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#i might write a poem about you
inkskinned · 2 years
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oh, i love the way relationships develop their own personal language of love. when all that joy shows the way they love you. i love when it is a little icon to who they are, to how you get along with them.
my sister takes a picture of a dead bug and sends it to me - this is you. my friend asks me how the move is going; she put a reminder in her phone to check up on me. i put a piece of ice down my friend's back, he returns the favor by holding my phone over my head and making me jump to catch it. jason and i scream-sing green day while going all of 15 miles an hour down country roads. molly is who i go to for a quiet night in with 5 dollar wine.
i go out for dinner with them and have to step outside to take a phone call; when i come back they've ordered my favorite appetizer without needing to be asked. andrew and i have a long-standing tradition of him picking me up to spike me directly into the first soft-looking surface around. i don't even need to speak to my best friend - she and i will just look at each other and have an entire conversation. burst out laughing at 3 PM, high and cackling like we're evil witches. i just moved by myself into a new city - my brother keeps introducing me to his friends that now live close to me. he always says - oh yeah, this is sibling and then pretends to ignore me. for days now, my family has been in and out of my apartment, just tinkering with things; making sure i am settling in nicely.
i usually have watermelon instead of cake for my birthday; kim forces a full yankee candle into the rind so i can have something to blow out and wish on. for 20 minutes on a saturday, all us grown adults crawl into one bed to have a cuddle puddle like we're in high school again. every 20 seconds someone starts giggling, and then we're laughing again. nick calls me from california; we both groan about the price of tickets, agonizing. miranda and i meet up in the city for the first time in years - without discussing it beforehand, the minute we lay eyes on each other, we both strike gruesome little gremlin poses instead of waving. dean always goes for the hug. joe always does a single firm handshake. sometimes i think about my friends and get so happy i just start crying.
oh, how wonderful to live in a world where affection is biologically ingrained in us. how wonderful that affection helps us build our single greatest strength - community. how wonderful that affection is our body's way of saying - thing is good, let's keep. how wonderful, this language, this skein we weave! to show the other person - i might not always say it. but i love that you live in me.
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eyrieofsynapses · 10 months
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good evening, all. it is May the 25th. our lilacs are blooming, just as the ones at the Watch House did. and I am thinking about remembrance of the fallen, and GNU, and the love in commemoration.
y'know, I read Night Watch… oh, maybe a year ago and some months ago. and the lilac symbolism, the remembrance of the Watch, has always struck me with the depth of the emotion of it, the tangibility of it in the flowers. but I wasn't aware that today was the day until I saw commemorative posts, all that gorgeous artwork and more, on my dash.
I was also not aware, until now, that fans commemorated the day not only because of the book reference, but in support of Terry Pratchett and of those with Alzheimer's. which knocked me over a bit because of course, of course the group that would use GNU to honor him would do that. and… I've been thinking about GNU a lot, lately, and this caught me again.
I read Going Postal a bit ago, and reread it recently. both times, the parts about GNU made me tear up. this idea of the names, the memories, the lives of the clacks workers who dedicated themselves to ensuring that people heard each other's voices—all those names spoken again and again and again by that which they poured their souls into, winging along in the air as they could not, an eternal reminder that they were loved—how could that not touch a person's heart?
when I found out that fans online used it to memorialize him, I damn well cried. hell, I still tear up just thinking about it. do you know, there's a code for an HTTP header "X-Clacks-Overhead: GNU Terry Pratchett" written by Reddit users to put in webpages, where it goes unseen by the average user? and in 2015, when Netcraft took a survey, there were eighty-four thousand websites using it? it's eight years later—how many thousands upon thousands of websites have this now, do you think? how many little cables of light has his name flown along, now? how many times?
that alone is absurdly and unimaginably lovely in its own right, but… there's something else to it. there's something about remembering with the lilac sprigs every year, just as Vimes and those who were there remembered their dead. something about how, when we take up our lilac sprigs, we carry a little piece of the characters in our hearts, too. I kept trying to put my finger on why that makes me tear up the way it does. the conclusion I came to is this:
what greater way to honor a writer is there, but to honor them the way they did the characters they poured their heart and soul into? what better way to say we know you and you are not forgotten and your work and words and gifts to the world are held in our hearts forever than to remember them by their own words, their own vision? how else could we say you embodied all the good you believed in and wished to see in the world, but to memorialize them after the little pieces of their soul they wrapped in ink and put upon the page?
