apparently this is poetry

An Open Letter to Tomi Lahren, Commentator on TheBlaze, After Her Interview On The Daily Show

Dear Tomi:

First off I gotta know who does your hair,
Like, your ends are looking a little crispy,
get some conditioner on there and leave it in for like fifteen minutes,
but that platinum blonde is an amazing color, seriously,
so I can get your stylist’s number?

Second,
I wanted to say I felt sorry for you when the audience booed you,
when you stepped into the lion’s den and they growled and roared
at such a simple catechism:
“I don’t see color.”
“No, I’m not mainstream.”
“Did you know that a black man is 18.5 times more likely to shoot a police officer than a police officer is to shoot a black man?”
I mean you’re repellent, and also wrong, and also lying,
so I wanted to say I felt sorry for you when the audience booed you,
when you refused to be quiet,
well-behaved women seldom make history and all,
but girl.
Oh, you didn’t stop there.
Oh, you had to say
“I don’t protest my country. I’m not a victim.”
Oh, you had to say
“I’m a Millennial, I don’t like labels”
–that doesn’t have anything to do with the rest of this it’s just obnoxious–
Oh, you had to say
Black Lives Matter is the new KKK
Oh, you had to say
“Hillary could use some touching, right? Bill’s a little busy~”
Oh you had to say
Oh you had to say
Oh say
Oh say
Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light
that I may not be a football star but I am kneeling, too,
and also flipping you off, because

fuck you, lady.

When girls like me in combat boots and bookworm glasses say “I’m not like the Other Girls,”
normally I hate that –
I have known too many women to write them all off as Other like that –
but you motherfucking Other Girl
you make me forget what sisterhood tastes like.
You re-shared, re-tweeted right-wing re-boot,
all civil and spice and isn’t this nice when you talk to an actual black man,
like your voice isn’t a shotgun when it’s just you and the camera and your Final Thoughts.
You Queen Bee,
you are so smart,
smart as paint and twice as suffocating,
I can feel my throat closing up when you speak because for a second
I believe you,
because for a second I am thirteen and want you to think I’m cool.
Because for a second
I can see the future and it really does look like you stamping on a human face,
“shut up and say thank you” in one hand and “I’m just criticizing” in the other,
all ablaze in righteousness and haloed in red,
patron saint of hypocrisy and the alt
ernative media
because apparently you don’t want to be associated with the term “alt-right”
even if the blind taste test can’t tell the difference between
your criticism and their Kampf.

So I won’t Godwin’s Law this poem and call you a Nazi.

I will call you Vichy instead,
I’ll call you Riefenstahl.
I’ll call you Coco Chanel and collaborationist,
you beauty, you brains, you profiteer.
And I’ll call your stylist.
I hear your brand of blonde is the new black–
no, sorry, that’s the new KKK–
no, sorry, that’s the new media–
no, sorry, I forgot what we were talking about–
I just want to know what bleach made you
so bright
and if the solution
to our protests
is as final
as your Thoughts.

on a hushed and eigengrau night,
I danced with a certain devil
my heart was loud, his steps were light

my appearance was disheveled
—but little did he care—
he held me fast, our faces were level

we were undoubtedly a pretty pair,
I and my wicked master;
we moved in time to his bewitching airs

which whipped and whirled ever faster:
I could see naught but the devil’s eyes
and to his frame I was plastered.

oh! never before had I felt so alive—
and truth be told, there is more to describe.

@diabhal-sceal, “terza rima for a devil”

SELF-PORTRAIT AGAINST RED WALLPAPER

Close the blinds and kill the birds, I surrender
my desire for a logical culmination. I surrender my
desire to be healed. The blurriness of being alive.
Take it or leave it, and for the most part you take it.
Not just the idea of it but the ramifications of it.
People love to hate themselves, avoiding the
necessary recalibrations. Shame comes from vanity.
Shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us,
but you think you’re better than we are. Maybe you
are. What would a better me paint? There is no
new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same
me, the whole time. Vanity, vanity, forcing your
will on the world. Don’t try to make a stronger wind,
you’ll wear yourself out. Build a better sail. You
want to solve something? Get out of your own way.
What’s the difference between me and the world?
Compartmentalization. The world doesn’t know
what to do with my love. Because it isn’t used to
being loved. It’s a framework problem. Disheartening?
Obviously. I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard
to make it love. I said no more severity. I said it severely
and slept through all my appointments. I clawed
my way into the light but the light is just as scary.
I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work.
Admirable? Not really. I hate my friends. And when
I hate my friends I’ve failed myself, failed to share
my compassion. I shine a light on them of my own
making: septic, ugly, the wrong yellow. I mean, maybe
it’s better if my opponent wins.
 

(Richard Siken)

The Last Poem I Finished

I have come to realize that I do not fall in love with people, but rather, their pieces.
Filling in the cracks in my footsteps striking sidewalk with the cement of strangers.
Strong diaphragm, open palms, attitudes like honey become the mortar holding my concrete runway together beneath me.

I strut these streets writing novels, building cities,
Stories scraping skylines and heartstrings all the same.

You,
became both the pages and the passages.

With you, I have constructed the entire world I live in,
Regal palace of experiences, we lived inside this self-sustaining biosphere of loving each other’s pieces.

Much like one loves the green of grass, wings of robin, coolness of the breeze,
I loved your elbow, crook of neck, left cheek,
Details incomparable beauties lest words fail over trial and time,
Dilapidated cathedrals of description.
Stained glass windows perfect examples of the beauty that comes with the amalgamation of fragments.
No one may understand what is meant by my admiration of your edges, but the tone of admiration will remain,
Sustain, entirety.
Complete.

