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#poetry in the tags y'all

faejilly · 3 months

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not the sea!

from this poll by @toushindai: Which natural feature thirsts most for human blood?

#the sea does not Care#the forest will devour you to feed the roots after the wolves have picked your bones clean (via @cheesiestart-redux)

#not the sea!#the sea doesn't give a shit when you die in the ocean it's not to malice or desire#it's the cold indifference of the ravenously greedy#the ocean is out here consuming continents you aren't even a blip on its radar#the forest loves you on the other hand#the forest will drink up your blood and entwine new life with your bones#until you are one and the same#poll#i have unexpectedly strong opinions about this#and for the depths of the earth...i feel like your bones mean more#the blood is just what comes first#and I'm not sure it cares either way (via @awaylaughing)

#the forest requires somekind of food--either to indulge in or survive off of. both are valid and known reasons.#the underbrush shall pick off your skin. the animals your flesh. the trees your blood. and the fungi your bones. (via @iamverynormalaboutocs)

#because the sea doesnt thirst but it does swallow whole#the mountains have no need for blood but it will invite your bones#the night sky only observes#the sun is blind#the depths of the earth of crave it but will never get a taste#the river is too busy feeding the sea#the desert can't taste#and the lake has had more than its fill of it#no it is the forest#it is the root that drinks eagerly as the blood seeps into the dirt (via @minimelo)

#the forest#takes your blood to make its offspring grow strong#you're watering the roots with your life#also all the dark rituals happen in the forest for a reason (via @sarcasticsciencefictionwriter)

#things in the sea may feed on your body but the sea is ambivalent#it doesnt care about your blood#your blood would be just another drop#the earth however#the earth demands everything back which it gives (via @playful-bi)

#most of these you are just too insignificant for them to want specifically your blood#the sea doesn’t want blood it wants to swallow you whole as do many of these#the forest though? the forest wants to hunt you and eat you and leave your blood sprayed across the branches#the flesh gnawed off your bones (via @thegreatgaydragon)

#forest#like the sea is imo the most likely to kill you but not because it thirsts for blood#your carry the sea with you that's why we have so much salt in us because our ancestors left the sea but brought it with them#it will take you back and it might be violent but it's not thirsty#the desert will kill you WITH thirst not because IT thirsts#the forest does thirst#but I actually like that about it? it's alive.#the roots are thirsty#the creatures in it are hungry#it's alive enough to thirst for human blood#anyway this is part of why I want to be buried in the woods I WANT the trees to eat me someday#although like. preferably when I have died of causes other than being exsanguinated by the forest. (via @teaandinanity)

#poetry in the tags y'all #I should be working #and yet I did this collection instead #BECAUSE THEY'RE RIGHT AND THEY SHOULD SAY SO #the sea accepts its due #the forest wants to eat you #also tea's tags made me laugh #so yk #*gigglesnort*

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daweyt · 22 days

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Wallace Stevens, from “The Collected Poems; ‘Sunday Morning,’” published c. 1954.

#Wallace Stevens #The Collected Poems #American Literature #Poetry #Quotes #Lit #Litblr #Dark Academia #don't start with the Donna Tartt quotes like i just know y'all will tag the shit out of it already

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fangirl-nadir · 1 month

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If you're a bot posting NSFW in the Asexual tag: fuck you, get blocked and reported. If you're an actual person posting NSFW or other spam in the Asexual tag: shame on you, get blocked and reported, I hope you get perma-banned for being an inconsiderate piece of shit

#vent post #asexual #lgbt #I swear to god if I see one more suggestive or nude photo in the ace tag...#and I'll be real the SFW spam is annoying too!#Stop tagging your random travel photos as asexual!#stop tagging your shitty poetry as asexual!#y'all make me want to commit actual crimes

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bluesidedown · 6 months

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you are 23 and your hands hold steady the block of wood you are shaping and the sweet aromatic smell of sawdust is curling around you maybe your mother’s voice floats through an open door to tell you a meal is ready maybe you still have something to learn about carpentry as you work alongside Joseph 30 years is a long time to spend waiting quietly faithful, caring for your mother and your father, for your sisters and your brothers working with your hands ‘til the hands of God are calloused going to the synagogue to hear your words read week upon week you are 23 you are patient building a whole life of not my will but yours, Father

maybe you pick up a nail from the workbench look at it and know 10 years from now rough hands will hold you down and drive a spike through your wrist spilling blood onto rough wood maybe you are already making that sacrifice now quietly faithful maybe you can teach me how to be 23 waiting, quietly faithful caring for my mother and my father, my sisters and my brothers working with the hands God gave me hearing your words week upon week

build in me a whole life of not my will but yours, Jesus

#advent reflections poem i guess #my poetry #also did y'all know you could edit tags on desktop now???? this is great.#I don't use desktop much lol

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ro-sham-no · 2 months

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Sam fucked up.

