so maybe i wrote this poem for

The phrase “love of my life” always sounded so dramatic to me because if there are over 6 billion people on the Earth, how is it truly possible that one person was made just for you? But then, there was you. And you broke my heart. And I moved on to date other people except that I didn’t because you were always sat in the very centre of my heart with your legs swinging.

Every hand I held, every date, every kiss: it was you my heart whined for. So answer me- is this how it’s always going to be now? Am I going to live my life and fall in love but always wish it was you in the back of my mind because if so, if I am always going to want you then that’s not fair on those who love me with all they have. In that case, maybe I am better off alone.

—  I cannot unlove you and it terrifies me.
and it’s old news, typical feminine nonsense, pseudo-emotional bullshit. Glib, trite, tired and hackneyed. I mean did you see the way she just went on and on about whatever she went on and on about? Probably a good read if you’re a teenage girl or into romance novels. Not to say her work doesn’t have merit, it’s just not for everyone. Maybe if she broadened her horizons a little and picked another topic. So she sat and she waited for love and she wrote about it when it came and when it didn’t. So she compared collarbones to clover fields and called herself lucky. It’s not exactly groundbreaking. 

and it’s vulnerability at its finest, timeless and honest, something that really hits home. A running faucet of intimacy. A masterpiece of human sensitivity. Inspirational and intensely relatable, really a must-read for anyone with a heart. Such a traditional topic too. Amazing how he captured it with such a fresh voice. Did you see the page where he wrote, "girl, you’re not lucky, I am lucky because I found you"? Look, I won’t say he went out and saved poetry all on his own, but god. He may as well have.
—  Trista Mateer

am i the moon to her sun? 

fuck no. (i could never reflect as brightly.)

all i know how to be is her sky—

to give her this vast expanse, 
maybe a rainbow or two in spring,
some stars over her shoulder. 

—a canvas for her light that envelops me completely.


she’s my wife. my sun. the person i thought about. in the end. // f.o.

lwd & skop challenge. day 7. ryke & daisy. 

imagine CEO namjoon.

