Poems And Quotes - Blog Posts

should i start posting my poetry i write yes or no

#question #pleasebehonest #iwantmywritingtohelpothers

stop haunting me in the night, putting your hand on my shoulder, quietly telling me to wait for you silently in the dark, when i know in myself already that you won’t come back

Sirop de Fraise

pur sucre

Oh, fraise. You make me feel unsteady with your saccharine juice.

And, why so? I haven't the faintest idea.

It is particularly strange to think that I might be attached to a red fruit. A tiny one, at that.

Fraise, strawberry, is my God. It crafts a welcoming juice into my mouth's sensitive parts. I feel its nectar flowing in my lips, tongue and palate. It graciously stains my lips, leaving behind a natural reddish color and finally making me more esthetically appealing to men's eyes.

Fraise, fragola, brings me to paradise. While the essence floods down my esophagus, my cheeks burn. Try guessing where my mind went to? I couldn't tell you.

Fraise, fresa, la reina de las frutas. Why do they call her that? In its composition, it is the only fruit in the world that has the seeds on the outside. And in addition, its intense fragrance and sweet taste make it irresistible. So, remember that you are savoring the queen of fruits. Does this make you a queen too? Well, it depends. Do you have seeds on the outside? My man used to have freckels for seeds. He had them everywhere. Even in his adam's apple.

Fragum, fragaria, Fragaria. Wild strawberries grew in the forests of France and Italy during ancient Roman times. They used to believe that the "fraga" were special fruit that had medicinal properties and used them to heal wounds or to make spells.

Erdbeere, strawberry, the first fruit to ripen in spring, making them a delightful harbinger of warmer days. My man, who loved munching on some strawberries, smelled of their fragrance. And he augmented my fertility. I was devoted to his seeds and sperm. It would surge in my insides, producing a new feeling in my head. We had unique offsprings. They were all made of love and strawberries. We took care of them and brought them up, nurtured them to be as lavish and eager as strawberries.

Be careful about the origins of your strawberries. Check out their provenience, because in sylvis proveniunt fungi, fraga, myrtilli et cetera.

Placentne tibi fraga?

Life goes on:

Life goes on,

When the blossoms may.

When dry leaves fall down,

In a sun free day.

Life goes on,

When childhood ends.

When you grow apart,

From all your friends.

Life goes on,

When you walk alone.

In sunny paths and trails,

Of a hillside house.

Life goes on,

When you let things go.

When you accept,

There's always left some hope.

Life goes on and on

And on till the-

Day you die and-

Leave your imprint behind.

~ME

If someone would ask what my biggest need is I'd say touch. By Lord, please, pplesse I need to be touched. Right now. And if they raise their eyebrows and eyes flicker to my chest I will commit arseny. I need fingers pressing against my elbow as you pass. I need a hand at my back. The quiet presence of my friend appearing behind me. I can lean back. They have me. They gave me.

I need eyes. Eyes that meet mine and mean something. I need love. And by God isn't that a way to simple word. I want my friend to watch me turn away with a small smile before they continue their conversation. I want to elicit a warm feeling in a chest. I want someone to hug me and not as a goodbye.I need care. I need sustenance. Require it. Need your hand on my arm and need you to say hey, it's okay. How about a little walk before we continue this work, hm?

War on humanity in an ice cream franchise shop

Cloudy day, windy

Your boss' makin a loss

But I told you I'd never eaten this kind of ice cream before

And now I'm back for a second helping

First day it was sunny and I was in a good mood

Today I got no such excuse

The word "smile" is overused by corporate and music that's gentrification misspelled

So I'll commit the greatest rebellion of the industry:

You just looked at me.

Desperate claws in a sunny smile I've trained to be a good customer to the service

I ask you if I should take a cup or cone, your opinion

Well, it's my choice

But you can give me a little more in a cup.

I laugh too loud. Answer too loud. You're making money, I'm spending money.

'i hope to see you again, miss.'

That's not part of the script.

They don't say miss here.

I saw a city die

However dramatic we make death out to be, really, a human death is quite easy. Your heart stops. Once. One kind of death for everyone.

Have you ever seen a city die? It's not one death. It's uncountable. A tree so big you can't watch its fall. Like you can't watch the sun travel. There it is. You get distracted. Something flashes on your wall. You look out. It is gone.

A city's deaths are very varied. Some are gardens dying. Some gardens don't die, but really they do. Really, they're dead.

Some are wild trees dying. The ones we watered by mistake, or by a thread of benevolence. Strung through palms and generations, maybe. A collective nurturing, and every solitary splash thought it was alone. They die, until they become the kind of sticks who's snaps are anonymous. There is nothing here.

