I wrote a poem about you once.
I was lonely one Tuesday night,
And instead of going straight to having conversations with the cracks in the walls or the creaks in my bones
I decided to pour the thoughts of you into ink
And immortalize you on paper instead.
You see, there’s a saying I read once that claimed that if a writer falls in love with you,
Then you could never die.
And if that’s true, love, then you’ll live on forever
Because I lied just now.
I didn’t write a single poem about you.
You are the kind of person who can’t ft into one poem.
You, you are worth odysseys, and stories, and grand myths
I could write novels about how your name fills my lungs like smoke.
And how my pulse seems to scream when your mouth hangs like a crooked painting.
I could write novels about how my hands will always search for yours in complete darkness, how you seemed to split open my heart
And I can’t stop the hemorrhaging of affection as it runs red rivers towards my fingertips.
My love, my dearest, my friend,
I could write hundreds of novels about you.
Just…You. And you’re magic ability to make me feel like my pieces aren’t just stitched up with trite promises and scotch tape.
This novel isn’t the biggest, and it won’t affect thousands of people,
But I’ll tell you right now that it affected me a thousands different ways.
A thousand different times.
—  maddyttotNovels

Reality is just a temporary concept, it can and will be altered continuously. However, nothing will ever change if we commit to the boundaries of conditioned reality. We unconsciously delude ourselves into believing that we need these boundaries, because we cannot control our brain’s basic need to order the universe. We have to become conscious of this mental state and its limitations by realizing that the universe can never be contained in concepts or theories.

We, as a conscious species, foolishly believe that we are done evolving. Therefore we grow slower than we are capable of. In our arrogance we deny truths unseen, for we cannot control that which we cannot signify. In fact we bluntly refuse to understand that which cannot be measured or seen. Ethereal information lacks the possibility of immediate personal gain, and therefore we dub it utterly unimportant.

We choose to believe we are finite, though we bask in the universe’s infinity. We are starting to grasp the concept of the relativity of time and space, but we choose to be blinded by temporary (and personal) gain. Mankind is the only species sabotaging its own evolution, it’s time to get our priorities straight. Our possibilities are only limited by our self-inflicted boundaries, caused by mortality’s fear and our refusal to adjust our actions to long term benefits for our envirement and our species.

Reality is a flexible concept, it is we who have become rigid.


Love As The Stars Went Out

Poems from my new poetry anthology! Out Now!

A collection of poetry from the end of the world. Poems of love, feeling and emotion, the collection encompasses all of life, and even beyond. Simple and elegant, the book contains all the poetry of existence.

Amazon.com Paperback - Amazon.com Kindle - Lulu Publishers - Amazon.co.uk Paperback - Amazon.co.uk Kindle - Amazon.de Paperback - Amazon.de Kindle - Signed Direct from Author - Full List of Availability


There is a point in the night
where it all gets boring
Where all faces begin to look alike,
no matter how many times you refresh.
I’m tired of it.
Creating more out of what
shows itself as less.
Hovering over the “deactivate” button again and again.
After awhile all conversations sound the same.
All topics are recycled.
All endings are reused.
And I’m bored of it
I’m bored I’m bored I’m bored

Are you?

—  RU2?, Lora Mathis
who you should fight: augustan age edition

augustus: he’s the FRICKIN PRINCEPS he’ll kick your ass and then ask his poet friends to write an epic poem about it

agrippa: do you hate urself

maecenas: sure, you could fight him, but keep in mind he’s friends with the princeps. and agrippa. and horace. do you still want to fight maecenas?

varus: he will never give your legions back. don’t


horace: he can hold grudges for the longest time and he’ll fuck you up with his super angry iambs if you piss him off. 10/10 would not recommend 

ovid: fight him bc he a sneaky fuckboy ante litteram but also love him bc he a precious cherub baby

livy: fight him. destroy him. kick his ass back to the res publica times you have a big chance to succeed

Feelings rushing,
feelings flowing
What are feelings?
Are they knowing?
Are they singing, dancing, playing?
Are they seeing, tasting, praying?
What are feelings? 
Mad or sad?
What are feelings?
Good or bad?
What are feelings?
Do you know?
Do they stay,
or do they go?
—  What Are Feelings?, Sarah Marie Pardy

As some of you may know, when I was younger I won a poetry contest and had a poem published into “The Silent Journey” poetry book. This is the poem that won that, and I was about thirteen when I wrote it, I believe. Pretty basic poem, but I sure wish I could write with that type of ease again.

anonymous asked:

So I've been editing something of mine recently. It's been proceeding fairly well, but I've run into a stumbling block at the moment. Nothing I do seems to be good enough. This is the third edit since finishing the initial draft, and it feels like beating my head against a wall at this point. My question is this: I've received conflicting advice on how to deal with this - step away and have a break, or push on and endure. As somebody whose opinion I respect, what would you suggest?