Dean had always teased him for being a try-hard at school (with a secretly proud smile he thought Sam couldn’t see or wouldn’t notice, but oh, Sam noticed). He’d tease Sam, saying it would bite him in the ass one day, and now, at Stanford, it had finally happened.

Betrayal of all betrayals, the professor of the only prereq class he actually liked had given him extra work. It's not a big deal, not really, just reading out his stupid, gay-ass prose about his big brother in front of a crowd of people, all to get out of taking a final... Dean was across the country, so what could go wrong?

cw: wincest, referenced underage sex (barely), questionable prose lol

includes excerpts from "sweetness" - stephen dunn

“I’m telling you, man, they’re gonna expect more from you ‘cause you’re putting in all this extra effort.”

Dean was speaking in that slow, crooning voice that he always got when they were alone together in the quiet, like he was afraid to break the silence but still wanted to fill up Sam’s head with the sound of his voice so bad that he couldn’t stop himself. As if the way he was smoothing his hand up and down the breadth of Sam’s bare ribs and stomach - all palming and grabby, groping at Sam like he owned him - as if that didn’t already nail Sam’s focus and affection to the cross of their shared devotion. As if he needed to do anything at all, other than exist, to completely own Sam from the inside out.

Sam shook himself out of his trance to respond, huffing that scoff-laugh that only little brothers manage to pull off, reaching up to trap Dean’s hand against Sam’s stomach, splayed and possessive but finally stilled so Sam could actually think for a second. But before he could come up with a counter, Dean continued, sweet and slow in his ear, like syrupy molasses that’s just warm enough to drip and run down the spoon,

“I swear, if we stayed in one place for longer than it takes Dad to fuckin’ blink, they’d have you up to your ears in extra work by now.”

Sam hummed at that, all smug younger brother proving a point, “Well I guess it doesn’t matter then, huh, Dean? ‘s not like the old man’s that old, his blinks aren’t slowing down anytime soon,” said with a finality that shut Dean up, finally granting Sam some goddamn peace as they basked in the feel of each other’s bed-warmed skin.

And that was that. Still, they rehashed it a few times, here and there whenever it got brought up.

Sam flicked Dean’s hand off his shoulder because, “I need to finish my homework, Dean. There’s a quiz on it tomorrow,” providing the perfect opportunity for Dean to bring up that old argument once again. Calling him a try-hard and a teacher’s pet, distracting him enough to bully him into their bed, away from his homework, and suddenly enveloped in the warm arms of his older brother - devious bastard that he was, dammit.

Sam always got 100s on those quizzes, anyway. But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the chase, the thrill of seeing Dean be jealous of a piece of fucking paper and a pen before Sam caved and they fell together oh-so-sweetly.

But that was then, when the metaphorical speed of Dad’s blinks still kept them flitting from place to place. Now, Sam had already been in this place for 9 months, consecutively, and he was in for at least another 3.25 years. Four years he would be here, and that’s where Sam fucked up, forgetting his “wise” older brother’s warning (because he’s not here to remind me), and it had finally happened.

Betrayal of all betrayals, the professor of the only prereq that he actually liked, Dr. Morris, had given him extra work. All because,

“This is really something special, Sam! I really think people deserve to hear it.” She saw Sam begin to protest but cut him off, continuing, “From the author’s mouth, don’t give me that. That’s you, in case you’ve conveniently forgotten. C’mon, the literary arts event is next week and they’ve been asking me to fill an inspired composition spot. I think this is the perfect work to fit right in, with the way you’ve expanded on Dunn’s poem, interpreting meaning from it and making it your own- just, Sam, I seriously want you to consider presenting it.”

“It” was an assignment to write a piece about or inspired by one of the poems Dr. Morris had covered in class recently. One of them had tugged at Sam’s recently-shredded heartstrings, and so he wrote something inspired by it - so sue him if he wrote a little prose, alright? But, Christ, it was soft and mushy and it was horrifically revealing. But he didn’t have time to redo it, so this was what he was stuck with.