Some are people leaving. There are a lot of those. But if you watch people leave, you notice they were the ones who came in the first place. Not the ones who already were.

The ones who already were always are. They are the city. Killing an elephant takes rounds of lead to the heart. Still it takes hours untill it falls, days until it stops breathing. It's not easy, killing a dragon. Those that are must be killed differently. They do not leave. But you can make their home hostile to them. Twist and contort it until those that are have no place to be. They find a new spot, of course. A new city. Who's life blood they aren't.

A city dies a hundred deaths. Like watching someone assemble a puzzle, it's not dramatic enough to watch the process. Like sand falling. Suddenly the glass is empty.

The problem is the body. It's our symbol, vessel and object of death. Without it we don't recognise decay.

Death of a city is the rarest thing you'll see. The bigger, the less you see it. The most imposing, the less you'll watch. The more lights, the less you notice the void.

Because it's a lie. And when you notice. Finally notice,

all you see are the whisps; floating. No sound. Unwatched. No meaning in silence. Nothing. Pathetic in the way they outline whatever isn't there anymore.

I understand people that believe in a religion. Isn't every sunset that's partially hidden by an average day's clouds proof of the devine?

I'll tell you a secret: I felt like I was better. It couldn't happen to me. I was worldly and supported and had a plan and I spoke well and in 2 languages. The world was waiting to unlock itself to my potential. Back then, I had the secret fear that the world was too small for me.

And it happened anyway. The terrible cliché I felt too good for. I got stuck in the home town. Plans didn't work, and suddenly almost a year had passed and I'd spent it in an internship that was my plan H in a place that was my plan Never. And now, with bloody fingernails, I've held on to the easiest dream I had. Not even the pretty, big ones that I thought I'd conquer for fun and joy. The easy one. And I'm sick. Two years at a minimum, first time I've been sick like this. I can do nothing.

Time is running out and university is drawing closer and I was sixteen in a school I hated and I PROMISED myself I wouldn't let it come to this. I wouldn't cave. I'd take the time I want and I'd see the world and I thought I was so prepared. I thought the world was waiting for me. I thought I was so privileged. I thought that meant everything would be butterflies.

Why can't it be butterflies.

Oh my god I'm listening to California Dreamin' with headphones and. Did you know it's one of those songs that are hardcore spliced up between headphones. Like the female and male voices are mostly coming from seperate headphones.

This makes no difference except for a cool listening experience unless. Unless you take one headphone out.

Ohhh, there's still the faintest echo of the female voices in the male voices' headphone, but half the instruments are missing. It's haunting. It's majestic. It's Denny in a old rehearsal room. It's not really a designated space, it's the backroom of their bar. They jokingly used to call it the backstage area. It's wooden panels that were never glossy. It's Michelle and Cass on old stools with cheap cider. It's Denny alone. It's Denny's guitar, with John's handwriting on its side. It's an empty room that's not used to being empty. You know when rooms sound the most loud when there's supposed to be a hundred sounds and you know every one of them? You think you can hear it out of pure fate.

He can only play as many instruments as his hands can hold. But he plays them as well as ever. There's no tremble in his fingers. He can definitely hear Cass. He can almost see John. When he closes his eyes, he can believe they're through the door, in the bar. Hearing him play. Singing back to him.

California dreaming. On such a winter's day

Blood family

I think that whoever, or whatever, created human kind

They really, really, really,

really

wanted to force the point across that we're meant to socialize on a broad scale. To interact.

And I don't mean that in an emotional, "I saw a stranger on the bus and suddenly I remembered what we're here for" way (I do those too, but not today). I mean it in the barest, most fascinatingly clinical way.

Blood family.

Blood connects you to the most ABSTRUSE kinds of people! They can be such, such fundamentally different people to who you are yourself. Would you have ANYTHING to do your uncle if he weren't blood? Your aunt? It gets real great when you get close to each other in age. Would you have anything to say to your cousin if you met them in school?

It's bizarre. It's fascinating. It's a small but ridiculous. We are born, we are forced to interact with people completely different from ourselves. You choose friends. You don't choose blood family.

It seems so... stoic. Clumsy, brutal. There is no way you can escape the horrid, lovely, interesting, deeply uncomfortable ties to society. Not your society, not the one you create for yourself with friends, but the general one. You are born forced to confront the fact that humanity is as varied as snowflakes, to use a clichéd metaphor.

Do with that what you will. It's a fact. Not a single person can escape it. You always grow up with some kind of family that you're forced to spend time with. An orphanage, a traditional family, a single parent maybe.

Connection. For better or for worse.

Yesterday was a bad day, my apartment was too quiet. Too empty. There was nothing, nothing.

