Personal Poetry
All of my non-fandom prose poetry, normal poetry (whatever that is), and, for better or for worse, prosey vent pieces. 28,240 / 99
An essay on the expectations we have for others' expectations.
maybe this year's gonna be my year. or maybe i'll just learn to live with being alone.
this is such a fake Ass quote
out with the in with the
waffliesinyoface asked:
hello! i was going through my ao3 bookmarks the other day and i noticed that all of the ones written by you had been archived into a collection, inaccessible. Can I ask why? Is it just a temporary precaution, or are they gone for good?
hello! i was going through my ao3 bookmarks the other day and i noticed that all of the ones written by you had been archived into a collection, inaccessible. Can I ask why? Is it just a temporary precaution, or are they gone for good?
wouldn't you, too, like to know something new?
You realize that grief is perhaps the last and final translation of love. That this is the last act of loving someone. And you realize that it will never end. You get to do this - to translate this last act of love for the rest of your life. [*]
Grief, I've learned, is really just love...love with no place to go. [*]
Grief, I've learned, is really just love...love with no place to go. [*]
I keep trying to articulate - a message, no recipient; have I failed?
i've got to be what i'm trying to be. i've got to see what it's like to be me.
Everybody always says: we take you as you are.
To get where? To get here.
What kind of sick imperative is this?
as plain as the tears on my face
I'd love to be able to just drop it. But it's heavy, you know.
young people. we're all just young people.
Everything hurts so much more and so much less than it's supposed to.
Twenty Africans were brought to Jamestown to be sold into bondage, the first Africans brought to Britain's North American colonies.
The Virginia House of Burgesses was formed, thus creating a body to record and enforce contracts between servants and masters.
A ship load of women were brought in to be servants.
The Virginia House of Burgesses was formed, thus creating a body to record and enforce contracts between servants and masters.
A ship load of women were brought in to be servants.
Not what I identify as. What I identify with. What I speak to and what speaks back to me.
I assume you know everything I feel, by everything I do. That there is no other avenue available to me.
So messy. So discomposed. So ungovernable.
An essay on the expectations we have for others' expectations.
It's an out-and-out open secret. It's something too trivially obvious to be spoken.
What are the tips of our fingers for, if not feeling? Prints infinitesimal, which do all the thinking for us.
Let me tell you what I'm worried about (but it won't stop the rain).
Do you fancy yourself a humorist?
on courage
on power
A litany for moving forward.
if i concentrate hard enough, i can fall fast in love with what has been and what may be.
We cannot stop straining and crying to be enough.
sunday's hope is monday's gush; lest we not forget, amid the rush
Attemptedly artful, but in execution...not so much.
A train of thought on the boxes I keep myself in.
Why is my own obstinance the sternest task?
It's a difficult thing, gravity.
i've seen real lesbians, in my life now.
Sometimes there really is a chance that extends, gleaming, forever.
Creeping out to lay our shadows, boldly we must go.
And love is always leading forward, too brave ever to be falling back.
Very limited in scope. There may be more, later.
This evaluation should be a note of love - not just have, but be.
It never leaves me. I cannot leave.
neither here nor there but a secret third thing
who will emplace me? who will provide the permission?
This is what I was taught. This is what was very nearly forced upon me.
This is what I have learned. This is what I cannot discard.
This is what I have learned. This is what I cannot discard.
I want a drink...to wash all the filth that is deep in my guts.
"They call it longing because it takes forever."
We know so little. We trust (we hope) so much.
What a beautiful goal: to be glowing.
Only in this manner may desires be permitted.
There should be some word for it, in that ever-relevant dictionary of obscure sorrows: the feeling of getting hopelessly lost in an empty room.
Take it to the end of the measure. Come on, sing it, now.
I'm told I give wonderful hugs. Who's there waiting for me?
Be serious, now. Be real.
(teaching as a metaphor for love)
There are certainties, on this earth.
Think about it.
Indulge me the melodrama - it's all I have to give.
Good things don't come easy.
We fit as naturally as anything. Oh, boy, do we.
All love, all closeness; a pressure and a release.
Things we know to be true. Things we don't dare to hope. And one forges the other.
Almost there...forever.
Uncomplicated affection may be the idyll, but it's not the rule.
Time alone, watching the flow.
It has always been true that beautiful things grow where we let them.
Animals, trapped in bodies with overthinking minds.
Or, poetry in motion.
"You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."
You know you're not special, right?
Now this, my friend, is living!
(To be read, perhaps, in the voice of Dr James Grime)
Something of a...note to self.
Why wouldn't we be proud of you? You do so many good things.
how can i describe the place where the light gets in? it's dark
should be - and someday, isDon't tell me you ever saw someone who was told to do something, and was happy about it.
we must learn to ask this.
over, and over, and it's over again
An old one, on a whim.
"would that we all were excited about the small things and didn't have to suffer innocently"
The justification is as follows, for blathering on and on:
(hope you don't)
But what it has got...is pretty good, I'd say.
Another experiment. Another attempt.
I didn't have to...but I wanted to.
My dearest, dearest friends.
(royalty in purpose)
so great, to feel so small
how're you doing?
Handset, with love.
It's all that matters.
(Some things aren't topical enough for Tumblr.)
It's so nice to agree.
Everyone likes a consonant cadence. ...right?
Just a silly little thing - but aren't those the most important, in the end?
I suppose it's rather too late for that now, though.
or, of math and men