palefuq asked: what's something you think about, watch or hear which always makes you cry?
Any emotional conflicts that are drug-related. Movies like Pay It Forward, Boys Don’t Cry, and The Invisible. Seeing my Father cry. My past. Knowing it takes time for things to heal. Heart-ache. Missing someone so much. Fear. Exhaustion. Discouragement. Being strong.
I’m sure there’s more because I’m a sensitive person.
It is past midnight. The color of your skin has melted into the cracks of my fingertips. I can’t get the stains out from Friday night through Sunday morning. It is like you wanted to repeat your existence in several places I have loved you so I won’t forget the taste of a non-prescribed drug. I am addicted, though. These past hours I have swallowed you whole as if I’ll never get enough, and usually it never is but tonight I think I’ll fall asleep before 5 a.m.
You know how we don’t see what is there until it fades? I miss you staring at me as I get lost in something else. I never payed attention, but I promise I have kissed the corners of your mouth while you were dreaming; and my perspective expands as wide as the apples of your cheeks.
I wonder if I’ll ever wash my body as well as you did that night in the shower, with blood letting down my wrists. You told me we all can’t afford to be perfect. And so I sit here playfully running my hands down my skin, feeling your imperfections from yesteryear.
I have been sleeping pale moon.
There is beauty in your sadness as
you stay awake in the ‘lone dark
while no star shoots towards you.
As painful as it seems,
it brings me comfort to see you
force no rain on my windowsill
when I wake in the morning —-
carefully keeping a silent figure
as I ignore you like
all the other lookers do.
I begin to write words but then they turn into letters, and these letters become long sentenced metaphors depicting my love for you. Nothing I feel is a complete thought and every complete thought has no definition of it’s own. I am scattered and engaged all at once. What is a girl to do with a fire wrapped around her heart other than to wince each time she feels the heat? Each night has it’s own purpose yet all intertwined into one core — you.
You reminded me of a younger me
but with eyes made of stone,
blood running like water.
I have a heart on my sleeve and
yours is frozen like a dead sea —
casted out into the deep,
I’ve never seen someone turn
the other way.
you once said into my crooked bones
as I put my life into the
pattern of a broken ceiling.
And so I rubbed your skin ‘til it
ignited between my fingers,
red streams bleeding into the sheets.
Ever since then
I haven’t asked you to express yourself.
For every predictable love movie, I plant our faces on top of those two lovers and remind myself that you and I can be cliche despite all our rough edges. Life doesn’t have to be so difficult for us when all I expect from you is the grasping of my hand from yours. This is how I calm myself to slumber. It’s how I come to life and go on with it.
It’s been decided.
I’m going to write a book.
Anonymous asked: have you considered if you took more than 2 minutes to write a poem you'd write something worthwhile
Have you considered the fact that this is Tumblr, a place to blog — not a showcase of my efforts.
Anonymous asked: Your writing isn't what it used to be. It used to be full of sadness, rawness. You had such a tough skin and now I see you as too vulnerable. You are not smoke in a tin, there nothing I feel you are carrying on your shoulders. Where is that girl?
I was waiting for this.
My writing has evolved, I know. My muses are people, and if you haven’t known by now, I’ve met someone who is gradually taking away that sadness. I’m happy, ok? Is it unbearable to receive knowledge that not all of us sad women remain sad? My writing reflects from experiences and real-life emotions. I write in 2-minute spurs without thinking. It is practically my feelings typing my words for me. Not everything is going to be provoked by depression.
I am smoke in a tin. I have shit in my hands, sitting on my shoulders. I always will. Because I have resentment, I have regrets, I have nightmares, and tomorrow’s tomorrow will have something to hand me. I am flaming inside of my own bubble. I am on fire, I just haven’t let it all out yet because for the time being and probably for a very long time if not forever, I’m looking at what I’ve been given; and that’s something worth while to embrace.
So excuse me if I’m not this lost girl you miss. I’m finding myself and if my writing isn’t what it used to be, it’s something worth more now. I’m growing, I can’t be “that girl” throughout my entire life because I’d end up killing myself. I’m a human being. I’m still struggling every single day to look at life with a positive perspective. You have no idea how difficult it is to wake up sometimes and smile with sincerity. Every day I push myself to be the person I was born to be, not the person I’m afraid to turn into. And when it becomes too much, I’ll write about it.
I can be vulnerable and have tough skin all at the same time. That’s what makes a fighter with a heart.
She bats her lashes and the wind
hurries through twigs to catch
cascading leaves, broken breath.
I have seen her lick
her lips, eating the bark
that rots around her cuticles;
but I taste her tongue next
to campfire, and Mother holds onto
my buds for a moment or two —-
silencing my judgment.
Her spirit is a Native dance,
twirling in her sandy rags
with feet as cold as a 3 a.m. nap.
I smell the rez in her skin and
used matches in her hair,
beckoning me to be the moth she
dreamed to tender.
Smoking from a pipe,
sipping from her palm —
I encompass her abandoned frame
while her soul runs free.
Look at me as if my skin is inside out
and the colour of my blood is black
from the night you kissed me in the dark.
I will count the roses you left
at my door, in my hair (the
petals bleed towards the bathroom drain).
You have loved me,
and have loved me not;
yet I still keep your words in a bottle,
swimming with tears of happiness
and regret — two potent concepts I
feel myself drowning in.
There are nights that I forget you and
mornings I long for another arm
around my naked stomach,
unraveling the knots to my rib cage.
You struggle to see past
the soft smiles and warm sentiments,
knowing I am much deeper than
a paper cut.
See me for who I am —
a lost heart, looking for coverage.
By Epictetus (via the-fiercest-fables)
Don’t explain your philosophy. Embody it.
(Source: lovemorefearless, via the-fiercest-fables)