From your secret admirer part 9 ( i wrote you into...
I needed a boy to admire some lucky thing to covet so I did what I always did when I had extra time wired from too much caffeine and not enough sleep too listless to unwind and my fingers had their own ideas in mind. I wrote you into life the boy I always liked your lips are soft and sweet like melon when I kiss them in my head ...
I needed a boy to admire some lucky thing to covet so I did what I always did when I have extra time and an idea in mind. I wrote you into life.
From your secret admirer part 8 (the siren)
Fingers soft like honeysuckle beckon you to join the swollen roots getting lost up the crawl of the fence exploding in the tangle birthing an exotic species no one can name. Springtime blooms warm your winter bones. Mouth coated in warm milk when you’re sleepy. Hot soup when you’re sick. Refreshing iced tea to replenish your body from all the sweat you have dripped being smothered alive. ...
I want to have a well behaved child with you who never kicks or screams or cries in public. He is grateful for the food provided; the hot water to clean his bottom; the Ninja Turtle nightlight that through the darkness guides him if he has to pee or vomit, or God forbid, the monster’s real and he has to break the midnight silence. And we’ll come running. He’ll be the best little...
fog transforms careful wanderers to wild wanton beasts kindergartners follow them right off the ledge clutching lunch pails and daddy’s ideas about class warfare wipe the crust from your eyes wake up, wake up! God needs you.
That Dude is an Asshole
tastewithyourfingers: I started dating this girl. Her former boyfriend texted me. He asked me how it felt fucking “the used goods” I said, “After the first two inches, feels brand new.” Asshole.
A good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his...– Friedrich Nietzche (via thelittlepyro)
Anonymous asked: Because of the sentence, "I want to leave this circus," listen to this song of a girl I follow --> alicekilledthelights(.)tumblr(.)com/post/25186022198/the-circus-acoustic-this-song-is-for-my-best
riotinreverie: empty again. the endless predicament of dopamine.
The three main thoughts of an addict: ‘Poor me,’ ‘Where’s mine?’ and ‘Fuck you.’– An addict (via hangon2yourself)
I'm going on a picnic
I’m going on a picnic & I’m bringing a bottle of wine that dribbles mind-numbing talk to bond with your mom over pink teeth and salmon puffs & a hidden flask of Jameson to escape from my thoughts about the words that are pouring out my mouth like the lemonade your Dad bought to cool us all down when the alcohol heated our blood to the boiling point like magma planning its...
eyeobserve: when I’m gone my words will live on
writing365: Take drinks on the side, down them as if imbibing magic that will turn your skin the shade of your insides when you lie.
Like/Reblog this if you are a writer.
sevenreasons: You will be added to THIS list where fellow writers can find you.
No more murder detective stories.
dreams-myths-ideals: I’m aching today Shaky, a long way away Still pictures of vintage kisses Tightens my chest Someone that no-one misses I’m a writing mess
Lighting is dim to hide the imperfections of the company we keep. Low-lifes like me, but dressed ok, disguised as people who care how we think how we feel, how we act. Loyal like shelter cats just happy to have a place to lick the dirt from themselves, to rest their claws for a second before they are abandoned for a new leather couch. I’m in the center, quietly trying not to slit my neck...
Skip, spin, grin. Click, flash, repeat. Laugh real loud in your black dress. The one cut real low in the back in the shape of an obtuse triangle; a sharp contrast to the absent angle of your scared straight spine. Don’t waste your bleached teeth on anything less than an audience. Orthodontists paid for with the blood of your parent’s missed vacations. Stand out like your grandmother’s antique...
You’re not a real writer until you absolutely abhor yourself, quickly licking up the unworthy vomit that has spilled out of your mouth.
thestillmidnightpoet: I must wipe your words Off of my skin Before they become tattoos And scar permanent By: Suomia
I submitted my poetry to a journal for the first...
positive thoughts but all I hear em say: this is too long, no way, no way.
Cookies for Breakfast: So a Girl Walks into a... →
breakfastcookie: This is something that happened to a friend of mine in her own words. “So, on Friday night my friend and I were at her house and wanted to get out and do something for the evening. We brainstormed ideas and she brought up the idea of seeing a show at the Laugh Factory. I’d never been, I thought…
bruised-feathers: I like the way you leave permanent traces of your kisses with your teeth on the tendons of my neck, the way you carved my initials on a sycamore tree. I like the way you say it. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. Arrows from the quiver of your lust, strung through the bow of your plundering tongue. I like you because you are sin, and until I met you my skirt hems always fell below my knee and I...
Do any other alcoholics feel ungrateful after one...
Am i fucking cured yet?
The Day of the Menarche
Doorknob smeared with scraps of pink cartilage, she’d been fighting the concrete again. When she got bored tearing off wings of nicer girls’ flying friends, she really gave it to the street. Stabbed at the wounds in seventh period with her broken Bic pen, covered in inerasable scrapes and spite. Lips caked in smirking spit and falling flakes of dried skin. They always tried to wash her...
My higher power and I
seem to be taking a break. Help me Jeebus!
lightsandsparks: Promise to love me until dust carries us apart
My higher power told your higher power to go fuck itself. My higher power said yours can take up residence in a melting hotel in the hottest city of hell. They need a custodian to wash all this wax; the bodies of others who expired worshipping themselves in the reflection of the fires they made to admire their cheekbones in bright orange flame. Love to watch the sweat turn to char...
dearoldlove: Dear old love: I’d like you to be my new love.
inkywings: Like a loaded gun, your whispers perforate more than my skin. They rip at the seams of all I hold to be true and (with just enough darkness hidden in the mouth of the trigger as in the mouth of the whisperer) I am left with weak parentheses guarding each frail end of my life, an afterthought to a once much larger story.
we always come back, the young and in love we always write back. Dear love, I forgot about you. please do not write any more. Sincerely, dying in heat
let the night be our poetry
let us rest our warring eyes and feel the softness of our skin without the smudge of ink on our fingertips to dirty all the meaning
How to raise a family
In accordance with our original plan, you must now take the lives of the lambs you loved to feed your tribe. You must now lick the blood from the knife. Taste the metal and meat you use to feed your wonderful child. How blessed is she to have a place to read and play and be and eat. You have to learn to kill to stay alive.
thestillmidnightpoet: Dear God— Help me I am in love with a man That cannot hear me breathe By: Suomia