apparently this is poetry

My favorite part about listening or watching live TOP concert videos is when the audience just knows when to sing. Tyler doesn’t tell them what lyrics are next, and he doesn’t prompt them to sing. He just subtly goes silent and the crowd carries it on because they know where the lyrics fit in around the music. They’re just so familiar with these songs from late nights in their rooms, or long car rides, or while making art, that they just know how they should sound. 

And to hear it is one of the most powerful displays of unity I’ve ever experienced.

reminder: I am not as soft as my poetry paints me to be/ my lows can dig a grave as deep as yours/ and my smile knows the ache/ of being just a tad too large for my face/ insults and curse words and insincere apologies spill out of my mouth/ as frequently as poetry/ I can’t be what you need/ but maybe my poems can/ for the days when you are already underground 

A Worship Song

The mountains tremble at your name,
The roaring seas will split,
The darkness runs to hide its face
And at your feet we’ll sit.
Your hands have placed the stars on high,
But you still love me more.
You will be forever mine
‘Cos I’m forever yours.

I will always look to you
You are the light that’s shining through
All of the darkness.
I will always lean on you
The wind and waves cannot break through
Love vast as the ocean.
You are faithful in the storm.

“How are you feeling today?” Absolutely nothing to be honest. Most of the time it is absolutely nothing. If anything, like none of this is real. These people, aren’t real, I am not real, the sky out there isn’t real, our society isn’t real, this body I am in isn’t real. Nothing is real nothing is substantial nothing nothing nothing. I’m not ever sure I am awake, for all I know I am in a constant nightmare and I cannot wake up. Or am I even sleeping? I don’t really sleep anymore and I don’t see the difference between the nightmares and this life. They’re all the same, everything is bland and white noise. I feel nothing.
—  therapy session

(Simply because we know the articles to 98% of the words, we still make a lot of mistakes.)

1. dasselbe vs das gleiche:
I can’t tell you how many Germans get this wrong. English speakers are at a disadvantage here because both translate to ‘the same’ but there is, in fact, a difference. (Note: some Germans spell it ‘das selbe’. This is incorrect.)

Wir fahren das gleiche Auto und schlafen mit derselben Frau.
We drive the same car and sleep with (one and) the same woman.

As you can see, there is no difference in English and you’d have to get the meaning from context. German is more detailed. Of course the men in this do not own one car that they both drive. They both have their own cars but they are exactly the same in terms of brand/looks/mechanics/etc. But they are sleeping with one and the same woman.

Simple rule: if you could replace ‘the same’ with ‘one and the same’, it’s dasselbe. It not, it’s das gleiche. This works in German as well: if you can replace it with ‘ein und dasselbe’, it’s dasselbe

Of course this applies to derselbe/der gleiche and dieselbe/die gleiche just the same.

2. das vs dass: 
This one is difficult for Germans because you pronounce them exactly the same and for English speakers learning German because you say ‘that’ for both of them in English. Some Germans also seem to believe that every das that comes after a comma has a double s. This is simply not true. Here’s an example.

Er liest das Buch, das seine Mutter ihm gab. Sie wollte, dass er es in den Ferien liest.

The first das here is an article. Those always only have one s.
The second das is a relative clause. In that case, it is always written with one s.
The dass is a conjunction and marks the beginning of an accessory sentence (that is not a relative clause). This is the only case in which you use dass.

For the more advanced or the native speakers: if you could replace das with dieses or jenes or welches, then it’s das

For students of German: before our spelling reform, you used to write dass as daß. You might stumble across it in some books or texts and some newspapers still use the old way of spelling today. Don’t let that confuse you. There is no difference to dass, we simply write it differently now. This applies to a lot of ss vs ß.

3. einzige vs einzigste:
A lot of Germans use einzigste as an increase of einzige to exaggerate or stress it. This is incorrect. The adjective einzig cannot be put in comparison. (Though apparently it is acceptable in poetry, Idk.)

Ich war die einzige, die zu dem Treffen kam!
Ich war die einzigste, die zu dem Treffen kam! 
I was the only one who came to the meeting!

There are a lot more mistakes we make but this should be the most common. I hope this helps you! I’ll be making a post about common mistakes by English speakers learning German soon as well.

Okay, so Bitty is procrastinating by scrolling through Youtube and today it starts with husky puppies playing in the snow for the first time, but he ends up watching this contouring video where it starts off with this super cool music riff and shots of the mountains? It’s a really nice shot, but the voiceover sounds really familiar. Like, really familiar.

