how to be an expert poet

fall in love
push her away
write about
how unfair
love is
walk the wood
pause for contemplation
write about
how confusing
maps are
name the stars
taste her essence
write about
how unreliable
dreams are
give everything away
everything not something
write about
how empty
you’ve become
attack her deepest
flaws and demons
write about
how becoming
empty is like
write about
write about
not being able to write
write a letter to an
old professor and give him
a piece of your mind
write a poem about your pen
write a poem about a hen
write a poem with four lines that begin
write a poem about fear

write a poem in a poem that is full of nonsense

rain pitter patter chatter drip drip drop
window tempos serenading neighborhood eyelids to sleep relentlessly pouring plunking concentrating puddling
in flooded flowerbeds fertilized nurtured
plants sprouting Lilly and potato

write a prose piece to defend it.
(Fuck you, I’m not)
or just refuse
and keep the pen moving

even when you can’t.

When we moved Mom in here in September, we assumed we’d have her here for maybe as long as a year. After a week or so, we started wondering if she would make it to Christmas. With the turn she’s taken the past few days, we’re no longer even sure about Halloween. The home health folks who have been doing weekly checks on her have referred us to Hospice today. They’re due here at 6.

Lady K has been a real hero all through this. She quit her job to stay with Mom every day when it became clear she needed closer supervision, spent days with her at the nursing home, and has been with her 10 at night to 4:30 when I get home from work, Sunday night through Friday afternoons, for a month now. I’ve had evenings and weekends. It’s been kind of like having a sick toddler in the house, but one you’ve known for sixty years, who gets a little younger every day.

Watching someone you love mentally disentegrate right before your eyes is heartbreaking.

agustsume  asked:

26? thank you!!

26: “I didn’t intend to kiss you.”

a/n: inbox me a # and i’ll write you a jikook drabble

tysm for the ask!! <3 insp

Jimin isn’t an easily angered man, but there are certain things that tend to test his patience.

“Jimin, dear, really, come on. A nice girl? A nice boy? Why haven’t you found someone yet?”

“Mom, please-”

“You really should! I don’t want to die knowing my only son has nobody to take care of him.”


“But really, why haven’t you found someone?”


This charade has been going on for about three years, since Jimin moved out of his parents’ house at eighteen. Jimin’s mother doesn’t give up without a fight, and she hasn’t been showing any signs of weaning off of her pressing. 

And really, really, really, Jimin adores his mother and has a bunch of respect for her (he respects anyone who’s ever handled a full diaper), but after a while, the words “why haven’t you found someone yet?” become a lot more annoying than he’d care to admit.

It’s not like Jimin doesn’t want to date. He just hasn’t, well, found anyone yet, and the fact that he hasn’t is starting to irk him way too much, way too often - in the form of way too perky phone calls from his previously mentioned parent.

Jimin. Can’t. Take. This. Anymore.

So the next tim, when he’s at home watching a corny show on his TV and stuffing popcorn into his face, that he hears static on the other side followed by the typical, “Why haven’t you found someone yet?”, Jimin opens his mouth and -

“You know what, mom, I did!” he says, sounding so candid and surefire that he surprises himself a little. “I - I didn’t want to tell you, but, u-um, I did. I - you know, I - I’ll bring her-him-them over for Christmas! Yeah, dinner and all. Mhmm. Yup. Totally. Mmhm. O-okay, bye!”

And that is how Jimin becomes officially screwed.


Jimin and Jungkook have been best friends pracically since they still wore baby lotion (so, yeah, since the age of fourteen), and Jimin figures that because of that, it should be no problem to randomly hit Jungkook up at four a.m shriek-whispering. He knows that he’s not bothering Jungkook, anyway, because Jungkook’s Christmas breaks off of university are taken up by anime, random movies, and unhealthy quantities of ramen.

He’s not that surprised when Jungkook says yes to coming to Christmas dinner, and he’d kiss his unhealthy-habit-filled friend through the phone in gratitude if he could. 

Jimin and Jungkook drive down to Busan listening to soundtracks by Maroon 5 (along with Jungkook’s exaggerated outbursts out lyrics as he drives), and when they arrive clad in thick Christmas sweaters, Jimin’s mother opens the door with a look of both pleasure and surprise.

“Oh! You’re here, you’re here!” She says, and she ushers the two of them in quickly, smoothing down her hair to fix a nonexistent stray strand.

“I’d tell Jimin’s father,” she tells them, casting a murderous gaze towards a funny-looking pile on the couch, “to wake up and greet you, but he had a smidge too much cranberry wine, and well, I think he needs some - time.”

Jimin realizes that the pile is his dad wrapped up in a burrito of Christmas-themed quilts, mop of salt-and-pepper hair mussed beyond relief and impressive snores coming from his mouth.

Jungkook smiles understandingly. 

Jimin’s mother gives a quirk of her mouth, as if in relief. She escorts them hurriedly to the dining table, a sight that’s already making Jimin’s mouth water as he sits down, and his mom keeps going, “Well, I must say, Jungkook, I did not expect to be seeing you here. when Jimin told me that he finally found someone, I was so worried about how they’d be, you know, and I didn’t know what to expect! but I already know you - you’re a  big ol’ sweetheart, and you’d never hurt our Jimin here.” she leans in a little against the table as Jungkook nods like a bobblehead, her eyes flashing. “Right?”

Jungkook stops nodding and flickers his eyes to Jimin in distress.

Jimin flushes. “Mom..”

Instantly she brightens again, giggling. “Just kidding!” Her hands pinch the air, pretending to squeeze Jungkook’s cheeks. “Dig in, dig in.”

