Hurt, Being Hurt

Two fists held up, guarding my face
It is a school night, I’m tired
The front door’s open, unhinged
I just want to survive this night

It was my birthday recently
I do not remember my age
My father says he has no son
Something that I knew years ago

My mother on the floor, bleeding
She gets up, runs to the kitchen
He reaches back, big haymaker
I will not hit him, I’m scared to

I brace myself but he falls down
My mother holds an iron pan
He tries to get up, I pin him
Watching as tears dot on his face

[submitted by ericboydblog]

Eric Boyd


My parents and I were at the Carnegie museum. We’d moved to Pittsburgh, from Charolette, less than a year earlier and we were just now beginning to explore the city. There wasn’t much, at ten, that I could enjoy—Pittsburgh has something like twelve bars for every 10,000 people—and the museum was free. Or at least they only asked for a ‘suggested donation’ at the door. Which meant it was free.

        There were many fine paintings. My parents were excited about all of the crap related to the steel industry. Landscapes of smoky mills and portraits of black-dusted men staring out of the canvas. All of them realistic and well-made.

        My father, Daniel, pointed to a large black and white photograph of a man working on a ship. Daniel read a little card next to the picture. “It’s called Ship Worker.”

        I said, “Well duh.”

        Daniel looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “It’s from the War, smartass, and it’s from here. That’s the old Christie Park missile factory. That guy’s working on a destroyer, probably.”

        I had no idea what any of that meant, but I knew that I didn’t care because I didn’t care about any of that. It didn’t make any sense. I could look at that stuff any time. That was the real world and I hated it. That was going to school; that was scraping my knees, being scared of the dark and the woods—which I knew held a witch—surrounding our new house; that was my father’s drinking and my mother pleading with me not to tell anyone about the things that happened at night because it would ‘rock the boat’, whatever that meant. didn’t want to see any of that. I wanted to see dream-things, to escape what I already knew about.

        Those paintings were lies because they made ugly things beautiful for no reason. They weren’t really beautiful, though. They were made to be.

        The rest of the day was like that. When we had gone in the museum it was daytime and when we finally left the sun was nearly gone. My mother held my hand and Daniel walked ahead, turning around every few steps and telling us to hurry up because the Steeler game was about to start. As we left the main lobby, a painting caught my eye.

        “Wait wait wait,” I shouted.

        My mother stopped. “What is it, Fredrick?”

        I broke from her and ran toward the wall the painting hung from. It was long and ran along the top of the entire wall. I read the info card for the painting. It was by someone named Christopher Wool. The painting was plain white with blocky black letters.


        I looked up at it for a long time. It was ugly and I had no idea why it was in a museum with all of the crap I had been looking at all day. Maybe it was there because it didn’t belong there. Something about that was good.

        Daniel watched me staring at the painting and snorted, “I guess they’ll call anything art these days. It’s not even pretty.”

        “That’s why I like it,” I smiled.

        It was beautiful because it wasn’t beautiful and never tried to be.

        Many things made sense just then.

This is the second in a series of posts where we asked tumblr writers to make something based on one photo. Today’s post was done by Eric Boyd; last weeks was by Erica D Price. Look for another guest post next Friday.


ERICBOYDBLOG IS FOLLOWING ME. BY IS FOLLOWING ME I MEAN HAS BEEN FOR SOME TIME. HOW WAS I NOT AWARE OF THIS. Dear followers, let me tell you: Eric Boyd has a beautifully literary mind. He writes prose and short stories and poems (probably more but I don’t want to make false statements). I was perusing the poetry tag when I found this guy. He writes these 6 word poems based on asks from his followers which just make me wish I could have lunch with him to see how his mind works. I came for the 6 word poems, which intrigued me, and stayed for all of the writing. His short stories are good, and his prose is good, too. Sometimes he even posts an audio clip of himself reading his work and this guy sounds like he’s from, like, the 1920s! At least it does to me, his voice was so cool to listen to when I heard him read the first time. I feel like when people are saying “senpai has noticed me” because senpai has indeed, noticed me. Now, go check out because he rocks and you won’t regret it!

