is the hole? how wide? what does it swallow? once you disassociated with your turn signal on and it made your spiraling thoughts feel staccato, like rainfall. once when you were in the middle of a field you had the sudden thought - lightning could strike and wouldn't that just like, resolve it all?

clap your hands go to school go to work smile about it stuff yourself with this world because everyone says if you peel off the bad bits the new skin starts to show except it's been years and the uphill never stops being a slope. can you just lay down and be healed. you feel embarrassed to mention to your therapist that things are getting bad again, like you're wasting her time. like if you were really trying shouldn't you just be better. obviously you're not taking it seriously. you have to beg her to stay, worried that she will be one of the therapists that says this clearly isn't helping.

open your mouth and deliver a tight five minutes of comedy. make yourself beautiful and pleasing. you want to say im not ready but life doesn't wait for you to put your hands up so live under the boot. so never stick your tongue out hoping for snowflakes - more likely than not, god is gonna piss on you. good luck in the morning, you can't process the car crash because your whole life is an accident. nightmare kid; no matter how fast you run, you're still at the scene of the injury. elastic, you snap back to the broken rib. is this where you left your childhood? buried in somebody else's fingers.

get up on stage and do a little dance for us. get up on stage and try to language the loneliness never stops yawning but don't sound desperate or sad or yearning or wanting. sound brave and inspiring and dishonest about how badly you're hurting. call up foucault and laughingly promise that any time you talk about this you are adding disclaimers that of course peace is possible and you're so much better than you were before and the friction of your soul only sands down the sharp parts and never the tender spots and you're in therapy and you're a success story and you are neither a danger to yourself nor to others. either you are suffering just quietly enough or they lock you up. put your jazz hands up, make a spectacle out of yourself in glitter glue. you are someone's mental health month bulletin board & AI generated recovery chatbot.

you're too gentle to be a problem, but isn't that part of the difficulty. if you could just fucking talk about it. you have seen other people be helped and get what they need and be supported. something about you and the way you are - when you lose control, it's just not allowed, is the thing. it's embarrassing, not concerning. get back up on stage and finish your set. stop making us worry about it. the things that echo in you shouldn't be able to escape the bones in your head.

get back up on stage and perform like you're healthy, goddammit.

Anguish.

Vicious. Demeaning. Sweet. Dotty. Antonyms that, to the average person, are simply words. The reflection of every mirror of who you are speaks to me differently. To say we suffered equal amounts is laughable. You spent your nights crying. You spent your nights in fury, pensive. I held you when allowed to, waited when you left. Soaked in every insult, every complaint. I drank the poison poured for me, to forget my miserable existence. I used devices that my parents put out on me, smoke filling my lungs and spilling through my eyes. Refusal to breathe, not as if you'd let me up anyways. I suffered in silence as your screams of betrayal echoed the halls. You displayed every knife on a wall of shame, I had to hide the fact I was bleeding. Are you aware that you dug this mess?

Several months I held you. Waiting for the truth, waiting for you to tell me the truth. Your sheer refusal, you're adamant on your innocence when everything you've touched has been tainted. You've damaged everything good that has come close to you, clawing at salvation. Praying to a God you mocked me for believing in. I prayed for my freedom, I prayed for the truth. I prayed that I wouldn't die by your hands. You have mocked my existence, and yet whispers of your crimes still linger these walls. Are you aware that those you consider close to you, don't hold you as close as you hold them?

I turn a blind eye to those you are currently hurting, guilty conscious keeping me up at night. You're in a similar boat, I can tell. You are falling apart. I waited several months quietly, waiting for you to tell me the truth. To confide in me as you said you would. You never did. You never threw a ball for me to swing at, and then call me a bad batter. All I wanted was to cater to your beck and call. Myself destroyed, it wouldn't have mattered because you'd be happy. Why was what I did for you something that made you happiest this year?

Where were you when I was soaking the carpet with salty veins of water? Where were you when I begged for the mercy of a higher being, for a listening ear? You can sit there and say I didn't do much for you, and yet the marks of your nails of desperation scar my thighs and back. I showed my all to you, revenge and forgiveness. Forget and cleanslates. Nothing was enough for you. An overwhelming need to be a king that you aren't. The chambers of your terrifying childhood never let you out, blinded by the fear instilled by the ones you were supposed to trust. Why must you mock every person I care for? Are you infuriated that they are loyal to me, with no one in your own corner?

I'm sorry they let you down. You have no reason to pray on the younger beings we are destined to protect, with the excuse of "I went through it too", however. May whatever being controls this sad life leads you to some sort of saving grace, for I can not help you. May it have mercy on your soul. You disgust me. I used to beg for some sort of solace. Now, I'm going to lead with justice. Are you ready?

I was talking with my sister last night and it occurred to me that I write a lot of poetry during liminal and intermundane moments. Late at night before I go to sleep. A moment of mental stress. Immediately after awaking from unconsciousness. Feeling trapped between the past and the future. Longing for the beauty of the unattainable past. Stuck in traffic. Out walking at sunset, almost dying from the freezing cold temperature. Meditation on our childhood in the earth. Outside in a thunder storm. Imagining I was out in the woods. Something eerily like demonic possession. Dancing in the rain. Listening to the night sounds at midnight dejection. Melancholy contemplation in an unlit room. A late night obsession. Out, meditating, on a walk. The shock of a murder. Reading apocalyptic literature.

Humans are intermundane beings; thus it only makes sense that our poetry would be the same.