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Poets - Blog Posts
if today was my last
If today was my last How would I spend it? would I take in all the little things, gathering all those little details that I have always missed, my head has always been too full of all these things that keep me up at night. Or would I still just float through it all Still just a shell of the kid I once was, all the vibrancy and wonder having left years ago.
Would I go to the library? to collect a few last lines Letting them live on the tip of my tongue. only to set them free with my last breath. letting the feeling of ink on the page, be the last thing my fingertips will feel. the smell of paper and secrets, invading my senses and welcoming me home at last.
Would I go to the school that has hallways I have haunted? having drifted through them, my eyes empty and my brain always too full with all those thoughts. stopping in the classes to whisper a few final goodbyes even though nobody would notice or hear me pausing the disorder and energy in those hallways, for just a few moments, finally letting myself take it all in.
would I go to the forest wherein the deepest part I could lie on its soft grass floor, in the utter calm of it letting my lungs finally breathe in the crisp air, the feeling of its coldness expanding within them. closing my eyes for the last time, finally letting myself feel at peace and safe, hearing the bird's singing floating around me, their cries being the last thing I will ever hear.
My last words will be uttered so softly that not even the wind would hear them, when they escape this prison of my mind, floating away with my final exhale. My last breath will flow out feeling free for the first time, escaping into the world seeing it all.
i love you
I have loved you since We were young. barely old enough to even understand what love even was. the feeling of pure and utter devotion I had felt for you before I fully realized How much love would ruin me. How much it would kill me Tearing me apart, never letting me go Stealing away my heart, never giving it back
be proud
You tell me to SPEAK UP. To be "proud of my words" Let them out into the world. Stand behind them, ready to defend them with my life. And my entire being and soul
but how am I supposed to be "proud" of my words when I haven't even learned how to be proud of my self
how am I supposed to be "proud" Of these words I say. When I've learned that they don't even matter They get shot down and ignored. Before they even got the chance to be spoken.
How am I supposed to be "proud" when I've seen how you react To the thoughts, I've put out. Putting my heart and soul into them and then getting to watch you kill them
Reblogging for the everything
The Last Words Of 25 Famous Dead Writers
When you’ve dedicated your life to words, it’s important to go out eloquently.
Ernest Hemingway: “Goodnight my kitten.” Spoken to his wife before he killed himself.
Jane Austen: “I want nothing but death.” In response to her sister, Cassandra, who was asking her if she wanted anything.
J.M Barrie: “I can’t sleep.”
L. Frank Baum: “Now I can cross the shifting sands.”
Edgar Allan Poe: “Lord help my poor soul.”
Thomas Hobbes: “I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap into the dark,”
Alfred Jarry: “I am dying…please, bring me a toothpick.”
Hunter S. Thompson: “Relax — this won’t hurt.”
Henrik Ibsen: “On the contrary!”
Anton Chekhov: “I haven’t had champagne for a long time.”
Mark Twain: “Good bye. If we meet—” Spoken to his daughter Clara.
Louisa May Alcott: “Is it not meningitis?” Alcott did not have meningitis, though she believed it to be so. She died from mercury poison.
Jean Cocteau: “Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking towards me, without hurrying.”
Washington Irving: “I have to set my pillows one more night, when will this end already?”
Leo Tolstoy: “But the peasants…how do the peasants die?”
Hans Christian Andersen: “Don’t ask me how I am! I understand nothing more.”
Charles Dickens: “On the ground!” He suffered a stroke outside his home and was asking to be laid on the ground.
H.G. Wells: “Go away! I’m all right.” He didn’t know he was dying.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: “More light.”
W.C. Fields: “Goddamn the whole fucking world and everyone in it except you, Carlotta!” “Carlotta” was Carlotta Monti, actress and his mistress.
Voltaire: “Now, now, my good man, this is no time for making enemies.” When asked by a priest to renounce Satan.
Dylan Thomas: “I’ve had 18 straight whiskies…I think that’s the record.”
George Bernard Shaw: “Dying is easy, comedy is hard.”
Henry David Thoreau: “Moose…Indian.”
James Joyce: “Does nobody understand?”
In-between calling you my moon, and admitting that you are my muse.