Damn, she’s really trying to sell this, Sam thought with a sigh.

Once again, though, his professor cut him off, this time with a conspiratorial look on her face, “Besides, a little birdy told me that the final for this class might be optional if you participate in the event…”

Well, that’s just diabolical.

Sam pinched his nose with yet another sigh, arms clutched around his notebook, which conveniently contained the exact literary “work” Dr. Morris had been raving about for the last ten minutes. All Sam had wanted to do was to make sure that it fit what she was expecting for the homework prompt before he turned it in, and then she’d trapped him.

He really did hate taking tests for this class, too, and she knew that. UGH.

“Fine, Dr. Morris, you win! But that little birdy better be tellin’ the truth or another little birdy is so gonna write the meanest course review this school has ever seen, I swear to god,” he pointed his finger at her accusingly, eyebrows raised in faux intimidation.

She laughed along with him at his empty threat, holding up her hands in mock surrender with a gasp, “No, not an angry student review! What about my career?”

She sobered a little, “The birdy is telling the truth, Sam, I promise. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Sam nodded with a rueful smile, “I know. Thank you, Dr. Morris, I’m uh- well, I’m glad you liked it.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

It was worse. So, so much worse. God, Sam fucked up, colossally.

Somehow, his friends had gotten wind of his little performance - something about a poster with his name on it? (Damn you, Dr. Morris!) - and now Sam was about to go on stage and make a fool of himself in front of both liberal arts and now STEM majors alike. Four STEM majors, specifically, his “friends,” and he was never going to hear the end of it after this.

I’m not even out to these people, what was I thinking? They’re gonna know, now. Sure hope they’re fuckin’ cool with it.

And, beyond that, he’d only read through the piece a total of two times without crying like a fucking baby. Reduced to hiccupping sobs over the stupid poem, and over his stupid feelings laid bare on the page, and over his stupid fucking brother that he’d basically broken up with when he came here like the incestuous freak that he was, and-

Goddammit.

Sam pinched viciously at his thigh through his pocket to stop his eyes from prickling.

This is gonna be a disaster.

But the final would be worse, Sam was sure, and he didn’t want to disappoint Dr. Morris - like the total sucker that he was - so he was gonna man up and do this thing.

The person on stage before him finished up their piece and, is the crowd seriously fucking snapping? Jesus Christ, these people are pretentious. Thankfully, pretentious or not, the event wasn’t that formal. They were just outside on a small stage, with standing and sitting room in front of it. Casual. Easy.

Yeah, right.

Still, Sam steeled himself and stepped out onto the stage as prompted, calmly raising the height of the mic stand while the event coordinator introduced him to the audience, “Thank you for that wonderful reading. Now stepping on stage is Sam Winchester, with a literary reading of his work, inspired by the poem “Sweetness” by Stephen Dunn.”

Sam cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, “Ah, thank you, for that introduction. So… this is just a piece I wrote based on that poem, which uses the term “sweetness” to describe more than just sensation - to me, it describes a feeling, an emotion, and even a person. That’s something that really struck me, and is the basis of what you’re about to hear.”

While he was speaking, he scanned the crowd and- yep, there were his friends, waving and cheesing so hard it made his own mouth twitch a little in response, amused at their amusement. Still, there was this odd feeling, almost like… nevermind.

He cleared his throat again, purposefully this time, and began, “Often, a sweetness comes and changes nothing in the world, except the way we stumble through it. Our sweetness, the one we make between us, changes the world - my world - because of the way you envelop me entirely. The sweetness between us changes the world, shrinks it down to the size of your mouth, to the size of your hands.”

Images flash in Sam’s mind: silver ring; cupid’s bow; black bracelets on twin right-wrists, like their own secret wedding bands.

“But the world is no smaller for it, even though it’s shrunk to fit the shape of your body.

It’s still ever-expansive, always with something new to explore. New gasps to wring out from the valley of your mouth. New ways to bruise and mar the landscape of your skin, changing its terrane to map out the topography of our love, our sweetness, and the way it blisters between us…

Staining, always staining.”

Golden skin that’s littered with scratches, hickies marring it in impossible places, and freckles that reach out to Sam like starlight.