They oblige, and considering how heavenly potatoes and chicken and all beautiful culinary creations on the planet are laid out on the table, Jimin piles his plate and shamelessly lets Jungkook do most of the talking. 

If he didn’t know any better, Jimin would be surprised by how easily Jungkook lies, skillfully answering or slyly evading all of Jimin’s mother’s questions without the blink of an eye. Jimin’s mom looks so ecstatic about the whole thing that Jimin tries not to choke too obviously on his gingerbread man when, at one point, Jungkook even laces their hands on top of the table and beams. 

Of course, Jimin’s mother squeals at the action. “You two are so cute.” She cooes, and Jungkook grins so widely, Jimin wants to smack a warning label over his mouth reading ”Caution; may break. Handle with care.” 

Jimin puts a grin on his own face too, and he wants to disentegrate into ash from how hot he’s suddenly feeling.

Jungkook’s grip slackens a bit (thank god), and he clears his throat, “Excuse me, Missus Park, but may I..?”

He holds up their now loose fingers, and she claps her hands with a jolly “’Course, ‘course!”

Jungkook takes Jimin along by his wrist. Jimin’s skin is still burning, and he can’t figure it out for the life of him. As they pass under the arch, a stiff Jungkook suddenly jerks Jimin into place below it.

There’s a clatter of utensils. “Oh, mistletoe!” Jimin’s mother cries, gesturing (a bit too excitedly to not seem suspicious) above their heads. Jimin freezes as he shoots his head upward, staring at the red and green doom currently dangingly innocently over his and Jungkook’s heads, his mother’s airy laugh resonating away from them. “How convenient!” 

She stares at them expectantly. Jungkook stares at Jimin. Jimin stares at Jungkook. Jungkook puts on that smile.

That’s when they start kissing.

It’s quick, chaste, and simple, but it’s a good two-point-seven seconds of shocking sweetness. Jungkook’s soft and tastes like sparkling cider, and Jimin hopes that he tastes like gingerbread or white wine and not cold turkey. Jungkook cups his face and Jimin forces his hands to loop around Jungkook’s neck well, because he remembers that they have to make this look like the most natural thing on Earth. So he kisses back, and he vows that when they separate his mom looks like she’s going to explode out of her soul and do a victory dance in the dining room.

Quickly, Jungkook is pulling him along again as Jimin barely digests that he just kissed his best friend, mouth numb. When they’re out of eye-and-ear-shot of his mother, Jimin and Jungkook, apparently still with best friends’ in-tuneness, began to sprint like it’s for the Olympics in unison to Jimin’s room and slam the door behind them.

Jimin feels his legs wobble as he watches Jungkook pant, flitting over his astonished face, over his raised brows and big brown eyes looking wider than dish plates. 

Jimin’s lungs close up as he realizes that his eyes linger over Jungkook’s mouth.

“When I came here,” Jungkook says at last, quiet but loud enough to break the awkward silence of realizaton, and Jimin can’t tell if the voice his best friend is using sounds low-key alarmed, high-key disturbed, or downright terrified, “I didn’t intend to kiss you!”

“You think that I did?”

Jungkook rakes a hand through his hair and then drags them down his face, groaning. “We just kissed. Jimin, we, best friends, just kissed,” he whispers.

Jimin gives Jungkook a (not really) stern look and points his finger at Jungkook’s chest (not really) warningly, feeling his face burn up until he’s sure that he can light a fire to that mistletoe from before. “This,” he starts shakily, finger wobbling, “changes nothing. You hear me? Nothing.”

Jungkook nods quickly, exhales uneven, and Jimin collapses onto his mattress, an arm covering his eyes.

(He’ll remember this day as “the day he realized that he hates mistletoe.”)

fun fact: if you find a person who says queerplatonic relationships don’t exist, please tape a large chair onto them. The Queerplatonic Fairies™ fly around the world every night and disentegrate people with large chairs taped to them

all for the name of poetry

now we mask ourselves
behind bandanas, scarves,
avatars of those
who wrote before us

we march with baseball
bats, butterfly knives,
liquor bottles
gasoline gallons

we find and hide those
with falsified ears,
beaten hearts,
ken souls

we stomp windshields
we shatter store fronts
we flip cop cars, spill gas,
drop a lighter
run like fuck-all

car after car
boom after boom

we are on top
of the last cars
in the city in a sea
of itchy semi-auto blue

we sprout
rose, carnation,
palm bouquet grenades
we all stare
everyone is too afraid
to pop the first shot
or lob the first thought

throw us out of
the Republic gates
we will ram words
until your walls

lie to us
all you want

we will riot Truth
& upload it
to Youtube

so make your move

I was in the middle of a grocery store
one monday night, after work
grocery shopping, list:
chocolate milk, promised land, (treat yo self 2011)
a 50mg Quetipine prescription to help me sleep, it doesn’t
help me dream
I get so close I can taste them
in the middle of the grocery store
I finally realize
I am a writer, a poet
it’s one of my only dreams
I make true every day
I can smell them all around me now
dreams of others taste like moon dust
some bitter, some sweet, it depends on
preparation methods and just a dash
of luck, perseverance
a healthy amount of insanity.
I watch them fill up their carts
tasting bitter work lives
smelling the sweet aroma
of an unbroken family
we make big moon wishes and
she rains her rocks down on us
hoping they don’t disentegrate
in the atmosphere of
bad fortunes, tired feet
Some of us forget the sweetness
and we decide moon dust
isn’t really for us or
anyone else

My people, fuck shooting stars
pray to the moon for
a sweet second helping
of what you can be

something to sprinkle on your paycheck,
sprinkle some on those who forgot
how to sleep

Most importantly, sprinkle some
on your child’s forehead
before bed
so at least a few of us

can keep dreaming

—  bg-Moon Worship