a poem i wrote last year

She was gripping that bottle so tight, like it was the last thing she’d ever hold onto, “I saw him today for the first time in a year,” she said, “I saw him today for the first time in a year and he was with another girl.”

I just looked at her and stared at those tears rolling down her cheeks, there was nothing you could say or do to change the fact that he had moved on and she hadn’t.

She broke the silence again, but this time with a little chuckle, “he picked her and not me, he always picked her over me, but I’d pick him in a heartbeat you know. After it all, after everything he’s done to me, I’d still pick him,” she stopped, “I guess some things just never change.”

And with that she was gripped that bottle so tight, like it was the last thing she’d ever hold onto, because that bottle was him.

—  c.f. // “she never had a thing for a beer until she met you”
The last time I wrote a poem that ended up being a song, I was writing in my journal and I was writing about something that had happened in my life - it was about a year ago - and I just wrote this really really short poem, it said “This love is good / this love is bad / this love is alive back from the dead / these hands had to let it go free / and this love came back to me” and I just wrote it down and closed the book and put it back on my night stand [and I was like] “meh that was fun, short little poem” and then all of a sudden in my head I just started hearing this melody happen and then I realised that it was going to be a song
—  Taylor Swift (x)

I know I’m late in posting this but here’s my imbolc spread in my bullet journal :D making it was part of my celebration. I wrote down rituals to do, my goals for the coming year, and I wrote a short poem for imbolc that goes like this:

the darkest nights
have come to pass
the softest morns
awake at last
and as the sun
comes closer still
we will shed our winter chill

with the snow
our worries fade
and promises
anew are made
and as the green
returns to earth
so will we unfurl our worth

the day is ours
the nights are too
all for me
and all for you
and as the forest
awakens soon
we must also
blaze and bloom

the quote on the left page is by Rainer Maria Rilke and it says, “and now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been.” and underneath it is the sigil I made for a good year. :)

For this year, I wish you courage and strength. Courage to go after whatever you wanted to last year, but failed to do so. The strength to walk away or stand up to whatever that made you so afraid.
— 

-Break the cycle and start something new this year.

-m.t.t.

Eight Years

I’m scrubbing at the words I wrote when I lost you
Carved into my palm are hours of pain from minutes of mistakes
I try and remind myself that bad days happen
But this bad day has lasted eight years already
And these words are so deep I can see bone wilting
And no amount of scrubbing will heal my scars
I must let it sit
Try and forget
Remember who we are

akemasthebird  asked:

are you an artist (writer,musician,dancer,draw)?

Sometimes I doodle and draw, but mostly I write. I am a writer. I used to write poems when I was younger, but nowadays I’m only working on one thing - my debut novel (actually, who knows it’ll ever debut, but I’m hoping it will).

(I wrote this when I was a moody teenager - my pen name used to be Lux Permanet which is Latin for ‘light remains’)

I drew this in high school

I painted these three a while back

I doodled my friend last year

and I did this masterpiece the same day

I’m pretty decent in Photoshop, you learn while you live and I could be better - I shopped my friend as the new Kinder Chocolate boy as a joke

I also “designed” this shirt and apparently people actually wanted to buy it? 

sometimes I also take photos which aren’t completely bad?

I guess you could say I’m a Jack-of-all-trades (but master of none!!!)

Lord Byron wrote his last poem on this day

On this day (22 January) in 1824, Byron wrote “On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year,” his last poem. He had arrived at Missolonghi three weeks earlier, taking command of his “army of liberation” which would free Greece from the Turks. But he died of fever on 19 April, after railing against incompetent doctors who literally bled him to death.

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year

‘Tis time the heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze–
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But ’tis not thus–and ’tis not here–
Such thoughts should shake my soul nor now,
Where glory decks the hero’s bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece–she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!–unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett’st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:–up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out–less often sought than found–
A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

When I was little
I picked a flower
and put it in a vase.
After a few days, it died.
I asked my mom why,
she said: “You can’t force
a flower to thrive somewhere
it doesn’t belong to.”

And now I have realized that
people are like that too.