Then suddenly I was turning on lights and they were the perfect shade of yellow and the music from my little speaker hit me so hard I almost cried in the kitchen and those socks I bought kept my feet warm and my warmed-up tortellini were so good with the scrapes of my mom's pesto.

I listened to Billie Eilish and Hozier and The Neighborhood and suddenly they were just people.

Sometimes I lay in bed terrified that I'll stop feeling. Yesterday was not that day.

I'm an intern and my job is to enter addresses from hand-written letters into the database and did you know that Joshua Neumann from Hermannstreet 4, Cologne, has a life too

Oh

He's a principal in a small town. I googled it.

A mid-50s couple donated 100 dollars to our cause and I said that's very generous of you and he shrugged and said is it really

Oh

I guess it isn't really. Not for us.

When I came back after New Year the woman I've been working a lot with saw me in the office kitchen and hugged me.

I googled a scrawled address to decipher it and the town was so pretty I'm going to go there on a day trip with some friends. By train. Like we did 2 years ago.

You know what I'm saying, you know it.

Hm, eternity

Or: gods speak

A definitive factor of being human is not seeing the big picture.

It's very defining. Humans don't see the big picture. They don't see the celestial game, they don't even know their own nature. With a garden full of secrets on their own planet they haven't even stepped foot in, how could they? They know nothing of the blazing, terrifyingly holy power of a not quite ripe apple. Although they have crafted an entire worship around that particular fruit.

No, they know nothing of true eternity. Or maybe everything. If the unripe apple is holy to them too, does it matter that it's not my kind of holy? Does it matter that it's miniscule? There is no such thing as a smaller infinity, after all.

If I love you like the feeling of atoms assembling into wind gusts and solar flares, a human will love you like the feeling of that wind on their skin.

If I love you like the prayer of a million people to the greatest being they know, a god, a human will love you like the prayer of a child to the greatest being it knows, a mother.

If I love you like two black holes caught in each other's gravity, forcing each other into an unholy dance until they collide, a human loves you like watching two coins circling in a cone. Drawing spirals and spirals until they fall, with a gentle ping, into the hole in the middle.

Humans do not see the big picture.

Perhaps they are redefining holy as we speak.

Perhaps they make their own holy, and yet it is equal to mine.

I have a beautiful friend

I have a beautiful friend. Half a year younger than me, with almond eyes and skin maybe two to three shades darker than caramel. Dusty sunset. It reminds me of spices and the billowing fumes of a barista coffee machine.

She has Columbian heritage, with glossy, thick black hair and long eye lashes. Dark eyes, bright teeth. She laughs big, smiles wide. The slight figure of a doe. She gets excited about everything. She's naive. She's adorable. She wants to explore.

She's beautiful, everyone tells her. She's terrified.

My friend sees the eyes. Of course she does. They're not admiring. They're predatory. She wears who she is on her sleeve, and she's a wondering, easily amazed person. She wants to be happy. Oh, have you ever heard of a better rape victim.

She wants to kiss someone. She wants to be in a relationship, with cuddles and pinky finger promises. She wants to be desired.

We smile. We watch her drink. We make sure she gets home afterwards.

Beauty is a lot of things. But I'd wager to say that no matter if you've carefully cultivated it yourself, were born into it, want it, use it, hate it, are aware of it

Broken down, all social veneers and descriptors stripped away,

It attracts attention.

Oh, Silvia Plath was right.

Don't make me find pleasure in the little things

Yes, I almost cried feeling cold air on my face in the morning

It made me so happy when I bought three different spices for my tea yesterday.

But please, don't make me find pleasure in the little things. I need those adventures.

I need love, and life. I need big moments with dresses on fire. I need to know that life is big magic, too. I need real tears of joy and explosions.

I know, you're talking of awe. But it feels like you're extending an aiding hand to stroke my hair.

To make a pastel colour not look so muted.

I want it all

I want the princess blue and the nutcracker red

Is that okay? I'd take both, thank you. Here's the change.

Normal is a memory

Normal is a memory, but time moves so slow, so much like it always has, that no one notices.

No one notices that we don't talk about jam anymore, or how beautiful your dress is.

Because have you seen the news? There are war crimes, beloved.

Your dress? The price of weeks of food thirty years ago

And it tastes like small hands working sowing machines.

The jam? No one has time for home mades anymore, my dear. There are tears to be swallowed.

I wonder if there ever was a normalcy, with Sunday brunches and sadness, not depression. Or if it was always a memory.

Always just a few generations out of our reach.

See, I was wrong.

We do notice.

I ate stickly sweet dates out of a plastic bag today. With cold fingers, looking out at a morning sky that'd been cloudy for weeks.

The words, the colors, the sun

fail to showcase my heartbreak

when I have yet to accept it as mine

and only mine to grieve.

