writers-on-tumblr

I believe that perhaps true self-love comes from letting go a part of yourself that you really loved but is no longer making you grow. It may be something self-destructive. It may be a habit that you thought was keeping you safe but really was keeping you away from your true long-term goals. It may be someone who you shared love with for so long but isn’t really the right person for you, and it’s painful, but you have to let go because that person’s part in you is no longer making you grow. You can’t compromise your own growth for someone else’s. You can’t compromise your own happiness just because someone sees theirs in yours. You have to go somewhere else when the environment that you’re in isn’t beneficial for your well-being and development. You have to replant yourself in a garden that’s best suited for your soul. You have to go all the way when it comes to taking care of yourself especially when it comes to protecting your own space and energy. You have to go all the way when it comes to loving yourself, and that means self-sacrifice and doing the best that you can to become who you always wanted to be.
—  Juansen Dizon, True Self-Love
Writing Prompt #326

It was just another unknown number—probably a telemarketer or a wrong number call. With this new number, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. I hadn’t expected panicked sobbing, however.

“Please please please, Mom, come find me, come find me, he took me, I’m—”

The call cut off with an ear-splitting scream. I stared at my phone, chills running down my body. What had just happened?

Every word we write

Has a cost

Left a scars

When we pulled them out

From the dephts of our hearts

Every word has a value

The ink we spilled

The pages we throw

Don’t waste them

They have every right to be shown

//To all the writers out there//

Df.

let go
of everything.
and why not?
my pieces will look pretty
burning
as they fall to earth.

poem fragment #85

Was it time to let go
of this false façade
and admit
all manner of bullets
could pierce my skin
admit
all manner of bullets
Had been piercing my skin
all this time
for I had the unsealed entry wounds
to prove it
ones that continued to leak
with the mocking liquid of life
but no exit wounds, no
for the stubborn pieces of metal
were lodged deep within
refusing to part ways
with a not so foreign place
and so I remained riddled
weak and on my last knees
a sight
I did not wish for you to see
with only my reinforced wall of will
keeping my known truth at bay
whilst crumbling and crumbling away
revealing just how vulnerable I could be
revealing I was not as untouchable
as I chose to believe.
— 

Smoke and Mirrors

My Words & Your Songs

For the distance traveled, stories told,

and what little we have to show for

careful footprints left out in the cold.

I can say that was all just a metaphor-

for two beings living with one soul.

Or memories igniting false hope.

Well, my lungs have remained sore

and there’s no-one around to consol.

Taught to bid each farwell plainly-

we’d never learned to take things slow.

Guess our eyes must do some raining

if you are ever going to grow.

These thin roots had found your seeds…

accidently? To touch me, purposely.

When I speak with your silent ghost-

You’re the reason I love losing sleep.

This holy garden holds haunted weeds…

it’s time to unearth what we hide underneath.


-tinydancerinyourhead

At times I would like to run


What is that thing that makes us
consume mountains and hills
disregard what is easy
and go build roads at
someone else’s graveyards?

At times I’d like to run
until I’d be exhausted, until
I’d be over the wall.

I would like to see the poppies
pop, but my hope
is burned out 
amidst a hiccup and two falls.

I don’t think I’m comfortable
between the disposition of
this huge stone here and the
anvil that I carry, notwithstanding.

Sal Gen

Smith

Endorphin chaser call me method man

All heads look up I say catch me can

You too delirious with your seriousness

Toe touching coughing spitting leering an

I’m gonna peak while you sleep

Peek while you asleep

Stab you between the sheets

Free Meek Mill

Let me tell you how I feel

Listen I’m a glisten deep in the Rhine

Too young to be fine wine

Defying your defiant constant climb

Define my definite death

Deaf blind mute give me more rest

No sleep inside of my chest

Heart beating cardiac arrest

Fuck 12 trust God

Ball out Dennis Rod

Man I’m just a rocket man

Cartographer without a plan

Got a following like Stan Stan Stan

Satan holding my right hand

Tell me between you and your man

Whose higher on the stand

Gold medal pedal

Really gotta level

I’m just trouble

U-turn before the sign

Going 90 in a fucking 45

Drinking 45’s on I95

I am sinking deep with my dive

Into a land where only I thrive

Splash splash splash dribble

Feed it up like Kibble

Bits of me Jimmy Kimmel

Bits of me Hendrix

Too white to verbalize this

Too me to not rock a red dress

But let me give you an address

Not presidential

Just residencal

Mentally I am strictly potential

Picking up dirt from trash

Stunting high class

So when I pass you just pour me a glass

Anger

Vexation pulls me in vehemently. My nails sink deep into the side of my skull.

I try to pull it off by pretending to itch.

But you notice. I knew you would.

The tremble of my face is a vent.

I watch you ruminate on the event that occurred.

You think it’s you. You think you did this to me. Which makes me even more choleric.

Not at you, but at myself.

-hope

.ten habits

1. dragging a multipurpose pelt across the groves

2. using said pelt to uniform myself when no one is looking

3. narrowcasting sorrow 

4. affiliating with the concept of a palpable “another” / losing

5. allocating reason to each bullet of a word 

6. turning the floor over to water and watching emotions break my own fingers

7. administering a sedative to highlights 

8. noticing the pelt / i dropped it / i hated it / why

9. kissing the pelt again and again

10. using said pelt to uniform myself when no one is looking hoping someone is looking


© Agnieszka Mauch

Pills

Like last week, @bptowel and I decided to write stories a prompt and this time it was with the prompt word “pigeon”.

Usually she kills everyone cause she is a sadistic bitch that likes to make me cry and I write fluff cause I’m weak and can’t handle the stress of any negative emotion 

So our challenge was: she has to write a happy story, and I have to write a dark and sad story.

(Also I wasn’t feeling well yesterday so that’s why it’s only here today)


He would have been beautiful, would he have been awake. His eyes were closed. It was better this way, she couldn’t stand the thought of seeing them open. Their emptiness would only remind her that he was gone. Today, in this church, was the last time she would see her son.

It happened 10 days ago. Ten days ago, her son stopped breathing and so did she. She remembered entering the house, starting to tell the story of a dumb pigeon she saw that day. She remembered the silence she was so greeted with instead of his usual sweet response. She can still feel the panic when he didn’t answer and she called his name over and over. Her chest being heavier as she went to his room. The second of fear while opening the door. Even more fear when he wasn’t there. She remembered going everywhere in the house panicking and screaming his name. Entering the bathroom and screaming. The pills next to his unconscious body. The sound of her phone while she tried to type 911 is still crystal clear. She cried and prayed, hoping her reason to live was gone just for a moment and not forever.

A lot of people came to her. She didn’t see their faces, her eyes staring at the coffin. How did this happen? 

It was all her fault, no one could convince her otherwise. She was the one that didn’t notice that her son was struggling to stay a life. When he tried to talk about it, she brushed it away like it was nothing. That nothing costed him his life.  

She would never forgive herself.