first poem i ever wrote

1. I wasn’t in love with you anymore, but god, this knocked the wind out of me.

2. You were just here.

3. You were just here.

4. Do you remember? The frozen food pressed to your shoulder, the way you shook with the knowledge of a barely avoided death?

5. My mouth. Yours.

6. I had been struggling with my old poems about you. You know, you were the first one I ever wrote. I had some questions for you, Cleveland. I suppose I don’t have them anymore.

7. It isn’t even seeing you kiss her that’s the problem. It’s that you share a table.

8. Maybe “wife” bothers me, too. I know how that word sounds, coming from you. Remember? Those long drives? Perhaps I still exist as your heart when you hit the road.

9. You still exist as mine when I hit the words.

10. I couldn’t read them aloud anymore, the poems. That old pain. It didn’t exist. We had chased it away with chocolate and cherries. Still, you occupy a shelf in the bright. In the cold .

11. You always have been impossibly careless with my heart. With my new lives, all of them.

12. There’s a Smiths song – if you were reading my texts I would send you it – it goes: and I’m not happy / and I’m not sad. I’m not sad, seeing you happy. She looks as full of light as I used to when you kissed me. I am glad for her. I know what you have to give.

13. It’s the loss of our friendship. More a removal. A reopened scar, from the last time. Remember, how we were friends? We’ve been so good at it. I can’t believe you won’t hear from me now. I couldn’t believe you wouldn’t hear from me, then. You know the words. 

14. I just wanted to wish you well. I just. I just wanted to be what I always have been. Yours, in whatever form we decide.

15. Nearly two years since we met and you still find new ways to let me down. I think it impresses me more than it wounds.

16. You told me all about her, remember? We discovered we had both loved ghosts, since the last time you cried on my couch. Do you remember? The things that we allow to haunt us take root in the end. I need to change my sheets.

17. I wonder if I am the ghost now. The woman you never had the courage to keep. Do I haunt you, darling? I can hear your voice saying yes. Feel the reach of your arms as I spin out of them, laughing. Do I echo?

18. You kissed me like you used to, the last time. You will again, the next. You always do.

19. In a poem I never got the chance to read you, I said that you exist suspended in time. In flashes of white sheets. Bathed in orange light on the Golden Gate Bridge. Spinning me around on a cold February evening. One year ago today.

20. One year ago today, you laid next to me. We cried about something that doesn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter then, either.

21. Do you remember the words? Of that last song at what we thought was the last breakfast. You sat me on your knee.

22. Your hands shook as you held me tight. I put my lips to your ear. Do you remember? The words. Say them with me.

23. In my own sick way / I’ll always stay true to you.

—  Upon Seeing Your New Girlfriend For The First Time. Charlotte Ford.
5

sterek week (2016 edition) ▷ day 7: lyrics and quotes 

This is a formal goodbye
to all our could have beens

if you stayed a little longer
(but you didn’t)


If you loved me a little harder
(but you didn’t)


If I held you a little tighter
(but I didn’t)


If you asked me to leave with you
(but you didn’t)


Now we are both missing a piece,
our hearts never quite broken
yet never quite fixed.

                              I never knew how much I loved you until you left. // c.h.

the first poem
I ever wrote
was all about you
the page stained
by my inky fingers
a bleeding pen
crying about
forbidden feelings
in a quiet rain
—  and nothing has changed,not really - a new you, but same old feelings, @celtic-poetry -FnyM

knowing your partner well makes writing together a lot easier .  tag this with the people you enjoy roleplaying with but want to get to know better.  (  REPOST , DO NOT REBLOG ! )

* BASICS

name. scout
age.  19 going on 70
pronouns.  she/they/whatever man
sexuality.  pan? bi? confused? who knows
zodiac sign.  pisces
taken or single.  single. so single.
three facts.  1. i attended carrie fisher’s 60th bday party    2. i realized i liked girls when i wanted to dress up as hercules for halloween so i could be with megara    3. the first boy i ever kissed wrote me a terrible poem and instead of being a decent human being and accepting it i ripped it up in front of his face!