Originally posted by cuteguk

  • what’s there to say? we already know he’s a great leader.
  • heir to the country’s largest publishing/printing firm.
  • also the greenest publishing/printing company in the country, like top five in the world, all thanks to namjoon’s initiatives.
  • he takes the whole inheriting business thing very seriously, determined to deserve the company and to be the best boss ever.
  • graduates early from a prestiged business school abroad and shares the responsibilities at the company to give his ageing father a break.
  • he’s so !!!! invested !!! in the health and happiness of his employees !!!!
  • wins All The Awards, for his green initiatives, planting trees, and making jobs, and protecting the environment ect, but also for having the happiest employees in the country.
  • he’s always arranging conferences and seminars for his employees to educate and encourage health/happiness/safety/equal opportunity/respect/ect in the workplace.
  • he works so hard to make sure everyone even down to the lowest branches are insured and that there are daycares and mom’s get the paid leave they need and deserve and that everyone gets and equal and fair wage.
  • bless him.
  • unfortunately all this work on top of his official workload means he doesn’t have much time to look after himself.
  • but in his mind he’s suffering is worth the safety and health of so many others he doesn’t even mind tho he’s kinda sad.
  • so, you work in the HR department.
  • and the head of the department fucks off on maternity leave and by some miracle ???? you get a hasty promotion.
  • no, you’re not really the head of HR but your function is pretty much the same and you don’t mind because the pay is goOD.
  • part of your responsibilities as head is to keep namjoon briefed on the general mood and concern of the people in his branch, i.e the large building full of people he feels directly responsible for.
  • he even has a whole suggestion box system, so once a week you just have to go through the notes people leave you and present a list to namjoon with a few possible solutions etc.
  • piece of cake.
  • except he’s hot as all hell.
  • i mean, it’s not a problem, far from it, he’s just very distracting.
  • but your meetings with him are the highlight of your work week so you do a really good job or at least you try, and also wear something nice.
  • and you think he’s just kinda clumsy and awkward.
  • but actually he finds you really distracting as well.
  • and your meetings are A Mess for the first month or so, until you get into the swing of things and get your shit together.
  • and the complaints he gets are never a big deal because everyone is happy and has nothing to complain about like ???
  • his secretary complaining that him playing smooth jazz all day in his office is getting kinda annoying and please would he play some classical or maybe bossa nova for a change.
  • or that his wacky ties and other questionable fashion choices are giving them a headache.
  • or jeon jungkook complaining about someone’s coffee breath again.
  • an anonymous submission says jimin is apparently??? too??? cute???
  • jung hoseok won’t stop moonwalking to the photocopier while humming thriller and it’s not even october and michael jackson doesn’t even moonwalk to thriller ugh ???????
  • yoongi keeps falling asleep at his desk and forgetting to go home at the end of the day.
  • harmless stuff like that. 
  • (namjoon stays late so he starts driving yoongi home because that’s just the kind of Great boss he is.)
  • and most of the time you two spend these meeting gossiping about drama between the departments and rolling on the floor laughing.
  • and you’re so in awe that someone can be so wonderful and selfless, making use of his privilege to protect people less fortune than him.
  • and your meeting are usually after lunch, so you come back from lunch to find him buried in paperwork and you begin to wonder, who takes care of him?
  • you ask if he had lunch and he’s like lol of course not have you met me
  • and you suggest postponing the meeting because there’s nothing urgent going on and you can take care of “kim taehyung keeps sneaking his dog into the office” on your own.
  • but he’s like “nO!!! please, our meetings are the only break i get, they keep me sane, they’re kinda the highlight of my week.”
  • and you sputter like ????? “im,,,what??? me ?? too?”
  • from that day on he starts taking you out for lunch every week and that way your meetings get twice as long.
  • and eventually you have to ask him, since nothing is going on in the office, “what about you, namjoon? how are you doing?”
  • and he thinks for a moment and he’s like “you know what, i feel kinda shitty actually.”
  • so you let him vent all his sadness and weird existential thoughts and angst for a few weeks and eventually suggest maybe he takes responsibility for his own health and happiness and maybe a good step would be to see a therapist?
  • and he does because he values your opinion and honestly it’s the only selfish thing he’s done in years and it makes him feel 1000001x better to have his concerns and ideas affirmed and listened to by a professional. therapy is cool, kids.
  • and one day shy joonie hands you a little poem he wrote you on a post-it, describing all the little detail he’s observed about him that makes his heart race and his head go all slow and foggy.
  • because he really,,,,,,,,,,,,, really likes you, and hopes this isn’t weird or anything if you don’t feel the same way that’s cool but he’s felt this way for a while and you’re the best thing that’s happened to him since this company and he just thought you deserved to know and he’s sorry.
  • and you have to like glue yourself to that dining chair so you don’t climb that dang table and throw yourself at him because namjoon is the most wonderful man on earth you treasure him and you want to keep him safe and happy because he deserves as much kindness as he’s prepared to give and he has nothing to be sorry for and you love him.
  • and he loves you too.
  • anyway, nsfw under the cut.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I absolutely adore your writing, especially the piece about Judas at Christ's grave. Have you any more "queer Jesus" pieces, if I may describe them as that?


the disciple who loves jesus arrives at the tomb - the one you mentioned, in which judas visits christ’s grave, and it’s sad and also gay

pink marble & gold paint - a trans man meets jesus for the first time

gold dust - the intersection of trans identity, an anxiety disorder, and going to heaven

valentine - i’m gay but mostly i have a crush on god

your mother claims she saw a ghost at the supermarket - a mom thinks about her bi son and a queer judas metaphor haunts the peaches & avocados (homophobia mention tw, suicide mention tw)

redemption (dictionary poem xxv) - a shameless self insert where i make out with jesus

trans jesus - like it says on the tin, an ode to my fave trans man, jesus christ

ache - a shameless self insert where i gay marry jesus, or maybe just a human man, either way, the marriage is gay

rumors about jesus - technically this isn’t explicitly gay, but i wrote this fragment admiring jesus and i’m gay, so it’s gay subtext

judas meeting an angel - he’s on the way to heaven to get kissed by the lord because forgiveness is a core value of christianity