The presence of ruins begets the belief that passion once stood where broken is,
You cannot break without being beautiful to begin with.
Lions and chariots kicked up this dirt that only now lays silent in the colosseum of my chest,
People had to have been here to now rename this place abandoned.

I know I should crumble for better things,

But have you seen that boy?

Embrace so warm he brings the sun to its knees every night,
Lazy afternoon breeze caressing his neck and combing golden hair,
The day itself seems to love him.
Time so persistent in the passing of tomorrow, it’s no wonder I collapsed so quickly.

Siren song of forever sent to lay to rest with the Romans.
Ruins, ruined.

I have become a forgotten civilization,
A dead language.

Greek, Latin, Sanskrit.

Our romance like root words, influencing your everything
I dare you to tell me that you cannot trace the intricacies in her lace panties back to the veins in my wrists,
Her blouse a curtain to familiar.
Almost.
My so very woman a memory in her lesser.
There is no pride in first if first is not also last,
I am fading now.

You draw hieroglyphics on her body with your tongue and expect to taste me when you’re finished,
Whisper Biblical Hebrew in the softest corners of her, expecting something to come from this confidence.
Your salvation will not come with sin, no one understands your prayer to an irrelevant God,
I am your Hail Mary.

Believe me when I say origin is honest.
There is no hiding where you come from,
Your hands will always remember their first excavation of lonely.

Do not lift your tongue too high, speak too loudly,

For your organs have been laid to rest in the graveyard of my absence,
And your heart only knows how to call out to me.
She doesn’t understand, and you won’t care to teach her.

New Otayuri fic: Line and Verse

Yuri was once told that the best stories have no ending. Otabek has never had a problem in turning the page and beginning a new. Together, they write new chapters.

Prequels, sequels, and oneshots from the “From Almaty With Love” universe. Read what you like, discontinue any time.

Current verse: Otabek doesn’t much care for poetry. This becomes apparent upon his fifth birthday. He peels away the wrapping carefully, as to not disturb the thick butcher paper in which the gift is wrapped. Father had decorated it with brilliant drawings of the mountains which dot the view of Almaty.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/9320999

Is it wrong to be
This young and
This tired?

“All your life is
Ahead of you.”

They say, but
Mine feels
Far behind.

—  David jones “love and space dust”

He thinks the worst thing she can do
is tear down the walls
he’s so painstakingly built around himself.

But after she’s torn them down
piece by piece,
stone by stone,
He realizes.

The worst thing she can do
is leave him with nothing
but crumbled walls
and a broken heart.

—  and it’s another truth learned too late. k.b.

on my headstone
i do not need
a grave quote
or an elaborate design.

you do not need
to carve the words
beloved
     or missed
         or rest in peace.
you do not need to carve a lie. 

i will not leave a date
or even a name 
as my legacy.
i will not leave a legacy
for historians or nosy strangers.

all i need is
the imprint of your fingers 
where my body lies

for i will leave the world
     as i came into it
for i will find my death
     as i found my creation–

—  by your hands ( j.p. )
Because you love me

I am not a poet

Or someone who is good with words unless they are fed to me with a large cue card followed with a stage mom dance

I am not a songwriter

Or someone who can hold a tune unless I’m alone in the car or the shower playing every part in the musical 

I am not an artist 

Or someone who can draw a portrait of you unless you’re okay with stick figures and toothless smiles


But with you I can speak in perfect metaphors

Compare your kiss to fireworks, your eyes to the planets I can spend all night talking about and you listen because you love me

I can sing with perfect pitch

Lull you to sleep, write you a song I’ll edit 100 times over before I show you and it becomes your new favorite song because you love me 

I can paint a perfect portrait 

Capture your sunshine smile, paint the colors you compare me to, leave rainbows all over your skin and you put it as your cell phone lock screen because you love me


And I am not a poet

But i wrote this poem because I love you

Hidden Messages

Ship: Raphril

Universe: TMNT!2012

Note: Haha so this was the one I was supposed to have posted on Monday (or Tuesday at the latest). I had a lovely anon who reminded me and so it’s thanks to her I’m posting this at all because I totally forgot I was supposed to do that XD

Summery: Raph writes a letter that he deeply regrets, only to regret it a lot less later on. Takes place after Casey Jones versus the Underworld.

Keep reading

What the Signs are Known for (positive):

Aries: courage
Taurus: patience
Gemini: intelligence
Cancer: imagination
Leo: generosity
Virgo: talent
Libra: charm
Scorpio: love
Sagittarius: optimism
Capricorn: power
Aquarius: honesty
Pisces: sensitivity

Ahh, the men of the Tempest crew:

Liam hangs out shirtless like half of the time. But in an endearing way? *thumbs-up.gif*

Gil is delightfully random to the point where he apparently wants to be a mongoose and sends me weird poetry when he can’t sleep.

And Jaal just wants to be my BFF and call me weird and wonderful. Which is nice. I mean, the specific dialogue option to become BFFs. I wish I could do that with everyone.

(And then there’s Grandpa Dreck, of course, and the sweet nerd pilot Kallo who doesn’t appreciate Gil’s randomness on his ship.)

The girls are sadly still a little more bland to me, but I guess it should be a bit of a process.

Apparently I’m not allowed to feel heartbroken over something that was not enough to be anything. Apparently I can’t be sad over our end if there was no real beginning. “There are worse things,” they say. “But you weren’t even dating,” they say. “He didn’t say he loved you, did he?” No, never. And apparently I can’t be sad because some people have it worse. And apparently I’m selfish because my lungs constrict and my heart skips a beat when I see you. How am I supposed to explain that I miss our light conversations, your fleeting touches, our shared jokes? And why can’t I be sad that you turned from something promising to a stranger?
—  //who are they to tell me how to feel?
n.j.