accidental-poetry

Some people drink themselves sick night after night.
Others get high almost as often as they take in oxygen.
And some find a new lover every other month.
And the sad part of that isn’t the fact that they’re destroying themselves, though it may be true.
The saddest part of all of it is that each of those people are just looking for a remedy for whatever bullshit they’re forced to feel.
Lets be honest, we’re all just looking for a pain-killer. And mine just so happened to be you.
—  You were the only remedy.
There are sixteen people in my Favorited Contacts list. Sixteen people I would drop anything for. Sixteen voices that would ring like a fire bell in the night. They do not know who they are. I never tell anyone about the way my heart covets theirs. I do not tell them that I have cut my chest into sixteen different compartments, and they all have a place in it. I do not fool myself– I know not all love me like I love them. In a way, I am asking to get hurt. Entrusting my soft parts in their unknowing hands. Sometimes I think I am waiting on disaster. Placing bets on who will be the first to break me. But that’s just it. Life is a gamble, and the people you meet could be more than willing to clean you out. Every person I put onto that list is already a breach in my safety wall so it is no use to look for somebody to trip up– someone always will, that’s a promise– but there are people who won’t. People who will collect your broken pieces in their palms and cut themselves while trying to put you together. People who are drawn to fires, who carve you a throne in their chests, who love you so much that you would think that they were the creators of it. I could spend a lifetime, looking for the flaws in the people who I surround myself with. I know some of them will do the same. But I’d rather not, because no matter what, there will always be good ones there.
—  Gamble of Hearts

its a running theme that i call my girlfriend my sky and sea, so i took that to gay poetry! (accidental rhyming? I’m a poetry genious)

waves do not crash from rage
and moonlight is not mearly to shine on stage
the tides are pulled by the power of her light
and oh how her waves shine under her so bright
she has been untouched to her deepest depths, to those other than she
and it takes years to touch someone like her, as one craves to be
despite the distance, and how opposites are
their love is embraced by beaches and stars
the goddesses loved each other, passionate and free
the ocean loved the moon, and the moon loved she

🌊✨

2

There’s just not enough theories about the implications of Sisko having Dukat’s old office:

Sisko finding Dukat’s hidden stash of bad love poetry.

Sisko accidentally tripping some security measure by leaning on the wall the wrong way. (Dukat is paranoid after all). The whole station has to be evacuated.

Dukat visiting and triggering one of those security measure so he and Sisko gets trapped together in his office for seven hours. So they can “talk”, since they’re “best friends”.

Sisko finding Dukat’s hidden stash of illegally strong kanar. Quark somehow gets a hold of it and 5 people have to be hospitalized.  

Sisko having to remove the mirrors covering the ceiling before he moves in.

Sisko having to sign for a real size bronze statue of Dukat that due to being stuck in the Bolian customs arrives three weeks after Dukat left.

Accidental Poetry

Sherlock: We’ll be heading out on Monday. It gives us time to do whatever it is people do on holiday for a few days before my family arrives to drive me to the brink of madness.
Me: Lol!
Sherlock: You can come by today if you’d like.
Me: Oh, can I?
Me: I’m allowed? Lol
Sherlock: I’ll allow it this once.
Me: Well, I’d better hurry before you change your mind!
Sherlock: It’s hard to change my mind when your toothbrush lives with mine.
Me: Look at your accidental poetry. I’m going to needle point it. “It’s hard to change my mind, when your toothbrush lives with mine.”
Sherlock: Do you… needle point?
Me: All done with tiny x stitches. Fitting.
Me: Well, I have been known to try crafts now and then on holiday.
Me: I made sweaters for my cats. They’re awful..
Sherlock: Really?
Me: Yes! Lol!
Sherlock: Well.
Sherlock: I guess when one is on holiday…
Me: I get a bit wild.
Sherlock: I’ll prepare myself for your wild ways.

Accidental Blues Voice | Anna Journey

“Accidental Blues Voice”
Anna Journey

My ex-lover received it at seventeen
skiing the steep slope at Wintergreen called

Devil’s Elbow. The early snowmelt along the Blue
Ridge had slipped the white limb of a birch

through the crust, jutted that camouflaged tip
into the center of the trail. He hit it, full speed,

flipped over his ski poles. One of them split
his vocal cords with its aluminum point. He sprawled

in the snow, his pink throat skewered like Saint
Sebastian or the raw quiver of his Greek father’s

peppered lamb kebobs. The doctors didn’t let him speak
for a year and when he finally tried his choirboy

voice had gravel in it. His tenor had a bloody
birch limb in it, had a knife in it, had a whole lower

octave clotted in it, had a wound and a wound’s
cracked whisper in it. The first time I heard him

sing in his blues band, five years after the accident,
I told him his smoked rasp sounded

exactly like Tom Waits. Like my grandfather
sixty years since the iron lung. I couldn’t believe

a growl like that crawled up from the lips
of a former Catholic schoolboy. But as he shut off

the halogen overhead—leaving only the ultraviolet
of his bedside’s black light—he stroked my cheek,

crooned, Goodnight, Irene. His teeth and his throat’s
three-inch scar glowed a green neon.