What Resembles the Grave but Isn’t

by Anne Boyer

Always falling into a hole, then saying “ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying “ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying “this is not your grave, get out of the hole”; sometimes being pushed, saying “you can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,” and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying “this is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,” all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually; sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole there’s just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplating the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying “look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t!”

reblog or reply with your love song. you know, the one that you think is what love sounds like

thriftbooks better world books half-price books wonder book pangobooks libgen archive.org ubuweb kanopy (library card required; free) tubi pluto tv

storygraph

abebooks, book depository, and goodreads are all owned my amazon.

source

@el-huddpudd for your poetry tag 💜

This is the prompt btw

[ID 1: tweet from Joseph Fasano @/Joseph_Fasano_ reading "Oh my god ❤️❤️" in response to a pic he shared. pic is an email from a fan which reads,

"Dear Mr. Fasano,

I came across the poetry prompt you designed for little children to express themselves with poetry, and I gave it to my 95-year-old mother, who has been struggling to express herself through dementia. This is what she wrote (Peter is the name of my late father):

My name is Dorothy. Today I feel like the room where we get to play Scrabble forever. Sometimes I am a cactus. Sometimes I am my children. But always I am hopeful. I ask the world, "Where will I see Peter again?" and the answer is the room where we get to play Scrabble forever.

Thank you for what you do, [name removed.]"

ID 2: the original prompt which reads,

"My Poem (Title)

My name is (name). Today I feel like a/an (adjective) (noun) (verb)ing in the (noun). Sometimes I am a/an (noun). Sometimes I am a/an (noun). But always I am (adjective). I ask the world, "question?" And the answer is a/an (repeat your words from line 2)."

In the left corner of the image is the credit, "Writing prompt by Joseph Fasano"

/end ID]

these new bots are NOT OK. Them having actual tumblr names is giving me psychic damage. I feel like curling up in a corner and crying.

yesterday "remainingforefinger" followed me and the fact that this ISN'T a nonbinary autist from Poland who works as a dentist's assistant, but A BOT, makes me want to SCREAM.

Pour one out for this choice bot url

idk who needs to hear this rn but suffering is not noble. take the tylenol

One time when I was younger I was refusing to take headache medicine and my mom said “the person who invented that medicine is probably so sad you won’t let them help you” and now every time I find myself denying medicine I just imagine the saddest scientist making those big wet eyes like “why won’t you let me help” and whoop then I take the medicine

scientist when you don't take the medicine they developed to help your pain

i miss when bots had urls like "jenny0047194" or "s8znmia802ng". i just blocked one with the url "evilpond" and i think it is really fucked up that they are able to take these wonderful urls away from all of the real people who might want them

this is a crime. all of these should be homestuck artists and deranged shitposters. people are starving.

Made an observation from looking at you all talking about your teenage experiences.

(if you're in this picture multiple times then congrats you get extra swords)

Put your height in the tags

100% agree

We should piss on the poor

How dare you say that reading comprehension on this site is piss poor

to be fair this is the only thing protecting us from Do You Love The Colour Of The Poll

you don’t talk too much. you aren’t too loud. you aren’t too needy. you aren’t too sensitive. you aren’t too this, or that. you aren’t too much anything. you will never be too much: you are you, and you are allowed to take up space. you are allowed to exist however you choose.

three years ago today, a new me was born

me, at 2 pm, when the stores are open: you don't have any little treats in the house. if you want a little treat later, you have to go to the store and buy one now.

me: *does not go to the store*

me, at 9 pm, when the stores are closed: tweat? 🥺 no tweats for me? 🥺🥺 cries 🥺 cries for one thousand years 🥺🥺🥺

Instructions on Not Giving Up

by Ada Limón

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me. When all the shock of white and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath, the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then, I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

One of my first failed relationships taught me the vital lesson that when you allow things to fester, every conversation becomes a confrontation.

I have become an expert at talking about how I feel immediately when I feel things because I learned that not addressing things immediately meant that when it all finally bubbled over, it was like a flood rather than a trickle.

Do yourself a favor. Learn how to talk about how you feel

— Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz’s advice for aspiring writers, as told to Maryann Yin for Galleycat