writers corner

I bet my life
It wasn’t right.
Keeps me in the dark.

Thrash in cold water
Warmer than your shoulder.

Hear your words,
Lies absurd.
My teeth grind to powder.

Reality from a gun,
I just feel numb.

Point with the finger.
Phone off the ringer.
Thoughts of you last like the sun.

X marks the spot;
The place where I thought.

You kept inside
This heart of mine,
But it was already bought.

I say to myself,
There’s nobody else.

I compete with a ghost
Who knows the most
While men creep out of cells.

Friends in the end
To start before we begin.

These emotions stay the night,
And toss and turn with fright
Holding on to the thought of him.

How do you feel?
I cannot tell.

The lies you lead;
I’ll let you be.
From your grace I fell.

If only I knew
The truth from you;

The way you thought of me.
Then I could finally let it be,
But it will not come soon.

Left in stone
Your heart still roams.

A house of lies
And no goodbyes,
This place is not my home.
—  This Place is Not My Home

The tall grass builds a wall around this
chipped and peeled home, keeping the ticks
contained to its aimless yard. We girls
touch our cheeks to the shingles, which are
mourning dove-gray at this
point, though the name is not right
for their sound, so we call them
dreading doves. Today the walls are the yellow
of buttermilk, impenetrable. Then, there were
holes in the wood you could see right through.
Something had burrowed awhile, maybe
just wind. Our eyelashes, bent back, let
an eye fill the ellipse with the things you’re
doing: an action movie on a small cloudy screen
that someone’s younger brother is talking
over. A kick, a thump, a name called
exasperatingly, then you all go quiet again.
Decades later a young dog disappears.
The owner distributes word on hot pink
flyers. We would have sobbed over this then.
Now we just have to hope the loss
isn’t attrition to the elements but supper
for a strayed coyote, tall, descendent of a
wolf. Hear the sound of percolation.
The distance after dinner you had to run
from porch to kitchen to remove
the pot of coffee from the heat kept it I guess
from being completely perfect. Those nights
I learned nothing is.
He said where’s the spark. I said
things aren’t all that flammable down
here. The wet grass extinguishes us. We look up
for that, wait for a signal
from the heavens to do something
with consequences. The sky is where
the meteors, brilliance that isn’t even alive,
rush around, running from their flaming tails.
We learn by fleeting example. It’s only
a matter of when. You must have been looking
away or under a completely different pattern of
stars, I said, the hundred nights we saw
sparks flying. Look, I told him just in time:
there’s one.

Drown me in your sea of lost
words. Tonight is drunk
with the death of meaning,
our lives, off kilter, stumbling
into sudden collapse. Some dreams don’t
make sense, confused visions sprouting
from fragmented fear. What can I translate
from the black flower seeping through
our mouths, no matter what music I cut
the air into with the blade of this tongue
it is reburied in silence heavy as unloved
love, the stone of every body my ghost couldn’t
carry without crushing most of what its made of.
No way to say what I want to say in this language
made up to name the parts of God’s hearts gone
astray, but I pray in a song sewn from quiet,
in wordless dance’s disarray among the storm
and the riot, the fight and the fray, to understand
the reasons we seek dreams filled with meaning,
why we wander a world of abandon, desperate
in our need for one good, holy thing to stay.
—  this meaning: \ Joshi
but my dear,” he said, “you are not a story.”
“you are not a book, given to them
as a means of escape from the harsh truths
that devour this world.
you are not a beautiful set of words,
strung together only to elegantly roll
off the tongues of passers-by.
you are not a spectacular tale
of good conquers evil, of light against dark.
you are a thunderstorm,
beauty and fear in the perfect balance,
kind yet frightening,
you, my dear, are painfully real.
—  e.m.b, the painful truth of the matter

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

One, they think too much. Over thinking is their best friend and they’ll whisper words to themselves. Repeat sentences loudly like they’re talking to someone they only know. They’ll furrow their brows, close their eyes, tap their fingers or perhaps tangle their hands together just to be able to concentrate in an already secluded place. Their mind, their body, their soul is filled with words of significance and insignificance just waiting to be written or perhaps spoken. They’re neglectful when they’re on their own heads that you’d feel more useless than a blank sheet of paper.

Two, they’re old; not with age but with their souls. With how they think and how they know tidbits of everything and nothing at the same time. They’re expert on research. They’re masterminds of information. They’re their own personal book filled with nothing but facts and lies that they think they must know because why not. Maybe they’ll need it in the future. Writers could spout about politics in one second then change the topic to how hilarious that meme he saw on the internet the other day. Living within them - in them, are countless of souls that makes them knowledgeable. They’re a skeleton of basic and important essays and articles and blog posts and poems and did you knows.

Three, they’re cold. So cold that if they touch you, you’ll burn. Your skin will bloom into goosebumps as they whisper metaphors that you will never understand. They’ll recite quotes from their favorite books, sing songs from their favorite band. They’re cold because they make you turn into mush and then leave you be in a storm of your own feelings without any blanket - fur or skin - draped on you. They’ll ignore you for hours, for days, for months, even years, to focus on the words on the tip of their tongue waiting for them to vomit onto paper, screen, any free surface they could find. They won’t think of you and dream of you at the same time. They’ll love you from the distance, from a centimeter, from the moon and back but they’ll still leave you cold. Like they are. Because their emotions might overflow if there isn’t an ice trapping unsaid words that they might be afraid to show.

Four, they’ll write about you. Yes, they’ll ignore you but they’ll surely write about you. They’ll scribble bit and pieces of you in poems about moon and stars and dark sky in a cold night. They’ll force thoughts of you between cramped spaces of a prose already written but they refuse to re-write because it’s already perfect but it’ll be more perfect with you on it. They’ll think of every synonym, every words that rhyme with your name and create a beautiful set of stairs of a poem for your beauty to descend down. You’ll find yourself in everything that they pen down, they draw, they scratch, they bleed. Even when you’re not together anymore, they’ll still pour a hot cup of tea for you to sip while they settle you down on a melancholic essay about heart breaks and rain pouring down on them.