—  Flower, S.T.
  • Isabel: Elena, remember last year when I built that model wind tower for you and you wrote those poems for me?
  • Elena: And you said you'd never switch homework assignments with me again.
  • Isabel: For good reason. My teacher had a hard time believing I wrote "Tra-la the joy of tulips blooming, Ha-ha the thrill of bumblebees zooming. I'm alive and I dance, I'm alive though death is always looming." When I finally convinced her that I had, she asked me if I needed to talk to the school counselor.

did you paint the galaxies by yourself?
you always look at them as if you did;
all trembling hands and stardust filled eyes,
constellations dripping from bloody lips.
they are all the emptiness in your lungs
and the love, like monsters, splitting our bones

but you can’t make a home in someone’s bones,
nor can you steal their breath to warm yourself,
can’t burrow into their own empty lungs
i fear the consequences if you did
you’ll leave a ghost’s whisper behind your lips
and find yourself trapped behind monster eyes

your own monsters are hiding in your eyes
as pale as a ghost, made of only bones
and white lies that sit behind your lips
but is it possible to fear yourself?
i thought it ridiculous, but you did
the fear leaves you gasping with empty lungs

you tried to fill it with fire in your lungs
and lightning reflected in your glass eyes
yet it seemed that no matter what you did,
the desperation seeping into your bones,
you would end up crumbled in on yourself
with lonely cries escaping those pale lips

the taste of iron coats your salty lips
the blood is mine, it floods into your lungs
leaves you slowly drowning within yourself
and the stars reflect in your monster eyes
like lighthouses guiding home your bones
you wanted them to believe, so they did

they believed all the lies, and they’ll ask - did
you ever think to clean those bloody lips?
or to stitch the monsters into your split bones?
now everyone can see your punctured lungs
and the stardust fell from your tired eyes,
left you an outcast car crash by yourself

you painted the galaxies by yourself
stars shining like lighthouses in your eyes
while embers burn bright in your ashen lungs

what it’s like to live with seasonal depression
right before your peak month

at 7am last morning my body broke into sobs
because i could taste the toothpaste on the roof of my mouth
and knew in a month i won’t be able to anymore


what it’s like to live with four bodies
one for each season


i am a blind woman given sight each year
in echoing rays of sunshine and beaming laughs
in the ability to breathe and speak and eat
as if my limbs move without protest and my poems —
they exist only etched into the redwoods
as if every life movement contains purpose


what it’s like to believe
you can extend your lifeline from june


so i tell myself
every year you get better
but a diary entry from last march reads
“i am being held captive in eternal february”
fourteen times consecutively  
and god only knows what i wrote on the torn-out pages
i burnt into ashes out of shame


what it’s like to count 28 days
while you swallow paper cuts
what it’s like to tell your mother
you need therapy again every year
what it’s like to lose your body
to a page in your calendar


what it’s like:
we eat and we sleep and we try to breathe
we write and we speak and
(we really do try)


and it will swallow me whole
anyways

—  for my birthday i would like operative body parts
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,
And men were gather’d round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d
And twin’d themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer’d not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak’d up,
And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other’s aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
—  “Darkness”, Lord Byron, July 1816 (The Year Without a Summer)
A Poem, I Guess

I found this poem I wrote last year, and I don’t hate it. So, here we go.

Eyes blink open, consciousness begins
Mother calls me daughter, her little girl
That feels wrong, I tell her quietly
“I thought… I’m a boy.”
Mother laughs and rolls her eyes
Calls me silly, calls me Gabi
Clips my wings and prevents my flight

Three years, forced into dresses
Pretty, pink, and hellishly ruffly
Kindergarten starts, I tell my teacher
“Mom doesn’t know… I’m a boy.”
Teacher nods and sits me down
By a boy named Alec
He calls me Gabe, my wings ruffle

Five years, sneaking shorts into my bag
Puberty brings disaster, lumps and curves I never wanted.
The doctor says I’m female, I shake my head
“In my heart, I’m a boy.”
The doctor mumbles, confused, concerned
He tells me it’s called transgender
Something inside me lifts

Three years later, I know what I am
A chrysalis waiting to hatch into a butterfly
I tell myself, looking into the mirror
“You always knew it. You’re a boy.”
My reflection finally agrees,
Eyes gleaming with pride, heart soaring.
A binder completes the look.

In the future, there’ll be shots and money saved
An operation, testosterone
Everything will change.
“You did it, Gabe, you’re a man.”
The doctors will say when I wake up
I’ll laugh in my deep voice and tell him
“No, I always was.”

Dream Girl

A poem I wrote years ago, recently rewritten. I call it Dream Girl.