“Some days you believe it stains us down to the soul level. Those are the days I spend sick with heartbreak because those are the days you won’t touch me. Those are the days you won’t touch me, when you can’t even bear to look at me, littered as I always am (and how I always want to be) with the stains of our shared, world-changing sweetness. You see the stains on those days and, instead of cherishing them the way I would bid you to, you are sickened by them.”

A memory, now,

That beloved cupid’s bow stretched out in a self-deprecating sneer, “This is wrong, Sam! God, look at what I’ve done to you, I should be fucking locked up. You don’t even want this, you can’t!”

“Even worse, you’re saddened by them, the stains that I cherish, convincing yourself that you’ve doomed me by them. On those days, you believe you’ve doomed me to an eternity of fire and brimstone, even though the only God either of us truly believes in takes on the form of the finger-shaped bruises you leave on my thighs and the teeth-sized scars I’ve left in your skin.”

The stains, god, the stains: tear tracks on freckled cheeks, red and puffy eyes so unused to crying, bloody knuckles from losing to brick walls.

Sam’s eyes prickled. One hand went from the podium to his pocket and gouged its nails into flesh, welts forming on top of already-present bruises.

He cleared his throat again, blinking harshly, “But even if that were true, that you have doomed me, my love, then please: let me be doomed. The truth is that I am doomed. I am condemned by the shade of your eyes, by the strong elegance of your wrists, and the way your head tilts when you focus that I’ve never told you about.

I am doomed by the sinuous-sinful curve of your lips and your waist, by the crinkles caused by your breathtaking smile, and by the shade of reddish-orange on your teeth when you consume me. I am stained by these things, and for that, I am doomed.”

Sam's fingernails were digging into his skin through his pocket, but he still had to pause to sniffle off to the side, hopefully out of the range of the microphone. But the movement of his head let his peripherals sweep over the crowd and, there- the feeling from before was back, or maybe it was just stronger, now, never having left.

The feeling that he was being watched, but not just by anyone. It was a feeling he’d memorized during late nights with the lights out, not seeing but nevertheless knowing that Dean was watching him, staring at him, in the dark. And that’s what it felt like, now, but that’s impossible… right?

He continued, “I am stained by our sweetness, and so are you. We are stained and left wanting, always wanting, because there is no sweetness that’s ever sufficient to leave us sated, never to be needed again. For that, there is no sweetness that’s ever sufficient, because it comes as if on a loan, ripped away at a moment’s notice. Re-possessed with an interest rate that leaves us desolate and bereft.”

His eyes were tearing up actively by then, and he knew it, but he couldn’t spare the thought to worry about it. Not while he was overwhelmed with DeanDeanDean, trying so desperately to avoid looking in that corner but- the figure ducked behind a group of people stuck close together, and wasn’t that just telling? Telling, but also heartbreaking, because,

He won’t answer a fucking phone call, but he’ll haul ass across the country in two days to come see me read some half-assed prose?

Sam regularly tracked Dean’s phone, see, so he knew where he was two days ago: middle-of-nowhere Indiana. How the hell he had heard about Sam’s current predicament? Sam couldn’t even begin to guess. But he’d learned of it, somehow, and had driven thirty-four out of the last forty-eight hours to get here and watch Sam fall apart on a sound stage, California-tanned cheeks lit up in the golden evening light and soon to be glistening with tears that he couldn’t seem to stop from forming.

There’s no way he doesn’t know this is about him. Fuck. It’s Dean, he’s here, and he’s hearing me turn whatever the fuck we had together into this flowery, perfume-tinted crap. Fuck.

He came to see me. He’s here. Fuck.

Sam searched for Dean in the crowd without a care for the rest of his audience, voice coming out strong and clear as he spoke directly to him, suddenly bold,

“But the loan lender is you, and I, the borrower, the loan holder. The interest rate is your guilt, entwined with your ever-infuriating sense of righteousness, and you rip away the loaned-out sweetness when it starts to make too much sense.

When the sweetness starts to come too easily for your self-flagellating tastes, that’s when my payments are no longer sufficient. You rip away our sweetness and make it return to its supposedly dark source, the one you conjure up for it in your mind.”

Sam blinked tears out of his eyes and they rolled down his cheeks, but just he didn’t care.

Dean stood frozen, mouth open and tears of his own making his eyes turn that same puffy shade of pink that it always did. His left hand was rubbing over his bracelet, on the same wrist as always, mirroring the one on Sam’s own wrist. Unsubtly, Sam reached over to shrug up his sleeve and reveal the black bracelet he also wore.