For my mother

In kindergarten I learned that the word gay means happy
But in middle school I learned that the word gay was
nothing related to happiness
So I admired girls on television
Became infatuated with beautiful women
And I told myself
“I wanna be like her”
Because society never told me I could like girls
But then one day in high school
You realize
You don’t want to be her,
You want to be on top of her
But when you tell your mom
“I’m gay”
She rolls her eyes
And “no one wants this for their child”
And “it’s just a phase”
And “it’s not natural”
And “i’ll be praying for you”
But Mom, I’ll tell you what it’s really like
It’s like getting drunk
So you can force yourself to kiss boys
Hoping this time it will maybe, just maybe, feel different
It’s like doing everything you can to convince yourself
And others
“I’m not gay”
“I would never”
Like how the word lesbian still feels dirty rolling off your tongue
It’s like falling into depression your senior year of high school
Because you can’t even tell your friends
And you’re scared
And you’re anxious
And society tells you it’s wrong
And you think back to kindergarten when the word gay was supposed to mean happy
But Mom, I’ll tell you what it’s really like
It’s like one day you meet a girl with eyes as blue as the clear summer sky
And she makes your heart skip a beat
And she calms even your best days
And maybe this is what feelings are
And maybe this is love
And maybe no man has ever come to close to making you feel this way
So your good days become great days
And your self-confidence is the highest it’s ever been
And you feel free
And you feel you
And you have hopes
And you have dreams again
And that’s what it’s really like, Mom.
And this isn’t just a phase
And this is my life
And in kindergarten I learned that the word gay means happy and I finally believe that it does.

-a poem I wrote when I came out to my mother

Ten years from now I don’t want to tell the story of how I lost the boy of my dreams because I was too afraid to try. No, that’s not my story. This is my story.

I love you. Or at least I like you a lot. I don’t know how it works because I’ve never felt anything this strong before. That might sound crazy but it’s true. You are constantly in my head, like this annoying song stuck on repeat and you try to get it out of there but you can’t. And when we’re together I am insanely happy. And I say insanely because it’s just so much happiness that it almost drives me insane thinking about it. You are goofy and handsome and smart and incredible and so beautiful. Just all of you, in every way, is beautiful.

So maybe my story won’t end with you and me being together. Maybe we won’t ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But now I know I’ve tried. My story may not be perfect but at least I know that I wrote it, I didn’t let it write me.
—  Story time.
The sun is starting to shine again so maybe I can too.
—  ck.writes (on Instagram)
The thing about writing, it’s such an intimate thing. When it get shared and people resonate with it, I don’t feel good. I don’t feel good knowing hundreds of people out there or maybe even thousands or whatever number of people who came across my writing felt the same way with me. Because sharing what you wrote might make you less lonelier but it will definitely make you sad that so many people are hurting. My heart is hurting and they are hurting too. I just want to hug everyone who is feeling the same way.
—  kissmylime 
I think of you.
I wish I didn’t.
I wish the rainy season in my head
Didn’t cause flashbacks.
Flashbacks of you and I
Kissing in flames of desire,
Making me burn up with the warm breaths
You would breath into my lungs.
Dammit I wish I could forget the
Way I looked under your glowing ember eyes.
You. You. You.
It’s always going to be you.
I made you into the hero,
My white knight
Here to slay my depression.
I somehow romanticized you
Into love because I remember how your kisses
Felt like a pinch
Here To distract
Me from another pain somewhere else inside me
I know now you were nothing but a band aid.
You just covered my wounds
You did no actual healing.
Oh but dammit
It is hurricane season and his love
Doesn’t act like umbrella
Like Your love did.
And dammit
It’s pouring inside my head-
He doesn’t know how to keep me warm
He doesn’t know how to pinch me
Dammit he is a stranger to depression
And you are a warm friend.
I need a kind greeting when I get to the door
But he only offers bad directions.
I am not asking for him to make the monsters go away
I’m only asking that he sit with me
While they visit.
But he thinks the darks spots in me
Are just the places
That need light.
He can’t see me in them
You knew my black
And called it my night
You told me that everyone needs
A dark place to rest every once a while.
Dammit you ruined me.
No one will ever get to map out my heart
Because it will only lead back to you.
I am just a bridge to you
Sorry I was a bridge to you
You lit your half on fire
I am just a burnt crisp of wood
That used to belong to something
That is longer existing.
Parts of me are no longer existing.
He tries to rebuild me
But the manufacturer
Is out of commission.
I am like a car without a roof
He can’t take me out in the rain.
I am thinking of you
And when you told me
That you were going to my life raft when
Waves took me under.
Well my heart is drowning
And he doesn’t know where
You left the boats
He doesn’t know where to dive in.
I am just a swimming pool of self loathing
He can’t see where to put the love to save me.
I’m thinking of you.
It will only ever be you.
In the monsoon raging in me
You are a bolt of lighting
And I am just another clash of thunder
Rumbling out in the distance after you.
Sometimes when the storm is pounding
I look into the puddles it’s created
In my reflection
I only see you.
I wish the rain drops didn’t feel so much like
Your kisses.
If they didn’t maybe I could let it wash me away
But the landslide only brings me
To the places you once were.
I am just another abandon beach;
My heart is just another place you once were.
—  You were my shelter in the storm but you have left my heart homeless.
interconnection | myg

summary: you can never trust anything in the wizarding world. not even your own goddamn journal. 


pairing: yoongi x female reader
word count: 8k
genre: fluff
a/n: all poetry in y/n’s journal written by yours truly! obviously, anything written in yoongi’s journal is written by him. also, i know the word count’s pretty short in comparison to my seokjin fic, but a majority of this fic is in messaging format, which explains both the great physical length and the shorter word count. inspired by this drarry fic, which rocks and u should read.