it is a knowing of the writer, to remember them in their way. it is not a worn-out faceless platitude, but a reminder that their work has been read and will continue to be, that the characters and world they loved enough to bring to life last just as their name does. such remembrance is warm and loving and delights in their memory even as it grieves.
and now Pratchett's name has been written in his tradition, over and over and over, across the vast plane of the Internet, where it will—with any luck—continue to fly for generations to come.
there is no way to truly express the beauty of that… but perhaps we can catch a glimpse of it in the lilacs, both ours and the Watch's.
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hexjulia · 9 days
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ugh reading a book of poetry based on really liking a single poem and then the rest is just sort of mid navelgazing with extra space is really depressing for some reason
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elainewellspoetry · 1 month
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We understood each other in that way | 2.25.24
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danielarlngton · 1 year
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How sweet the sound of severance; Deep is the gouge of your flesh. You howl the scream of a child unborn, the gnarled hand of an empty womb reached up to take you back. What is an angel with no wings, if not a man who screams for mercy at the sky? The cradle of your mouth once a home for my praise, the curse of your tongue now the bite of a knife. Bleed the grief from my veins, my love; paint the hollows of your ribs with my tears. Make for yourself a home in which your father weeps, O, Architect. From the rot of my bones, and the leather of my flesh, build for yourself a cage of unexpressed torment. Fathers are only fathers when they break that which has been bestowed; Know, if nothing else, that you are my son, for the ivory jut of your coracoid bone, is at once a knife a spear a stone. How soft the bed in which I lay; far above where you now rest. Downy feathers from the wings I plucked, under my cheek, a soft caress. Heady is the taste of devotion, the grit of Adam's rib on my tongue, You played the part of the wanderer, boy, now look at all the grief you've won. Carved from me is the nucleus of you, an entwining that shall never be undone; When you look at the heavens, you see a love unraveled, But when I look at the earth, I see only my son. Wail the song of the damned, my love; Hell hath become the Sinner's stage. Sing your anguish to the fabrics of the sky, until all of Holy Heaven tastes your rage. One day, you will find your place again, and on your knees will you beg. A boy returned home with pockmark scars ready to have his feathers plucked again.
the death of the firstborn (exodus 11) {for @malinaa} // j.s.
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born-to-lose · 3 months
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I know the working conditions were kinda shitty and my colleagues and bosses didn't appreciate me enough but damn I miss the bar already 😭
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rowan-ashtree · 5 months
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the sea and the lighthouse
an ode to myself, and to people like me
cw: violence (somewhat graphic), death mention, vague references to religion.
I felt like I was drowning in a sea of confusion, and I worried it was because I didn’t have the faith to walk on the surface.
I know now that this was not the case. My confusion turned to anger when I grabbed a buoy and saw people staring. Who were they to watch me sputter and splash and place bets on my survival?
They were the ones who would plunge knives into my chest and praise my pain tolerance (because I barely flinched anymore), then scoff at my faithlessness when I refused to sacrifice myself on the sealing room altar.
They were the ones who would weave nooses around my neck, made from indifference and empty words, then whisper of my weakness when I cut myself loose, seeking woven things of warmth instead.
They were the ones who would condemn violence (with my blood on their hands and the bodies of my siblings hanging above them) (without any trace of irony or even regret).
Who am I that I should be left to drown, fearing all the while that it’s my own fault?
I was the one who would take the blades they used to hurt me, and carve my identity, my entire self, out of the bare rocks of abandonment. Then, I would carve my own altar, and offer up the blunted and bloodied knives as a sacrifice.
I was the one who would weave bandages to cover my wounds, and blankets to keep myself warm, and shrouds for those they refused to bury.
I was the one who would learn to swim in my own confusion, and even relish it, so that I could be the buoy for the next person they would seek to drown.
The sea could not snuff out my candle, so they gave me bushel after bushel and called it a kindness. For a while, I merely set them aside. Now, I set them ablaze and add them to the lighthouse beacon that my candle has become.