More glimpses of memories, Right hand reaching out to right hand, clasping awkwardly between them but it felt right, so right, to see the claim they’d put on each other stated so loudly, stark black lines so obvious across their wrists.

Dean’s golden amulet gleaming in the light, dragging across Sam’s chest as Dean stayed above him, so deep inside Sam that he swore he could taste it. He shivered at the cold touch of the metal, but all he could feel was warm.

They were holding each other’s gaze, now, and Sam’s face was twisting up as he tried desperately to choke out the next words, tried to reach out with his brain waves to shove them into Dean’s own skull, to make him understand,

“But-” he sniffled again, into the mic this time, “But as for me, in the end, I don’t care where our sweetness has been, within the depths of your mind. I don’t care what bitter road it’s had to travel, through the muck and the mire of your unfounded shame, your self-made sorrows and imaginary transgressions.”

Sam was one step away from weeping at that point, voice strangled and cracking intermittently as it rose in pitch, tears streaming all ugly down his reddened face, roughly scrubbed away by a stray hand. This was the most direct Sam had ever been with Dean, a lifetime of silent looks and unspoken words suddenly torn wide open; his ugly, accusatory feelings laid bare, but mixed in with forgiveness, and with yearning for a reunion that Sam knew was never going to happen.

It was exhilarating. It was terrifying.

Dean looked gutted, and it twisted up Sam’s own insides even more in response. He was clutching his bracelet-ed wrist tightly to his stomach, twisting the strands of it between his fingers in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was shaped with that familiar, guilt-ridden sadness, the set of his shoulders belying his age, making his 22-years-young appear suddenly ancient.

All the responsibility and burdens of a brother, a boyfriend, and a parent- a mother, wrapped up onto one person’s shoulders. Sam could only imagine how heavy it was.

“Because oh, my sweetness - and that is what you are, what you have been this whole time - when the sweetness finally returns, when you have come back to me, I don’t care how long I’ve been in its absence, or rather in your absence.”

Sam could just barely make out the tempo of the tears streaming down Dean’s face as they fell, though he wasn’t sure if he could actually see them, or if he just knew the rhythm of Dean’s anguish better than his own heartbeat.

Dean was a boy full of a sadness that was forced to stagnate, forced to fester and rot inside him, never to be allowed out. The rot was pouring down his face from where he stood in the crowd. Sam thought he’d never looked more beautiful than how he looked right now, back in Sam’s life after the longest time they’d ever spent apart.

“I don’t care what bitter road you’ve traveled to come back so far, to taste so good. It’s okay, it’s alright! Please, my love: lower your hackles, you’re on that bitter road no longer. It’s okay, and I don’t care, I’ve never cared, because in the end you come back, and for all of your travels, you never fail to taste so, so good.”

Sam fell silent and stepped back from the mic, smiling that sheepishly awkward, too-dimpled smile of acknowledgement and faux-gratitude to the crowd to signify his conclusion, never quite taking his eyes off Dean even as the crowd hesitantly-to-enthusiastically applauded his work.

Then Sam blinked, and Dean was gone.

#3k+ words #OH btw #this was also inspired by the 10 things i hate about you poetry scene... y'all know the one #just fyi #(#spn #sam winchester #wincest #stanford era #sweetness by stephen dunn #ro writing tag #)

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fixing-bad-posts · 1 year

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[ID: A screenshot of a tumblr post whose poster's username and avatar has been blocked out. A majority of the text is covered blackout poetry style and the remaining text says "i love toes". End ID.]

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i love toes

Submitted by @mango-bubbletea

#fbp submission #mango-bubbletea #blackout poetry #toes #feet #i literally don't know how to tag this one y'all #miscellaneous

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cithaerons · 2 years

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From his fever in Brundisium he visits like the wavering in bronze scratched grave-bound across its gods and heroes, the worried wick of a face still breathing light. Ceaseless as a vow, he is muttering the thread of elisions and emendations spinning ever finer, down to the last minute’s snap. He will reach its harsh caesura between the swell of the Adriatic and the setting Pleiades, his books unburnt, immortal, incomplete. He stands at your shoulder like a shade in a mist of marshes, carrying the torch for every maker who would have glimpsed just one more line ahead.