I just love these pictures of Sylvia Plath. ❤️
The Poet's Corner Window at Westminster Abbey, designed by Graham Jones, with diamonds for Alexander Pope, Oscar Wilde, Christopher Marlowe, Elizabeth Gaskell, Robert Herrick, A.E. Housman, and Frances Burney (descending, left then right)
In The White Goddess, Robert Graves quotes an old Irish triad as saying, “It is death to mock a poet, to love a poet, to be a poet”. As a source of information, Robert Graves is slightly more reliable than Sir Breuse Sans Pitie, and while I’ve seen references to this triad elsewhere, I can’t find an original source for it. Regardless of that, I rather like it.
(From Athletics and Manly Sport by John Boyle O'Reilly)
Words to live by: Fear Celtic Poets
From “Buarth Beird” in The Book of Taliesin
(Marged Haycock’s translation, second edition)
(From Athletics and Manly Sport by John Boyle O'Reilly)
Words to live by: Fear Celtic Poets
𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓹𝓮 𝓓𝓲𝓮𝓶🕯
"My words will either attract a strong mind or offend a weak one."
The reaper of the dark.
Slick black hair. Shiny eyes. I see a god standing right infront of my eyes. But the tux is stained with blood from his veins . Make it stop or let him cry. Scream for help but he wont let you try. Hes a murderer of thoughts and the jailer of your mind. A sexy man with a terrible mind.
"the despair of an idealism that you can't attain" aaaaaaaah, i am so dead
"I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because 'romantic' doesn't mean sugary' It's dark and tormented - the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can't attain."
- Catherine Breillat
And they blossomed🌷
Most and realest, almost seen and touched.
i keep crying
i keep crying at the littlest things, and i cry that i do that to myself. i let every little thing tear me down and break me until i feel like i'm worth nothing. but who do i have if i keep making these walls so my feelings don't get hurt. who do i have if i can't let myself experience anything?
i don't know. who DO i have? if i can't even believe in myself or anyone to not make me cry. and then again it's all me, always me and my feelings that i feel too heavily.
some days
some days i get so lonely, but i also get so tired from saying hello. so i stare at the wall. the nice, blank, non-talkative wall. and it stares back at me. shining the sun in its reflection, letting the moon take its color. and days pass by. and still, i sit there staring at the wall. waiting, watching, my life pass me by.
so there i remain. staring at a wall that won't hurt my feelings, won't say i'm not enough, and won't take me for granted.
Everyday
Today my mom asked me why I haven’t eaten all day. This cycle goes on everyday.
Today my dad asked me why I didn’t want to eat all day. This question gets asked everyday.
Today my sister knocked on my door, dragged me out of bed, and asked me why I haven’t moved all day. This happens everyday.
Maybe I’m broken. No, I know the choices I made have been decided.
Maybe I’m frozen. No, I know the world is still moving on without me.
I don’t eat because I want to be pretty. The answer is simple really— I sit in my room staring at my wall because I simply don’t want to exist anymore. And some part of me hopes that one less meal means one less day of my life. I linger for just one day where I don't feel terrible anymore.
I don’t move because I don’t want to get hurt, I don’t say anything because I’m afraid of being a bother. I see the way people ignore my eyes, see my smile and think, "oh they’re fine." I hear the way people are afraid to ask how I’m doing. I hear the way they fumble their words of reassurance. I can see their schedules filled with plans that don’t include me. Or maybe— it's all in my head again & people don't hate me, I do.
So here I sit, staring at the wall, hoping that maybe tomorrow isn’t like everyday.
A thank you letter to my sisters
Today you knocked on my door, and dragged me out of bed. You placed my cat in my arms, hoping I’d feel comfort instead of dread. It helped, for awhile, until you made me breakfast and coffee past noon. I yawned and cried, and you held my hand as I sobbed.
I gave you knives, scissors, & tweezers to place away for awhile. Telling you I can’t see them or I’ll harm myself & be hostile.
We’ve have our moments, and for them I am sorry. But I know if I fall I’ll always have my sister to catch me & carry.
Sisterhood is sacred, honest, & true. And forever may I be grateful of being blessed by you.