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nostalgia-tblr · 6 months
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#yeah it would have been very convenient for his brother robert#but - oh no! - it was also convenient for his other brother who immediately set off for the treasury and then a hasty coronation#(robert had fucked off on the first crusade that's why he wasn't in the right place at the right time)#(he later ends up imprisoned by his bro in a castle where he learns welsh and writes some poems)#(say what you will about henry 1st he was at least VERY good at getting things from his older brothers)#okay it might have been an actual genuine hunting accident but i only read about dead monarchs for THE DRAMA let me have this#i always enjoy when a history book gets to this point and you find out if the author thinks it was an accident or an “accident”#the normans are french vikings and i've yet to come across one whose name is actually norman#idk if that name existed then but *I* would have named at least one son 'Norman of Normandy' just for giggles#btw every famous woman of this era is called Matilda. all of them. there's battles between competing English queens called Matilda.#i have yet to come across any explanation of why this is. i assume there's an OG Matilda who's famous maybe? possibly a saint?#(there *is* one called Edith too... but then she changes her name to Matilda) (no really) (and it's her husband's mother's name)#idk how you're supposed to write Norman Monarchy Femslash when all the women have the same name#what if i want to read about Queen Matilda's epic forbidden love for her husband's arch-enemy Queen Matilda? eh? eh? EH???#i should probably come up with a tag for my history-related nonsense i wouldn't want people to find it who seek Sensible Thoughts#history fandom#(there that'll do for a tag)
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muchgayerthanthee · 11 months
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is joehills/cubfan considered a rarepair?
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art-dot-jpg · 11 days
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Even as someone who absolutely hates how the current hip-hop scene in our country works I must say I find it quite alluring
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healerelowen · 1 month
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My sonnet for my lovely Archivist
Delicate words spoken softly to me
Such a gaze that no star can compare to
Tall and fermented as the greatest tree
For the love in my heart being so true
Providing comforting company so
Grand yet caring towards all who she sees
Discovering knowledge by man’s foe
A voice as gentle as a summer breeze
Articulate as she is proficient
Mysterious in nature with intrigue 
While some knowledge may seem inefficient 
To her every piece is a special treat
In her metal shell her heart is golden
To make up for the heart she has stolen
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madamescarlette · 1 year
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You ever have to be like, "no babe you're not bone-breakingly heart-rendingly sad, you just had less than five hours of sleep"? Yeah.
#lack of light november really doing a number on me this year!#this is not a worry-for-me post btw. it's like that comic of the raccoon advising you to shower to eat or to sleep when upset#it's my last full week of being a student going about doing student activities and i keep doing things going what if that's the LAST time??#which i've been actively trying to avoid doing because when i left my old school i overdid it and i was actively mourning leaving my place#there for the last six months like someone constantly picking at a wound#and while it was the most beautiful time of my life and it might always be i really regret having spent so much#of my final moments there being sorry that it was final because i just grieved it! twice!#i grieved it afterwards and i grieved it beforehand and i kind of wasted my precious time grieving it beforehand#so this time i've been TRYING to practice restraint and not spend my time brooding and just be here instead!#and not say goodbye to every doorway and every leaf and every brick in the pathway until i'm actually saying goodbye#but it suddenly burst into proper fiery colors on all our foliage over the break and i came back and suddenly it was ablaze#with perfect color and i'm walking around this week with my hand on my heart going oh!!! i love you so much#thank you for sending me off like this!!! i loved being here with you!!#so. tis hard not to mourn. but till then there are papers to write and chapters to be read and then girl has to scurry#and write her daily poem before sleep#so it will be alright it will be alright <3 this i believe!#i may delete these tags later because they might be overshare-y or too despondent and not need to be said#but i figure where else can i pour out my heart into a lovingly enfolding void like this <3#happy Tuesday tumblr i love you all dearly!#thank you for all your tags today btw I will come back and reply to them tomorrow when i'm a bit clearer-minded#thinking out loud
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kingofdandelions · 9 months
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Heavy, beuatiful bracelets
I have always had two bracelets on my wrists They are a bit heavy, and a bit sharp I think that’s how they’re supposed to be
My mom and dad also have bracelets Shiny, colorful, beautiful bracelets just like my own They don’t ever mention the bracelets being too sharp or heavy They seem to like the bracelets a lot
I think I’m supposed to like my bracelets
Even tho their weight makes my arms sore And their shiny edges dig into my wrists  Not all the time though  Probably not enough times to complain about
I tried taking off my bracelets one day I hid my arms in long sleeves and put the bracelets in my pockets Only for a minute tho I liked that minute
I took my bracelets off at when I hung out with my friends I don’t think anyone noticed Nobody asked why I didn’t want the bracelets on It was nice
I took my bracelets off at school  I wore long sleeves that day
Would anybody care? 