* EXPERIENCE

platforms you’ve used.  oh god, omegle, imvu, secondlife, tumblr, you name it. i’ve been looking for means of escape since i knew what the internet was.
best experience.  honestly probably this whole goatfucking fiasco i had going on with @rottedren like a year ago. wasn’t in chara but i was losing my shit the whole time.

* MUSE PREFERENCE

female or male.  male. 
least favourite face(s).  dude i literally had a full out drag session of overused fcs a couple months back that i lost a TON of followers for. i am shamelessly petty.
multi or single.  single. but i have had multis in the past

* WRITING PREFERENCE

fluff, angst or smut.  i wish i wrote more fluff but everything i do turns into angst. smut is fine with the right people but i have trouble staying in the sexy zone, so to speak
plots or memes.  plotting! though i love memes
long or short replies.  both. most things that start short for me end up long though.

tagged by : @whinedarksea
tagging :  @chaied, @didntkill, @bellassan, @hauntsboy, @fyrbol, @saviore, @kaspbrk, @dualsuns, @astralord, @womanholy + whoever else wants to!

I wrote pages in my messy handwriting of our messy love, our tragically beautiful love.
I bought numerous pens just to bleed their ink in countless journals filled with all the unerasable words I could never tell you with my tongue.
My ink stained hands bled red on white, on black words smearing across my thoughts written for you.
No maybe I can’t show you how much you really mean to me but I can write you poems with the ink dripping from my fingertips because quite frankly, writing is all I can really do.
but the girl across town could make you feel good when words wouldn’t work.
so I watched behind the cross of the t in my signature and tripped over the l’s in all the love letters I’ve ever written with your name. I couldn’t move.
trapped, like all the “I love you’s” I’ve written in permanent ink on the white pages of my old journals.
She has more curves than the s’s in the amount of times I’ve said “sorry”.
I wonder if she can use her hands like I can with love running in my veins can she write better poems with her tongue than I could with twelve dollar pencils?
Can she make you smile bigger than you did when I showed you the first poem I ever wrote you.
I’d ask if she could dance better at midnight than my cursive words by candle light
but I watch her effortlessly flow around you as I glance down at my thin words that have fallen,

and I don’t think they’ll ever get back up.

—  C.P. || I could, but she can better
Poetry Is Not A Luxury: Poetry As Resistance

by Yena Sharma Purmasir

A few months ago, I was a featured panelist at the Indo-American Arts Council Literary Festival. The panel focused on poetry specifically and I was the youngest author of the group. I was also the only American author. Everyone else defined themselves as South Asian writers who had migrated to the United States, but continued to return home. At one point, the facilitator asked us how we felt as South Asian writers and how we shaped our work in a place outside our motherland. For me, it was a strange question. I don’t see myself as a South Asian writer, even though I largely define myself in relation to my Indian and South African upbringing.   

When I tell people I’m an American, I know I have said the wrong thing. It’s uncomfortable, their reactions and my need to defend my right to my home. I feel profoundly connected to India. My relationship to South Africa is just as special, though I experience it in smaller ways. But neither of these nations feel like home. When I think about my mother’s country, I feel like I’m wearing her clothes, pulling at things that don’t quite fit. My father’s country has become less mine after his death. I’m an American writer. This is my American life. This is what America looks like to me, people who look like me and unlike me.

This sounds like childish American idealism, but this idealism has fueled my family for years. Those laughable diversity advertisements don’t seem so laughable to me, not when I grew up in Queens, New York, a place where more than 50% of the population is foreign born and where more languages are spoken than anywhere else in the country. I grew up with parents who spoke different languages, only one of which perfectly overlapped. It didn’t seem strange to me that a young American woman of Indian and South African descent could be a writer - at least not until I started writing, not until I started looking for names that sounded like mine in libraries, or even on blogs.