Five, they know how you both will end. Writers know every cliché on paper, scroll, television, or movies; everything. They just don’t know why you’ll end that way but thereafter, they will operate the insides of your relationship with a sharp scalpel, taking out films of memories and looks for where they went wrong. Perhaps they held your ribs to tightly, breaking a few or pierced your heart with a toothpick, making you bleed slowly but surely. They know what expression to put in every situation but when they’re slapped on the face with it, they’ll just swallow the lump of words stuck on their throat because spoken words don’t stay as long as written. They’ll want to write their apologies or confession or eulogy just to make sure that they won’t fuck up with their stuttering breath and watery eyes. Writers know that nothing is forever because even books have an ending. The end.

Six, writers love. Writers love so hard that everything from one to five doesn’t matter. Their flaws, your flaws, your relationship’s flaws; they don’t matter. Because as long as they love and they can hold you with their arms and whisper words of devotion on your ears at night when they have a writer’s block, they’re content. Although know that sometimes they will fuck you up because their minds are morbid as a killer and they have a depth even they don’t know how far go. But they’ll scatter sparkling dusts of apologies in the dead of the night as sweaty fingers grip you gently but tight enough to bruise you for a day or two because they might be neglectful but they’re possessive. They’ll plant their lips on your chest and sway with your body in a dance you two only know. They’ll love you. They’ll love you so hard. Just be sure to not suffocate. Against the crashing wave of their moods, their random bouts of insanity at night when a sentence doesn’t sound right, don’t asphyxiate. After all, you’re the only one who sees them like that. It’s both a privilege and a curse.

So, don’t fall in love with a writer. They bask in the unrequited and agonize over the shared. Don’t fall in love with a writer, they’ll expose you wholly; vulnerable to the world. Just– never fall in love with a writer.

Despite that, please fall in love with me.

—  Don’t Fall In Love With A Writer
I think every artist has their own personal drug. Van Gogh ate his yellow paint to make him happy inside. Beethoven drank wine like it was water. Edgar Allan Poe had his depression and sadness and in a way it was his drug, it was the one thing he used as a clutch to keep on writing. I think I’ve discovered my drug and although it’s not as bad as the rest, it’s just as deadly. For you see, my drug has stars for eyes and a devilish smile.

~Excerpts from the book I’ll never write #149


7:13 pm

My younger sister is only 10 years old
And already she knows what it means
To hate oneself and, if you ask her,
She can tell you right away what depression is.

My younger sister is only 10 years old
And she comes up to me asking me
Whether or not she is beautiful-
There are boys in her class who whisper
And she cannot find it in herself to keep her head up.

My younger sister is only 10 years old
And the weighing machine has become her best friend,
She steps onto it every day 
Asking me if the weight shown on the scale
Is the ‘ideal’.

My younger sister is only 10 years old
And when people call her pretty she casts her eyes downwards,
Mumbles a meek 'thank you’ and tells me
She thinks they did it out of courtesy.

My younger sister is only 10 years old
And already people are telling her
That 'if you don’t try to dress pretty people won’t like you’-
I’ve seen her look at my dresses and sigh
That she wished she was pretty enough to pull them off.

My younger sister is only 10 years old
And when I told her I was leaving to college
She cried for hours and told me that people were right
And that no one was going to stick around to love her
Because she wasn’t what people wanted.

My younger sister is only 10 years old
And her heart has been broken too many times
Despite her tender age and status as a child
And you ask me why I’m climbing on rooftops
Screaming 'let children be children’
Because, what people are taking is their innocence
And my younger sister is only 10.

—  s.r. // my younger sister
I miss you.
But I don’t miss waiting for your messages. I don’t miss feeling like I’m not good enough. I don’t miss being your last option.
I miss your eyes.
But I don’t miss them judging the way I dress. I don’t miss seeing them wander around. I don’t miss them checking the time while you were with me.
I miss your mouth.
But I don’t miss them judging how I feel,“you’re just being over-sensitive”. I don’t miss seeing you smile towards others and not me. I don’t miss thinking about sharing what I wanted to be just mine.
I miss your hands.
But I don’t miss having to grasp onto them desperatly. I don’t miss the way they reminded me that at then end of it all, I’ll be nobody to you. I don’t miss the way each ring, was a different option.
I miss you
But I don’t want to.
I don’t give a damn what you think
I’ll scream in quiet rooms
And sing in public places.
I will eat too much junk food one week,
Run three miles a day the next.
You have no strings on me:
The Venn-Diagram of our orbits
Are two separate circles.
I will shed tears when I want,
Laugh at stupid jokes,
Blessed lord, I’ll make them too.
I don’t give a shit at the face you make
When I binge-drink on a Tuesday
Or take myself out to an expensive ass restaurant.
Here’s my middle-finger to you saying
“Gosh, look at him,
He’s so profane in this poem.”
This poem would get a high-five from Bukowski.
Damn right it’s cocky,
This poem puffs its chest out at the gym.
Sure, it’s not healthy
But who’s one to talk
When you get an extra shot of espresso
In your shitty black coffee.
I’m not afraid to fuck up,
I will ruin my life on the daily
But I’ll do it on my own terms
I will fall apart gracefully.
—  “I Have Lost My Ability To Give A Shit; So Suck It, Alright?” - Nishat Ahmed
I deserve more than cold coffee and half hearted I love you’s
—  e.m.b
What a mess
I have made
of myself
and of this place.
—  Savannah Black