how to be a writer
- start to write something
- pause and read over what you have so far
- cringe
- backspace everything
- exit out of your computer
- cry on the floor
(via jewahl)
how to be a writer
- start to write something
- pause and read over what you have so far
- cringe
- backspace everything
- exit out of your computer
- cry on the floor
(via jewahl)
I am tired, but I can’t sleep
and if you saw me, I think you’d see my shoulders sag like
houses by the sea when the water gets too close and they shrink back in fright
but I’m not scared
just cautious
too cautious?
or not enough?
when the shutters on my windows are streamed with the dirt of seeing
all there is too see but only catch the bad specks of dust
(and I hear you say)
‘aren’t all the dust specks bad?’
but the answer to that is no
just because they’re dead doesn’t make it so
Can you hear that?
Is it me?
Or am I asleep?
Maybe my soul has sat up to say
‘Hello!’ And left to be
around the world and along my skin whilst my breath
remains to be
my saviour, and constant, and gentle, and sweet,
like a soundless whisper that bleeds its own melody
without saying anything
No! I hear it again-
can count as it paces between
the sound between my ears and the air
alive, but never remains to be seen
and I cannot look to find it
it exists where it has been
but listen!
it’s there!
I don’t doubt the unseen!
I found a watch inside my body
the ticks,
my heartbeat’s slow stream.
I’m sorry I haven’t posted in forever, and that previous poem wasn’t amazing, and new followers I’m sorry I disappoint you, but I’m super busy what with my GCSEs coming up and everything, so poems won’t be as regular as usual.
Apologies. My brain is melting. :(
I cannot think of anything more beautiful
than to crawl inside your own being and listen
to the sound that it makes
these veins gush forth green
tree person, you grow,
and this heart stretches to tick
and tock and tick and tock
a clock
or watch
that beats and rocks, you are not
just a body, that starts or stops
but a pocket watch
in the trouser leg of the world
and the sounds that you make
are a snatch of youth in
the midst of the rot.
I don’t think I can sleep anymore, not so deeply as I once did,
when all the while doors creak and snore, and light on my mind does filter in,
and thoughts tiptoe to spin, and ideas start to begin,
and it looks like someone left this tea out for too long because I seem to be growing more skin
along the top of my own mind, more flesh begins to skim
out the words I don’t like that much, and they’re slowly beginning to give in,
the bridges I made from thought to thought,
there’s a sea waiting for them to sink
in.
And everything fell silent when she breathed out loud
as if announcing she was here and
her ‘quiet’ was suddenly louder than the
one she took for ‘home’, as if
home was a place in the space between a
whisper
and
no sound at all
muffled, and soaked, and stained, and dappled,
with the blood of the words she murdered in her mouth
by not giving them room to say
“We say what she wants to say
but never will because she’s not ready”
and out that fluid flew from her lips
like wisps of
something once alive,
and span like smoke, grew tall, gave skips
to her heart, these words,
that were her breathe, and man!
did she breathe big
Scribbled something down in the middle of the night, and now I can’t decipher what the heck made me stop sleeping. That’s some terrible handwriting I have…
“oh my god”,
here is something we’ll whisper and shriek and yell
for all the world to hear, because we discovered something wonderful
and it did not stop to sink into our consciousness
like everything else does, thoughts are boats and most boats drown,
but listen to what you speak because
it speaks more than you’ll listen
and it’s the “my” that gets me going because
when something captivates your attention you
phrase your astonishment to
someone you are sure is not existent,
(as you so adamantly correct me though I think different)
and isn’t that astonishing
in it self
that you claim God in that moment
of surprise and wonder and fear and terror
as your own?
A crutch to hold onto when your legs go weak,
an “oh my god” escapes your lips and
for a moment,
you see
the thing you found odd that I do see,
and that’s when I’ll whisper it back at you
because our eyes are seeing the things we thought
our opposite bodies
never, ever,
would do.
Sometimes it is easier
to think of yourself as the moon
when the wolves need something to howl at.