“all art is quite useless.” — wilde, 1890.

The first thing your mother bought you in Diagon Alley, age eleven, was a worn, brown leather journal, its pages tinted and stained but empty nonetheless. She got it off of the highest shelf in the top corner of the crowded bookstore, stretching her arms and legs to reach it, the last of its kind.

“What’s this for?” You asked as she placed it in your open, waiting palms.

“For you to write in while at Hogwarts,” she said. “I find that words always seem to have a better way of flowing when on paper rather than out loud. Don’t you?”

“I dunno,” you responded, shrugging your little shoulders as you placed the journal in your cauldron along with the rest of your required schoolbooks. “Isn’t it dumb to keep a journal?”

“Only if you treat it as such,” your mother replied, as sage as she always was. “Come, let’s get you a wand.”

With the mention of a wand, your mind wandered far from the beaten leather journal in your cauldron as you skipped out of Flourish and Blott’s, unaware of how significant the journal would end up being in your later years at Hogwarts.

Keep reading

If the future truly holds a place for you and I, would you mind if we just skipped straight to that chapter already? I’m sorry.. it’s just, I am so tired of holding on to the uncertainty of maybe. The distance might be keeping us apart for now but if we hold on to hope, we can win and that’s a god damn promise. Please don’t give up on us. Please keep fighting for us. A connection like ours has the power to keep the whole planet alive.
—  8th July 2017// 5:30 p.m

Enjoltaire Week | Day 1 | Painting

Summary:  Three portraits are discovered in a hidden cellar in Paris, all three dating back from the nineteenth century. What’s weird is that the man in the portraits looks an awful lot like Enjolras. What’s weirder is that the paintings are all signed “R.”

Tags: Modern AU; Reincarnation AU; Rated G

Word count: 3.5k


“Remind me why anyone would choose to watch what is considered to be the worst movie in history?”

Enjolras sat on the couch and balanced a huge bowl of popcorn on his lap. Courfeyrac’s picks for movie night were usually more mainstream and understandable. Well. As understandable as romantic comedies could be, but at least they didn’t require much brain activity. At least it allowed Enjolras to switch off his brain and shove handfuls of popcorn into his mouth while wondering how heteronormativity and dumb misunderstandings had become such crowd-pullers.

“That’s because it’s an experience!” Courfeyrac argued, slumping on the couch next to Enjolras and seriously compromising the balance of the popcorn bowl. “As your best friend, I just can’t let you die a Room virgin!”

“What’s so great about it, anyway?”

“Everything! The acting is so bad! It’s like… You know how people say that if you let monkeys in a room full of typewriters the monkey would eventually end up rewriting Shakespeare? Well switch the monkeys with aliens who only have a vague idea of how human interactions work and you’ve got The Room! It’s flipping fantastic!”

Enjolras shrugged. The enjoyment of intrinsically bad media was beyond him.

“There are some really interesting studies about trash movies and their ironical audience, actually,” Combeferre chimed in as he joined them in the living room. He brought heavy-looking pizza plates that he settled on the coffee table before settling next to Courfeyrac. “Something about collectively liking something so bad that it gets good.”

“Exactly!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, triumphant. “So sit back and brace yourself for this absolute masterpiece.”

He switched on the TV and started rummaging through the pile of DVDs to find the right one. Automatically, the first channel popped up on screen. The news were still on and a generic news anchor looked at the three of them in the eyes.

“Wait,” Enjolras said before Courfeyrac could switch on the DVD player.

And tonight we come back on an incredible discovering in Paris earlier today,” the news anchor announced, “when three paintings were discovered in a cellar in the Latin Quarter. The three works of art allegedly date back from the nineteenth century and predate the Haussmanian renovations of the capital. For more on this story, we go to Olivier Barron in the Latin Quarter, Olivier?