When I hit an editing roadblock, it’s usually because I don’t know what I’m actually trying to achieve with the edit. “Make this thing better” isn’t specific enough – that leads you to endlessly fiddle. You need a goal for your editing before you head back in, the same way the piece itself has a goal for being a cool story or a powerful essay or a gut-stabbing poem. Stepping away for a short while can help – let the frustrated emotions settle, reflect again on what you liked about the piece in the first place, and then attack it with your fresh goal in mind.

Your editing goal is a specific strategy to make it the best at what it’s trying to be. What is the central thing the character is trying to do? What bones need to be there to hold the piece up? What’s the part that’s working the best, and what’s diluting the whole thing? What’s the part that makes it fun and kickass to you, that makes it the kind of thing you’d want to read? How does every sentence do its job toward emphasizing that feeling? Are there parts that are dull or overcomplicated or “expected” that can be sharpened or sliced out entirely?

Sometimes I think of it this way: If you were to treat the draft as a friend’s piece, who was entrusting their writing to your capable hands, what would you do to it so they could be proud of it once you were done?

The editing process is one of the toughest tests of writing discipline. It means hacking and hacking until your sword is dull, and then finding an axe and trying that instead. If you’re tired, rest. But as you rest, let your mind find your editing goal, your battle plan for what needs to be done, and let that guide you in your next pass. Good luck, writer!

You make me want to write love poems… and at the same time, swallow my metaphors until my stomach doesn’t know the difference between actual nerves and butterflies fluttering their wings nervously along my insides. Since the riots subsided, the paychecks didn’t stop coming, and sex became a complacent chore, I found myself having forgotten how to write poetry. Looking at stanzas tucked underneath people’s eyes, watching the wind literally unfold poems into the air, I had forgotten how to use my hands, my tongue. I had not lost the poetry in my eyes, but I had forgotten how to write. Forgotten what my voice tasted like in other people’s mouths as they recited my words back to themselves. But when I rolled over at 7 a.m. this morning– this morning which smelled of wet dream dew on the grass while the sky hung with apathetic clouds late to rise– this morning, when I rolled over to the delicate scent of your wild hair in my face, your soft like mother’s cocoa butter hands on my cheek, your rose petal lips against mine in between the opening and closing of our eyes as we drifted back to sleep– I remembered what poetry felt like. Poetry I could put my hands on, bury my face in, inhale, exhale, it breathed. It moved. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t want the morning to escape from us. Because for the first time, since the hot, black blood-soaked summer of last, I remembered not just what poetry looked like, but felt like. For the first time, I felt eager, and at the same time, shy with tenderness to taste the sound of my words in your mouth after I read them to you, naked, arms, legs, intertwined, under love stained covers, below the city-stirred, moon-drenched sky that so invitingly draped itself across your window, like a goodnight tuck. See? Look at you. Making me write love poems laced with wet metaphors, hanging from my mouth, wanting to be written. Look at you, half awake, whole heartedly alive, staining poetry on my bare lips, reminding me, on a dreary, humdrum morning in May, how to write again.
—  May Prose (revised), v.n.


Heroes without Costumes presents these open mic pocket events for everyone to participate and perform, meet other spoken word artists, and help the Payatas kids studying at the informal school known as Paaralang Pantao!

Everybody is welcome to attend. Everyone is welcome to perform as well. Everyone is welcome to donate school supplies or anything you want to for the kids!

So, if you want to perform, listen to artists or donate, see you on the following dates for spoken word open mic events on Quezon City and Manila:

June 5, 7:00 p.m.
Entrance Fee: 130 PHP with free milk tea

June 6, 1:00 p.m.
Free! Guerilla poetry so see you around the streets!

June 12, 7:00 p.m.
Entrance Fee: 99 PHP with free coffee/beer

So, bring all your thoughts, songs, poems or anything and perform on the above dates! Don’t forget to bring a passionate heart to the kids as well! :)

And on June 12, we will be visiting Paaralang Pantao together with all the donations we will be able to garner from the open mics! Everyone is welcome to attend as well as long as you have yourself reserved!

So guys, whether you love spoken word or you just want to help, see you around!

For questions, you can send your queries on our page or contact us at 09178408501 or 09177406293. You can reserve via these numbers as well. Spread the word! Thanks!

Close by the river, Algy discovered a large swathe of wild bluebells, just coming into flower. He found a perch in the middle of the fragrant blue carpet and sat there very quietly, just listening to the spring sounds of the woodlands. There were many birds singing in the trees, and he was reminded of a poem by Yeats:

I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart.  I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,
Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am contented, for I know that Quiet
Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,
Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee.

[Algy is quoting the poem In the Seven Woods - the opening verse in the book of the same name - by the late 19th/early 20th century Irish poet William Butler Yeats.]