When I fainted, you placed me in bath water, & picked up my frail body off the floor. Heartbroken that the path towards healing was one that would feel evermore.
I remember when we were little and you would cover my ears with headphones, the vinyls playing loudly to fade out the screaming outside our doors. Playing games with me in the middle of the night while our parents roamed the streets looking for our missing brother. When I would get nightmares and you would share your half of the bed. When we had a fridge more than half empty and you would half a raw ramen and we would bite into them as they tasted like lead. When we would hide in the closet as they screamed at us to behave or they’d knock us out dead. When you reminded me to hold my pride as men would prey on me, praying we’d seek our revenge. When you handed me my favorite trinket as the ambulance took me away, holding my hand, & telling me I’ll be okay.
Many times have I failed finding sisterhood in others— and never does it touch the same. The lack of compassion is jarring, nothing can compare, or even aim.
There are too many who do not understand, the beauty of sisterhood & the chaos in its wonderland.
For my sisters I am grateful. Forever & ever.
May I try to live another day, just for my sisters.
Why am I the exception?
I should’ve seen it from the start, perhaps I was always a henchman sent to do your biddings. but when it came to my knees being scraped, I got up on my own. I covered my cuts with bandages I found used on the side of the road. or maybe I was seeking comfort in places where I shouldn't have. I always do this. I'm so naive. I wish I didn't fall for every nicety. Sometimes I wish I was meaner. But it hurts me to be mean, and it hurts to be nice to myself too.
I feel like everyone hates me
I feel like everyone hates me, I know it's in my head. Or maybe it's just the fact I've been boiling inside with anger bright as red. Or maybe it's a hidden animosity, where I tried so hard to be liked, that from the start it was set up for failure because I shifted myself outright. Maybe if I was louder they'd like me more? Maybe if I had more followers they'd think I was worth keeping around? Maybe if I was prettier they'd think I wasn't worth comparing? Maybe if I kept my tears quiet I wouldn't be so annoying? I'm sorry. I hope it's all in my head.
I walk underneath your shadow
no matter where I walk it's under your shadow. right beneath yours, intertwined. I don't know whether to be grateful or not. whether or not it's something I need. but on days where I need your shadow to keep me away from the sun, you walk a little farther, never there when I need it most. these days it seems that through distance, as you walk each step a little faster and farther, I can no longer feel your warmth. and your shadow has been making me feel colder. so maybe it's time to just stop moving and let your shadow walk alone. because I think I'm ready for this shadow to finally be my own.
I have an issue with facing things head on
I have an issue with facing things head on, with sitting down and telling myself… okay this is what you do. I used to be good at it. I used to be the one people would go to when they needed a whole spreadsheet on what to do, on what classes to take, on what goals to set up for themselves. But something about UCLA drained me, even if it was just two years. It sucked what soul I had left. It stole my youthful energy, my aspirations of who I wanted to be, of my hope, my dreams, and most definitely my spirit. I thrived there, yes I did, but at the cost of my sanity. Everyday I walked those halls I could feel the pressure crippling me down to my core. My feet crumbling beneath me and my sense of self slowly being overshadowed by the ideals of an institution overthrown with wh!te supremacy. Unfortunately, it led me to the darkest pits I could feel in my bones. I wanted to fade away and never exist. Maybe it was my fault, a young girl moving to the big city in hopes of finally being free. Maybe it was all my fault that I never paced myself. Maybe it truly was all my fault, after the world shut down for a couple years I finally saw hope to escape, hope that masqueraded underneath a veil of thief. I won’t be ungrateful for being able to experience what I have, meet some amazing brilliant minds, but also I won’t be ever truly so blind to say this place didn’t leave me with the most of scars. Or maybe, this place exposed the scars that I thought I had already healed from. “I wish I did this differently, I wish I did that differently.” No. I did my best everyday, actually. I did what I never thought possible, actually. I’ve been working so hard to be where I am right now since I was a young teenage girl, so why… So why do I still feel— like a failure? Will this feeling ever go away? I’m so close to the finish line, yet my energy to keep running is gone, and I hate myself for it.
And I'm sick of kissing you in my head, when can it be real instead?
k.b. // avery lynch - all i need