The three paintings appeared on screen. Silence fell on the living room, leaving nothing but the artificial chatter of the television. In his seat, Enjolras turned to stone.

-Twitter already rushed to title the works names such as ‘Apollo in Red’-


That jaw line. That nose. The same eye colour. Enjolras’ throat tightened. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

“Holy shit,” Courfeyrac whispered. “Enj, it’s you!”

Keep reading

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’s all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous
because we’ve never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame - not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ve told
us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “print her, print her, she’s mad but she’s
magic. there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’t help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
—  Charles Bukowski, An Almost Made Up Poem

“What’s wrong with you?”

I. Sometimes I watch the light leave my eight year old cousin’s eyes. He gets so silent. I watch him turn into me. I try to reassure him that he can speak, reassure him that he can trust me, but he just shrugs and sits still. How do I protect him from the inevitable?

II. My best friend got her heart broken by someone that shares the same birthday as me and I feel as though it’s my fault. That I have to leave her because I’m a constant reminder of the person that hurt her.

III. My mother dearest always exclaims, “you need help!” in front of my family members to embarrass me. As though I’m not in therapy, on mood stabilizers and antipsychotics. Then she acts as though I’m a burden on her shoulders, throwing my diagnosis back in my face. I don’t want to live with her anymore. She drives me to do things. She never listens and she will push me over the edge.

IV. Life doesn’t appeal to me. It doesn’t feel as though it’s my destiny. I’m a missing piece trying to fit in places I don’t belong. It’s so easy to be lonely in this lifetime. So easy to be surrounded and still feel alone.

V. I don’t believe in much, but I’m trying. Maybe I’ll find a purpose in religion, but I only ever lose myself further. I’m trying to find happiness in a body, at the bottom of a bottle, in a higher power, but I always come up empty.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

to those who claim they don’t need feminism:

take a step back.
maybe a few steps back, for some of you.

take a step back out of your world and look at our world, the world you’re still a part of whether you’d like to be or not.

take a step back and listen to the bones crunching beneath your feet.
the spines snapping under your toes. 
the hair tangled in between your neatly trimmed fingernails.

look at our bodies.
our bodies, that we have bent and broken into a staircase for you to walk up.
our bodies, that we have have torn and ripped to pieces so you could use our limbs as a handrail.
our bodies, that have been branded with slurs and jeers that you won’t have to endure because of it.

this platform that you stand upon, this platform you think makes you above the rest of us women who are still fighting, who are still unsatisfied– 
we built this for you. 

you stand atop the skeletons of susan b. anthony, sojourner truth, eleanor roosevelt, betty frieden, maya angelou, coretta scott king. 

tell me, would you tell these women that you don’t need them? 
that you don’t need their accomplishments? the rights they fought their entire lives for? the rights they cried, yelled, protested, and died for?

tell me, could you have done what they did? 

without them, you would not be able to stand so tall.
without them, you would not be able to declare your strength and independence. 
without feminism, you wouldn’t be able to say that you don’t need just that.


we are not asking for you to lay down with us, to take the blows as we do. 

keep your primped hair and your manicured nails, and keep your distance. some people will never be cut out to fight.

and that’s okay. we have enough fight for all of us.

we just ask that perhaps, instead of shunning us and ignoring history,
you open your eyes,
and maybe offer a bit of thanks.


a piece dedicated to those who say they don’t need feminism -c.h. // instagram: (via @poeticaffinity)

i wrote this piece in response to a comment i got under a poem of mine about slutshaming. a summary of it was that she didn’t need feminism, and that she was strong and independent enough on her own. little did she realize, that the very reason she can be so strong and independent and denounce feminism is because, well, feminism. 

keep in mind that “primped hair” and other similar lines are symbolic of a very clean, distanced female, not of any woman of a certain race or anything. 

I never thought someone could outshine the stars,
or make the moon seem obsolete,

But you change the tide of the waves crashing in my head;
you are more comfort than the distant pinpricks ever could be,

And I can’t look the sun in the eyes,
but you always let me see the light in yours
if only to remind me that I have my own.

You’re the one I need and want, I never had the right words to say up to your face. So I wrote entries upon entries about little things like the way you smiled, or was it the way you always were there to comfort me? I know you like her a lot, but you’ve given up on love. You’ve given up on me. I don’t know why I have to fall for the ones that have left me in the middle of no where, in the middle of my heart, which feels like my heart will be no where after you leave. But you’ve never left, maybe physically, yet you’ve never left my thoughts.