The bone chilling winter comes after my soul

as I run through the slippery woods

plummeting inside the abyss.

Hello, I hope you are well🌹

I am Hazem Mahmoud Hamada, 44 years old, a Palestinian man, from Gaza. I am seeking to save my family of 6 members from the hell of war by moving to a safe place until the ugly war ends.Our suffering began on October 14, 2023, when my family was forcibly displaced from north to south in a life- threatening situation. As a result, our homes were completely destroyed and demolished, and thus our business went to waste. There was nothing left as a source of livelihood. There are no shelters to shelter us or a source of livelihood to live on.

Your support is our only hope for survival after losing everything.

We hope you will continue to support us by donating or sharing to help save and rebuild our lives. Every contribution is important and greatly appreciated

Our campaign is verified by Gaza Vetters

https://gofund.me/31a01e1c

🚨🚨🚨!!!!!

HIHI!!

just wanted to share my new sideblog that ive been posting on for a few days now XDD

its based on a small project in my notes (most of the account is poems and the thoughts i dont really share here)

feel free to check it out as im much more active on there when it comes to daily posts!!-trying to do atleast 2 posts a day due to 14,866 chars in the notepad like lawd have mercy we still have alot to go through (dwdw- ill still post here sometimes!!)

The first of many that will come.

I kill because I need to. I kill because I have to. I kill because I want to. The great changes of desensitization. Make it rust until its nothing.

was chilling in my english course the other day and we went over seamus heaney

needless to say,, i’m in love with the man. 😋💕

“Who cares if all the music that transpires //

Is the fall of grit or dry seeds through a cactus? //

You are like a rich man entering heaven //

Through the ear of a rain drop. Listen now again.”

…why did he eat it up like that…🥴🥴🥴 literally like i am in love with this line. his poem The Rain Stick just made me astral project into the air of the lecture hall i was in..

THIS IS WHAT I NEED!!! either a poet whispers something like this in my ear or someone volunteers to be my subject !

seamus heaney,, I AM LISTENING THROUGH THE EAR OF A RAINDROP!!!!

WARNING FOR SA UNDERTONES ⚠️⚠️

——————————————-

this is a poem i recently wrote about how someones words can affect a way you look at someone even by not knowing them. yes this is from personal experience, and my partner is aware of it and making sure i feel safe. after some thinking i’m pretty sure it’s just the other person’s words affecting my opinion on this person. they haven’t done anything to me, and i just had a out of the blue nightmare about it which is why i wrote this. read with caution, thank you

——————————————-

Met Someone by Rumor

if it was a nightmare i had late one night

why must i still feel his breathe on my neck

if it was just a worry

why do i feel eyes watching me as i walk by

if it was just a feeling

why can i still picture his smug grin in the corner of the room

i’ve barely talked to him

he asked for a pencil and smiled

i said sure, only one conversation

one other conversation, one much different

told me how he, the same one was weird and creepy

told me what he is rumored to have done

same man who did those things to me

told me about another man’s doings

why must i believe them?

believe them so deeply

that they haunt my nightmares

haunt what i otherwise would see as a successful young man

one who has a future

but instead people talk

and now even around people i love and cherish

i feel eyes watching

his eyes

his eyes that are blocked by sunglasses

will i ever know if the rumors are true?

i dont think i want to find out

however for now

ill let the man who sits in front of me

ask for a pencil and write his notes in peace

as a woman i have so much empathy for my mother, but as a daughter i have so much anger

rose brik, my fathers eyes, my mothers rage 2023

Have I become addicted

to the sadness,

has it evolved into a hybrid

of apathy

of melancholy.

Will it stitch itself to my eyelids.

Will it clog up my narrow veins.

Is this the type of pain,

that drives my buried hope insane.

The Sun

AAAAAAAA I LOVED THIS DRAWING AAAAAAAA

If you can reblog, I’d be really grateful 🫶🏽🫶🏽

Kenyan, my beloved, slaying again. It’s a bit confusing cuz I didn’t want to draw the details, but in the left are Martra’s citizens.

Maivtre is their goddess and queen, and despite Kenyan’s actions, they still believe in Maivtre and Odabrani. She is that magnetic force, pulling they all around her orbit and shining more than everyone. That’s just who she is: a star, The Sun.

But what happens to those who want to be close of her?

And when the Moon covers her shine?

Irish Spring

a raspy laugh, sharp as cheap soap a mind's movie on a honey-smacked whorl

Decomposing

Her fingers, the wispy breath of young wheat.

An Ohio summer hangs like a warm towel after swimming.

We kickball ideas over the nylon floor of the trampoline;

She recites revisions for her newest novel.

The dank rot of sweet hay and dirt wafts over memories.