The first poem I ever wrote was about my father. I wrote it on the day of his funeral. I was eight years old. When I think about that poem, I think of my all-consuming grief, my powerful love. This is difficult to explain to White America, where death is something people get over with time and counseling. In Brown America, we have a yearly ritual for my father. We continue to pray for the peace of his soul and the peace of our family. My writing stemmed from this little, careful place.

Some poets on Tumblr, literally sign their name to all their work. I do not. My decision not to attach my name to my poems was initially based on a formatting aesthetic. Now, it seems like an easy way for people to forget who I am. At first glance, my love poems could be just like the love poems a white poet would write. Once, I wrote a poem and ended it with the line “I believe the epic is true. One day Odysseus and Penelope will kiss again.” I didn’t want to end it that way. I wanted to write “One day Ram and Sita will kiss again.” But I didn’t want to be so different, and besides, did it really matter?

It does matter. I know the story of Ram and Sita as well as I know the story of how my parents met. For me, they aren’t props to be used when a poem needs another push. I could write about karma and samsara without checking anything on Google. For me, this is real: there have been thousands of Rams and Sitas. On one hand, they are always kissing again. On the other, they are always waiting to be reunited. When my father died, I kept thinking about when, if ever, I would see him again. I used to have this dream of running into him on the street and not recognizing him. If I wrote a poem about that, it would turn into something else. A cliché. A cheap culture poem.

For a long time, it was easier to write about the pain of being brown. My mother reads everything I write and a few weeks ago, she sat me down because I wrote something about wanting to peel off my brown skin and reveal white, white bones. This is a sentence I first said when I was eleven years old. “I am scared for you,” she said, “I don’t want you to feel this way.” I rolled my eyes and read the poem aloud to her, the whole thing. In the middle of the poem, I wrote this verse: “I am going to spend the rest of my life in a body that is a source of boundless joy and endless pain.” I looked at my mother purposefully- it felt like the strangest thing to write that, even stranger to believe it.

I realized a few years ago, I don’t hate my skin anymore. When someone mispronounces my name, I don’t flinch, I don’t apologize for them. I am tired of saying sorry. I am tired of writing for people who want me to be different, but hope I don’t make a big deal about it. It turns out, I am always making a big deal about things. The reason I started writing was because I was making a big deal about my father dying. No one wanted to listen then. Even now, I suspect, it is too much.

Poetry has been the biggest microphone of my life. When I first started blogging, back in 2009, it felt like I was waving my thoughts all over the place. By the time people started trickling in, started listening to me, I had learned to write about easy things. Even my pain was easy, how it felt like I was rubbing the same wounds raw. I have lived most of my life within the margins of safety: the way I dress when I’m going to be out late, how politely I speak English, what I say to a TSA officer at the airport.

The thing is, though, I don’t just want to be safe. There is no life in safety. There is no growth. There is no love. There was no safety for my parents when they got married, when they moved across the world to be together, when they started a family. There was no safety when my father died. There was no safety when I wrote my first poem, when I started reading my work aloud, from one elementary classroom to the next., when I started my blog, when I published my book. There was no safety when I started writing this essay. My safety is important, but it is not enough. The fact that I have had to give up safety, even momentarily, to pursue a fuller life is a profound injustice. I imagine brown folks everywhere know what I mean. I imagine white folks will have to grapple a bit to understand our truth.

Resistance sounds like work, like stretching a rubber band just before it snaps. If I write thousands poems about being brown, I will not become less brown and I will also not become more brown. This is true of my love poems and my family poems and my time poems. Every poem I write is a brown poem, even if the reader forgets a brown woman wrote it, even if the reader never knew a brown woman wrote it. I have a home in all of my poems. No matter who else sees their footsteps there, these poems are always, first, mine.