It took my bracelets off at school again Nobody cared
Why am I supposed to wear bracelets if I feel more happy without them? Why am I supposed to wear bracelets if I feel safer without them Why do I feel bad for taking them off, when they’ve hurt me so much?
Now I only wear the bracelets at home At home where everyone has bracelets At home where I realize how much my hands hurt  At home where I wish the bracelets never existed in the first place  At home where I’m supposed to feel home
I threw my bracelets in the trash today Now I can see two red scars that I never noticed before
I think they’ll heal
#OHHH BOI#im poetrying my best#i might have made myself cry while writing this or i was crying and then started writing this#either way crying#anyways have a poem based on religious trauma#or maybe not trauma#cus i don't think the stuff i've gone through is that serios#maybe im wrong tho and im just too used to it to know#who knows#i guess you could aply the poem to other things than religious trauma too so thats nice#this is my uhhhhhh 5th attempt on poetry i think#and i think it turned out well#yeah i think its a neat piece of writitng#im allowed to compliment myself and so are you :D#wrote this and then started rereading hfwu cus i wanted to angst a bit about transphobic family and religius stuff#rereading hfwu was basically like “yup yup yup there be some religious stuff”#“oh fuck that dysphoric moment punched me in the gut by being a liiiiiiitle bit too real”#*slight envy cus benji had a supporting dad*-*immediate guilt for my jealosy cus his dad fucking died*#*immediate guilt for my jealosy cus his dad fucking died*#go read or reread hfwu right now it fukings ownnssss#what was this about again?#oh yeah poetry#yeah so poetry is fun#like you can be crying at 02:40 am cus your not really passing so dysphoria has been higher than it has been for a lot of months#and your dad doesn't accept you as trans but also still loves you and just wants you to have a nice life without “destroying your body”#so you can't even hate him cus he is a funny and nice dad who loves you but also he just said#“trans people are people with problems who change things about them to stop the problems but changing your body doesnt remove the problems-#“so they keep their problems but hey at least they have a beard now!”#and your mom suggested an all girls mormon camp#and instead of just crying you can actually take your suffering put in into a google doc and get ego boosted by it actually being kinda goo
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loveofastarvingdog · 4 months
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goign back to the bad world <33333333333333
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frostingtheorange · 4 months
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My pen stopped working, and I was forced to substitute it for a black color pencil cause I have no spare pens...
ANYWAY, I GOT A NEW NOTEBOOK AND DREW THIS ON THE FIRST TWO EMPTY PAGES
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Every conversation with my mother follows the same structure.
It begins with an unrelated topic.
Which leads into an admission of emotion. I make it with baited breath, wondering if this time is going to be different. If this time, promises will be kept.
The admission leads to a broken promise. Because she does not listen. Not properly. Instead it becomes a recollection of her childhood. Of my sister's life. Of everyone's pain but mine.
I try to steer us back on course. For once the air in the room is for me. I am not going to waste it untangling the web of someone else's hurt.
She does not let me. She gets defensive. The blame shifts to me.
I remind her that I am a child, not a parent.
I tell her that sometimes, your best is not good enough. I do not tell her that she was the one who taught me that first. I tell myself that next time I will. (Since every time is the same, I won't.)
Something in her face tells me she might finally understand what I'm saying.
But then she lowers her gaze and presents she does not see.
And since children imitate their parents before anyone else, I do the same.
I tell myself I won't ever end up in that situation again. I say to myself that I will avoid all of those minefields because there are things I will not say to her and there are truths she cannot accept.
A few days, weeks, months, later, a conversation starts.
It is about an unrelated topic.
I leave wanting to scream until she realises how imperfectly everything has turned out. I don't.
every conversation with my mother is like watching a film that follows the same plot as every other one the network aired
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