Dream Girl

I fell in love with the girl from my dream last night.
I fell in love with
the way her hair was the color of midnight
the way her curls would have made Shirley Temple jealous
and how they framed her childlike face.
I fell in love with her eyes
the color of dark chocolate
melting through your fingers on
a warm summer day.
I fell in love with
the way she carried herself,
unashamed and unafraid
of whomever happened to look her way.
She looked like a supermodel
captivating
stood with all the confidence in the world
and none of the knowledge of it.
She certainly wasn’t the most beautiful girl
I had ever seen
but in that moment,there were none
who looked as spectacular as she.

She spoke,
and her voice was instantly captivating.
She spoke with such eloquence
such meaning
that all had to stop and listen.
She had the voice of an angel
a sweet alto
and I do not think
she could hear the notes she sang.
I do not think
she realized how her voice was an orchestra
the way she held her words
like she might hold a lover
gently,
deeply,
lovingly.
Every sentence was a verse
each verse, a lyric
and her song
sounded sweeter
than any composer’s symphony.

This girl I found was like me
painfully awkward
and I could tell
in the way she held her hm’s and umm’s
proudly
as if she weren’t trying to hide
her awkwardness
at all.It was not a bad thing,
just who she was
and that
was the reason I fell in love with her:
She knew who
what
why
she was
and she didn’t
try to hide that fact
at all.

In this perfect girl
it seemed
besides some quirky hand motions
and some drawn-out words of hesitance
that she was
flawless,
as beautiful as a real human could be.But under the skirt
of her bikini
were those pale red zigzags
those tiger stripe scars
from times when she thought
she wouldn’t make it out
alive.

And I want to ask her
I want to take her
in my arms
and ask her:
how
how did you get over it?
how did you overcome it?
how did you come
to look in the mirror
and see beauty
instead of pain?
how did you put the razor down
for the final time
and did you know it was
the final time
and how, sweet princess
how
did you make it out of your castle
with pain your most loyal guards
resentment your maids
self-doubt your tailors
Depression your king?
How did you ever
remove
the curve in your back
from always looking
down
on the world
like it looked
down
on you,
always avoiding eye contact
always avoiding social interaction
always avoiding life?
How
did you rescue yourself
from
yourself?
Please, sweetheart,
please answer me
because
I could use the advice.

You,
my dear,
my beacon of light;
this is the reason
I fell in love.
I saw past
the beautiful façade.
I saw
the damaged girl
within
the girl who looked
so much like me
but
the difference between
you and me
is that
while my pain will never go away
you don’t let yours get you down.
And that,
I admire that
love that
in anyone.

I fell in love with a girl—
no, a woman
—in my dreams last night
but somehow
I don’t think my boyfriend will mind.
For,
this woman,
she shares my experiences
my memories
my pain
my birthday
my name.
I fell in love with
myself
last night.

Woman of my dreams,
desired me,
you are one of the
strongest
people I know.
I am sorry
for not believing in that
sooner.
I thank you
thank you
from the bottom of my heart
for making me realize that.
You may not be able
to lift heavy weights
or run for long periods of time
or bend in odd positions
but strength is not all physical
and you got out of something
I never thought
I would overcome.

Future me,
I’m sorry
I’m sorry for
putting you through
all
I put you through
but look
look
look how strong you are
look how strong we are.
I guess it isn’t so bad—
is it?
—knowing there is a way out.
And now,
now
we are so much stronger
than I could have thought.

I fell in love with
myself
last night
and it is a love
I will never
give
up.


Lady of olives, beloved of Athens,
I kneel before you and pray:
for the polis, for the oikos,
for everything that has made me stay


in the shadow of your spears,
resting my weary head in the drape
of your cloud-soft chiton. O Mother,
today I come home to you, escape


from all that keeps me from you.
Pallas, Nike, Polioukhos, Alea, Sotiera–
you have as many names as devotees.
O owl-eyed and wise, bright bearer


of the aegis! O Tritogenia, male and female,
born of Father Zeus (and prudent Metis)!
O she who laughs with Themis and Dike,
she who dances with far-shooting Artemis!


This peplos draped across my arms,
olive green and embroidered with gold,
I gift to you, maiden Queen of Swords.
Only for you, this gift from my soul.


For there is a temple in my mind’s eye,
where the caryatids gleam bright;
and I know every path leads to you–
shining victorious, even in the darkest night.


And as I honor you on your holy days,
I ask for nothing but a glimpse of your eyes
flashing like the stormy skies of heaven,
blessing me with strength and all that is wise.

—  A Prayer on Panathenaia