Yena Sharma Purmasir a 22 year old poet and author from New York City. Her first book of poetry, Until I Learned What It Meant, was published by Where Are You Press in 2013. A recent graduate from Swarthmore College, Yena has spent her first year of “real adulthood” doing a year’s worth of service at Hour Children, a non-profit supporting formerly incarcerated women and their children. Yena was the Queens Teen Poet Laureate for 2010-2011 academic year. In 2014, she was the recipient of the Chuck James Literary Prize from the Black Cultural Center at Swarthmore College. Most recently, she learned that she is one of Coffee Meets Bagel’s “top 10% most LIKED members.” She owes all of her success to her family and friends, who not only read her poems, but also continue to help her choose the perfect profile picture.

You see, before you I was miserable and I would sleep for days on end and I’m sorry if I’ve built my walls up too high because of it. But you can help me take them down. I wish you would tell me what keeps you up at night so I could help you in the same ways you have helped me so much because I know I am not a lot of things, but I am yours and that’s all that matters.
—  from the first letter I ever wrote you
1984

I focus my attention to the lost souls passing me by,

and the utter feelings of hopelessness flooded through me like Colorado in 2013

These beings are practically walking around with a GPS their every move,

every step,

every breath…

The world is being molded

I feel others are completely blind to this predicament,

and I frequently find myself watching these shells with a sorrowful grin

Ignorance is not bliss

I guess humanity is a slab of clay, and handful by handful it is being taken away,

becoming translucent…

I know I am not the only one noticing,

so if someone is supposed to stand by my side while everyone else turns a blind eye,

where is he?

I wrote this poem in 2013. I’m reading through an old journal of mine and found this. And I feel almost everyone isn't turning a blind eye anymore…  This was written before the shootings and cops murdering and feminism becoming a movement (though these all have been happening for years), and some of this poem still proves true. Humanity has gone away, but I think we are all finally working to bring it back. This isn’t 1984, this is 2015.

The first poem I ever wrote

I was 12, year 7 in high school and we had to write a poem for English class. We were reading a book where the girl had to write a poem starting with ‘In the silence of the night’.
This is what I came up with. It was the moment I feel in love with writing so I really cherish it, even if it is very depressive (:

In the silence of the night
I cry in the dark
for I am scared of the day
for once again my life will be just out of my reach

The tears I wept
fall on my sheets
for the mask is going on again
my life has never started
and my life will never end


my first poem ever to be published: toive (eng: a wish)

I wrote it for my literature portfolio and later translated it into English. The original poem is on the left and the italiced lines are the ones that made it to the final version of the translated poem.

((pretty please do not steal or remove my capition))

youtube

Love

My poem on love, its the first poem I ever wrote so wanted to record it, its short and not that good but its here.

MEET & GREET! Submit your meet-and-greet stories to bryanstarsfanpictures@gmail.com. They are posted throughout the week.

On June 14, 2013, I met my idol and inspiration; John O'Callaghan. I told John about the band I was in and he told me to keep playing music and stay in said band. I sadly did not stay in said band but it’s okay. I still play music constantly. The Maine have a lot of really inspiring songs. Their Imaginary Numbers EP and Forever Halloween full length include some very emotionally deep songs and they’ve helped me a lot. In fact I wrote my first poem ever while listening to Room With No Windows. I don’t know, it seems like John is actually a pretty sad guy but he releases it all through music and I really like that. I’ve also learned how to use my voice a lot more thanks to him and I have a vocal range now that I am incredibly proud of. The Maine’s music has helped me through a lot and they all mean a lot to me. 
My first ever poem.

I wrote my first ever poem when i was about 8.

It got published in a book and i’ve been trying to find it all morning with no luck.

When i find it, i’ll post it. For now, here it is. (I’ve remembered it word for word ever since).

Fears.

Fears fears fears, always in the way

Each and every day

Fears fears fears, are what you’ve got to lose

Easier said than done, if you’re in my shoes

Fears fear fears, this poems rather clever

But there’s no need to worry.

For nothing lasts forever.

I think 8 year old Jack had it spot on.