The Opposite of a Message in a Bottle

The waves you sent to me are rotting my teeth to the core.
The post dropped them on my doorstep,
ribbons trembling, stamps peeling,
and I wanted so badly to stop their endless roaring
but they worked their way between my teeth like taffy made of saltwater and sand.

I hate to tell you, but loving your words is tiring.
The tension separating your lion heart from my birdcaged lips is breaking; I can hear it flooding down the halls, and baby it is electric.
It’s wrapped in cellophane that mirrors the way water casts shadows on the ocean floor

And it’s the kind of beautiful that if you don’t watch it;
If you don’t notice the hands behind it’s back;
It will take you straight down to the bottom of the line
and Dear,
the water is so heavy there.

- Art-not-Logic

When I get new followers, usually I like to check out their blog - if anything, just to figure out what it is that we have in common that made them hit the ‘follow’ button.

So I got a few new followers in the last couple of days, and I go and check out ericboydblog. I’d never heard of Eric Boyd before now, but i’ve been scrolling through his blog for the better part of an hour now and I am in love with his six word poems and his prose and just…aahhh!

I’m on the verge of hyperventilating because I can’t figure out why he’s following me…he’s so amazing. 

So to my other followers - You need to check out ericboydblog. Oh what’s that? I already linked to it? Too bad, here it is AGAIN. And once more, just to be safe.

And to Eric - hello you c: 

  • Untitled
  • Kenji Khozoei, reading by Eric Boyd

I woke up to my mother telling me there was another terrorist attack
and I said “where”
like it made a difference
then fell back asleep.

(Just let me keep dreaming,
just let me keep dreaming,
just let me keep dreaming.)

An eight year old boy has dreams, too;
he might dream of fields and footballs 
or Batman and Robin 
or dancing on stages
and making his mother proud.

(Just let him keep dreaming, 
just let him keep dreaming, 
just let him keep dreaming.)

This isn’t even a poem,
there is just a lump in my throat
and I’ve swallowed enough tumors
to forget my sickness,
steel shells of irony
like of course there was another terrorist attack,

(Maybe we’re all still dreaming, 
maybe we’re all still dreaming, 
maybe we’re all still dreaming.)

Images of open skulls
and pavements stained with blood
like final words graffitied upon
the walls of our conscience,
curved spines weighed beneath
grey skies soaked in tears
but even clouds of smoke
have their silver lining,
the stories of heroes
and of love and of courage
buried under the rubble
of a civilisation that is accustomed to

There is more good than evil in this world.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that
and sometimes it’s just so painful to be reminded.

(Maybe I’ll always dream, 
maybe he’ll always dream, 
maybe we’ll always dream.)


So this poem that I wrote got read out on RadioTWC by Erid Boyd, which is super exciting and also quite humbling. Hearing someone else’s voice read and interpret your own writing is really cool and it also makes me want to start doing my own poetry readings.

Anyway, big thanks to Eric for doing this!

"If We Don't Fear Ourselves, Who?" - Eric Boyd (2 of 5)

Jacket - Zara Men// Gloves - Zara// Crop Top- F21// Bottom- Vintage Levis//Heels - Jeffrey Campbell 

This post is dedicated to these words -

"If we 
don’t fear 
, who?”
- Eric Boyd (source)

We are taught to be scared of strangers, unfamiliar alleys, politicians, and bears. But, who we really should be scared of is ourselves and all the things our hands are capable of constructing and the ideas our minds are capable of forging. Think of all the wonders…

As Neck Breakers, we create images worth noticing, conversations worth spreading.

How does this poem speak to you?

Photos by Faraz Nischal Photography


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Take back the feature

Hmm, that wasn’t an easy thing to do but here goes:

1.Favorite prose:

      ode to having a moderate touch of mental illness, by processproduct

 It really offers an interesting and new perspective on the matter.

2.Favorite spoken word:

      blind dog, by eric boyd

 Listen to it and you’ll know why it’s in this list.

3.Favorite poet:

      loqui            I can’t give you a title

    all my favorites from him have been featured, I’m sorry dudes!

4.Umm, and here are two by me (I can’t narrow it down any further)


     Dystopian worlds