– Sonya Taaffe, Sibylline

#y'all!!!!!#virgil #vergil #words #poetry #sonya taaffe #dante tag #those last lines #favorites

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gingermintpepper · 9 days

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Mother Love - Demeter and Persephone in poetry

Alright, so, let's finally talk about Mother Love.

I've spent the past couple of weeks compiling most of the poems from my physical copy of Mother Love into a publicly accessible google doc because there is a quite frankly embarrassing lack of archiving of this particular anthology of Dove's work and I am genuinely and greatly saddened that it is not a work more commonly brought up when discussing Demeter/Hades/Persephone retellings and reinterpretations for modern audiences.

In order to speak about what Mother Love is, I first need to address what it is not. It's not a coming of age story which portrays Persephone as a caged bird under a too-smothering Demeter. It's not a love story where Hades is some valiant hero who rescues an innocent maiden and through his love empowers her to be her truest self. It does not demonise Demeter, who has forever lost her daughter, it does not demonise Hades, who took that daughter away.

Instead, Mother Love is, perhaps, the truest interpretation of the themes of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter that I've seen, down to the structure of the anthology mimicking the hymn's narrative structure. It is the story of a mother who loses her daughter, of the grief that ensues as she worries for her, of her being pitied and given empty words instead of help finding her, of her trying to soothe herself by filling the void with new children that are not her own. It is the story of a daughter who loses her way, who went seeking flowers and was unwittingly caught in the machinations of those in higher positions of power than her, of the kingdom she is promised and refuses, of the changes she goes through in this new, strange world without her consent and how those changes will define her the rest of her life. It is the story of a lonely king overrun with ennui who wants companionship but never asks, of he who tries in vain to tempt with wealth and land and must ultimately yield to the love of a mother. Not even the lord of the dread Underworld can escape that all-consuming mother's love and this was a theme found all over greek mythology and their literature, and it is also the theme that has been unfortunately and miserably lost as we've told and retold the tale of Hades and Persephone time and time again.

Please, please read this work, and if you enjoy it, do consider picking up an actual copy of the anthology. There is so much to be gained from speaking of the Demeter/Hades/Persephone myth as one of nuance and devoid of the unnecessary moralisations and accusations that we habitually foist onto cultural figures and heroes in an attempt to validate our opinions and interpretations to our peers. In my compilation, I did leave out three poems: Breakfast of Champions, Blue Days, Nature's Itinerary, mainly because I did not think they were relevant -- but I'm always open to requests for those poems to be added to the doc if anybody gets curious. Below I've also attached a few of my favourite short poems from this anthology so people can get an idea for the content that is included in the doc.

@gotstabbedbyapen who requested a way to read these poems but could not find them, I sincerely hope you enjoy them <3

#ginger chats about greek myths #I AM BEGGING Y'ALL READ THE BOOK #ON MY HANDS AND KNEES #Absolutely fantastic anthology of poems and genuinely I think poetic interps of myths is a medium that is aggressively underappreciated #This anthology in and of itself is in honour of a previous older anthology of poems #Rainer Maria Rilke's Sonnets to Orpheus #Which is a monster of an anthology and a topic I will gush about another day #I think I'll talk about some of the poems individually? Maybe like a Mother Love Monday type thing because god I've not been able to shut u #about these poems for literal years #We'll see how it goes #hades and persephone #hades #persephone #demeter #poetry #rita dove #ginger rambles #greek mythology #greek myths #the urge to tag this lo and boz is so fucking strong #but I will be disciplined #READ THESE POEMS I BEG OF YOU GOD

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cardboard-sorceress · 10 months

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I Made a Zine!!

"Little Loves" is a small poetry zine about all of the different types of love you encounter as a queer person.

Hi there! I don't post my creative work often, but this project means a lot to me, and I want to share it with as many folks as I can! I've been working on this zine for a few months, doing the artwork, writing, and formatting - I'm really proud of what I've created! It's a mostly autobiographical collection of poems about all of the fun, messy, complicated types of love you encounter as a queer person. If you're at all interested in poetry or queer art, it'd mean a lot of you gave it a read!

#zine #zine promo #poetry #poetry zine #art zine #original content #k rambles #queer artist #queer writing #lgbtq #trans #trans artist #so many tags ehe #i hope y'all like this!!

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leahnardo-da-veggie · 2 months

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Woods

I read

Stories of mountains and woods

Magic fairy rings and potions

Witches and dragons

I have not

Seen a fairy ring

Nor a potion