accidental-poetry

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
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.

I’m here to tell you that
the reason why I want to steal your black shirt
is that the scent of it reminds me of you.
When I wear it
my mind is surrounded by so much of you that
I forget who I am, and
these days that is what I need;
to disappear, to not exist,
to get lost in somebody else.
(It is so exhausting to be alive sometimes.
Have you never wondered why I sleep so much?)

And you’re right.
There is no space in my life for you
or him or anybody else.
At least, not right now, but if by some
miracle this dusty heart
finally starts to beat out something besides
the numbness of blood in my hollowed out veins,
then I’m here to tell you that
I wish it would be for someone like you.

I’ve dedicated dictionaries worth of
poetry to people who have never dedicated
a single thing to me. And here you are with
words meant for I alone, yet
I’m still an empty shell of whoever it was
I used to be because
even though I write poems,
I’ve never been much of a poet.
I no longer believe in fairytale endings since
I stopped kissing boys
with mouthfuls of disappointment and
started treating my body like
a burning building so
nobody can get close enough
to get inside of me.
But if I were
normal, if I pulled out the fire extinguisher;
if I were brave enough to
fall off my bike and trip over my shoelaces; and
if somebody could reignite the
stardust trapped in the cracks of my bones;
I pray that it’d be with someone like you -
Someone who’s not afraid to touch me.
Someone who’s not ashamed to want me.

However,
you know I’m not the type.
I would rather
kill a man for his money than
kiss him back for his love.
I could never share the childlike innocence and
naivety in your eyes, because I’d rather
dissolve into the sky so I can be
everything and nothing at the same time.

But I am here to tell you this as well -

I’ll be one of the best god damned girls you’ve ever dated.
(And I’m not just saying that to annoy you)

We’re not lonely and
we aren’t trying to find someone to save us from ourselves.
Like you said, “We’re just having fun,” but
it’s still nice to hear you breathing
next to me and pretend your heart is thumping my last name
while fireflies glow on my ceiling like
cigarette lighters guiding us two children back home.

John Legend’s PDA will remind me of you
the same way I’ll remember how you like the sound of raindrops falling
even though it’s depressing as fuck.
(I’m sorry for swearing again)
One day I might
come to collect that salty kiss,
whilst for now I’ll settle for
the softness of your hand in mine -
gently, ever so gently -
and the snugness of your breastbone when you hug me
even though you’re aware that I
could make your fever worse with the
coldness of the icicles
I’ve sculpted around my chest.

I’m not sure how I’ll feel when you leave, but
I’ll miss your black shirt and
your unabashed forehead kisses and
your stupid questions and silly sleep-talking
and your two crazy best friends.

It’s been nice dreaming with you, sailor.
I’ll be waking up now.

(Write about me some time)

— 

Sade Andria Zabala (surfandwrite) | The Accidental Boyfriend

This guy is the first person to write a poem about me. The Accidental Boyfriend is my response to the poem he sent me. Read his poem here.

At this point, I think I’m more in love with the thought of you than anything.
Seeing you so happy with her when you struggled to love yourself with me…
I’m amazed.
And yes, it hurts to see you so easily happy,
But at least you have that chance.
At least you have someone that makes you so easily happy
I wish you both the best
Because as hurt as I am, I can never hate you.
And maybe that’s why I hate myself so much
Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t hate you.
I can’t not love you.
And now I know you’ve moved on and meant it.
And I moved on only to try and stop the hurt of losing you.
—  It didn’t work. It never works anymore//m.m//

“The way human beings speak is so heartbreaking to me—we never sound the way we want to sound. We’re always stopping ourselves in mid–sentence because we’re so terrified of saying the wrong thing. Speaking is a kind of misery. And I guess I comfort myself by finding the rhythms and accidental poetry in everyone’s inadequate attempts to articulate their thoughts. We’re all sort of quietly suffering as we go about our days, trying and failing to communicate to other people what we want and what we believe.”

Annie Baker

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.

The Cycle

I worry
I can’t help it
It’s a sinking feeling,
A bite.
The pit opens, wide,
And then you’re there
Looking into it
Light disappears
And the shadows have you-
Pulling you
Then
The water shimmers
Underneath you-
Taunting.
Silence deafens you
And you’re getting smaller
And smaller.
Then there’s screaming-
It’s yours.
And you can’t stop.
The spirit of the void exhales
And you’re held in the dark water-
Suspended, suffocating-
With no breath.
And hope is the smallest
Sliver if light far above-
Dangling.
And sometimes there’s laughter-
Surrounding you
With cruel words,
Evil smiles.
But you’re happy
Just to see smiles.
And glad not to be
Utterly alone in the darkness.
Company in the nothingness.
Something to cling to in despair.
A ray of web string width-
Hope dangling.
If only you can catch it,
And wind it tight around you,
You can be free.
To be free…
But the web is thin
And breaks after a time.
Wearing to nothing and
Dropping you back down…
And then you sleep.
Dream.
Or something like it.
Night walking,
Soul drifting,
Going between the worlds.
And where’s the end?
For this life the end is the end.
We die a little each day.
The soul lives in.
The energy continues on.
Cycles, circles, Old Magic-
The names of gods forgotten
And those that served then,
Hands bloodied.
The god’s voices call-
Taunting.
You wake, confused,
Wipe away the sleep.
The world is there again.

In the flawed there lies great beauty: Torn pages. Crackles on vinyl. Scratches over celluloid frames. The limitations of physical media become an inescapable component of the art we consume. They place the fiction within a reality, and reveal them both to be susceptible to the ravages of time. More precisely, they expose the beauty within art’s tales and emotion as being mortal - just like us.

Screenshot from Detour (1945, Edgar G. Ulmer)