He spends the next couple seconds racking his brain until Derek Nurse’s Doppelganger’s face shows up “without makeup” and Bitty is transfixed for 6:43 minutes as Totally Not Nursey, Right puts a timer on and does a five minute face in real time. Five minute contouring. It’s mesmerizing, honestly

Then, the guy finally talks on screen and holy mother of the baby lord

So, he watches more as this guy who he’s pretty sure is Nursey combs and fills his brows and gets rid of dark circles and blemishes, uses a dark brown shadow as eyeliner and a pale pink shade in his inner socket and on the bow of his lip for an every day look. There are costume tutorials and filling in spare patches in facial hair, skin care routines, and reviews of products. Bitty’s like !!!!!! because he’s 100% sure this is Nursey but, like Nursey might not want the team to know about his tutorials and outfit videos because Bitty gets it, it’s the Hannah Montana glamour of it all and also yeah…….:/// and it might just be an open secret like his own vlog is???? 

He scrolls through Nursey’s instagram–well, his makeup instagram. It’s not the account that Bitty already follows, it’s his Youtube username, finelines, and it’s kinda…….ridiculously…popular??? It was featured on Buzzfeed apparently??? There’s those flat lays of Nursey’s outfits, lines of poetry, swatches of eye shadow and lip products and screencaps from videos, etc…. 

And while Bitty’s sure that someone in the Haus has seen his own videos, no one ever confronts him about it, so he’s just gonna let Nursey do his own thing while Bitty himself spends the rest of the afternoon watching dozens of videos in bed and maybe orders….some brow product online….like Bitty has blond brows and he would like some definition, thanks Derek

And then Nursey compliments Bitty’s brows once the product’s come in and Bitty’s had a few tries and watched a few videos and !!!! everything is goodt in the Haus

I allow myself little in the way of “womanly” comforts
For I,
Like my sister,
Like my mother,
Was taught “woman” equals “weak”
And while I
Shout the strength of women from the rooftops,
The shame lingers.

One does not easily forget
Being told that something about them
Is fundamentally wrong.
And to have that wrong spread
To a whole set of behaviors that they
Are demanded to display,
But berated for doing so.
Pick your poison:
Scorn for doing; scorn for not.

Self-care is a love song,
Meant for all,
But out of the mouths of men
It is
(*Read: “wrong,” “weak,” “over-indulgent.”)
And yet, when a man takes the same in his appearance
That society demands of women while demeaning them for,
We applaud?

We try to cleanse these words,
These acts,
Spread them over all and
Strip them of their gender, but
The shame still lingers.
I fight it every day.


i bet when they get together john is a little too embarrassed to write sherlock his own love poems but sherlock writes music for john and john is so full up of everything that he has to write something, so instead he prints out little poems and sometimes leaves them around the flat, pablo neruda stuck to the bathroom mirror, ee cummings tucked into sherlock’s sock index, shakespeare or keats or byron slipped into the crushed velvet curves of the violin case. and sherlock collects them all, keeps them in a secret place, the words that reminded john of him, he lets john have these offerings and leaves them unspoken between them, loved and accepted quietly, without fuss, without protest. 

and slowly, slowly slowly, john starts leaving little poems signed with a jhw, and these are the lines and these are the words sherlock memorizes, and sometimes whispers them back in the purple dusk of twilight when they’ve found the calm before the next burst of adrenaline on a case, i know these words, i know you’re there in them, i know you’re there in these words with me, in the grey cool dawn when they’re still waking, tangled in the sheets, i know we’re together as long as these words survive, eternity printed in black and white, a soft slow recitation murmured into the curves of their bodies, the drag of their hands, the rhythm of hips and breaths, forever in shades of blue and grey and gold, long after we’ve salt and peppered and turned to ash, in the steady easiness of afternoons spent running errands and making appointments, the brilliance of necessary and normal in a life being unexpectedly lived, there is no me without you but, you’re here in these words and so am i, in the gentleness of evening haze as the time passes, low laughter over shared meals, drinking down wine and the growing lines of crows’ feet, planning a future, planning an end, 

and it’s enough to last, i think.


wednesday 3.5, semester six, week sixteen

Only four more exams and I’m done with this year. It either has passed so slowly, or too quickly. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. Also, I’m finally going to have my poetry exam (in about 45 minutes), and I’m crossing my fingers to not have to work on Yeats. Though, my professor is apparently super nice during these oral exams so I shouldn’t worry. 


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)

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?

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.

In an expanding universe, my arms grow
at the same rate you recede from me.
I have to hug harder with thinner arms
to keep the quantity of emotion constant.
Some call this physics. Some call it
aerobic. Some walls in Morocco
have a wolf’s head inside. For luck.
Tear down my breath and you’ll find
a wolf’s head inside. For now.
—  Bob Hicok, A Theory of Matter