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prasannawrites · 7 months

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EMOTIONAL BID FOR CONNECTION.

#poems #poetry #writerscreed #poeticstories #writingthestorm #writtenconsiderations #bitsofstarglow #smittenbypoetry #deadwatered #inspireamuse #poetryclub13 #poetryportal #poetselixir #inkstay #spilled ink #poetryreruns #original poetry #my writing #poets of tumblr

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suffering-is-cute · 3 months

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cross posted on pinterest

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poetry-reruns · 2 years

Note

If you create a unique phrase (such as poetryreruns) and advertise it on your blog so people can use it as a tag, you can do a search for #poetryreruns to display those posts. But this can get to be quite a chore. I know because I helped establish Poetry Portal with Rhapsodyinblue80 about 5 years ago.

I use to do poetrysavedfromoobscurity. I understand the suggestion but am not sure I want to commit. I'm old. Almost died over Christmas from a pulmonary embolism. Neurological trouble coming soon on my horizon. People intermittently tag the full blog name thinking I will see it, some times I do. Almost walked away from this blog a few times since Christmas but other than rehab I don't really have much to do.

🙁

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prasannawrites · 1 year

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so it turns out, i still love you. click for better quality. transcript under cut.

In gentle form, in rhythmic sway, in the year that’s still

pungent like freshly-cracked peppercorns, and hasn’t lost its

footing in a foot of snow—we stretch past language,

abandon our mouths to embalm the orange sodium

of streetlights & halation of warm orange bleeding

through barely-drawn curtains of houses, framed by

a staunchly blue sky. An endeavour in softness,

followed next by a quiet forgetting of ourselves,

all to burden ourselves with a new tongue, one yet

not impoverished by bitterness, still sweet with the

taste of newness—and oh lord, let it stay this way.

I still struggle with speech, as quaint as that sounds,

there is a small infinity of words I cannot reasonably

house in my mouth—are they too vast, or am I

limited to a diction that precludes affirming that

at the heart of it all, I too, am a beast of longing?

I have a tendency to put you at the root of my poems,

all words spoken has a lineage to you, if I knew any better,

I would say that you weren’t at the heart of this little life,

but I don’t—

I do most things in excess, but not in loving you

(how does one limit the ocean?)

Everything I do, is in worship of you.

#poems #poetry #writerscreed #poeticstories #writingthestorm #writtenconsiderations #bitsofstarglow #smittenbypoetry #deadwatered #inspireamuse #poetryclub13 #poetryportal #poetselixir #inkstay #spilled ink #poetryreruns #original poetry #my writing #poets of tumblr

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prasannawrites · 1 year

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it’s been you, all my life. click for better quality.

#poems #poetry #writerscreed #poeticstories #writingthestorm #writtenconsiderations #bitsofstarglow #smittenbypoetry #deadwatered #inspireamuse #poetryclub13 #poetryportal #poetselixir #inkstay #spilled ink #poetryreruns #original poetry #my writing #poets of tumblr

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prasannawrites · 1 year

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untenable under closer examination. click for better quality. transcript under cut.

you—an almost ache, almost wound, almost lover,

almost return to self, almost summer, almost a love letter,

almost it all.

i think, i was spared of you; there is something insidious about you,

i am always left craving your words that carve me on the inside.

you inadvertently teach me the parallels of

grief & love / one cannot exist without the other,

inosculated twins that only know of their own flesh.

i love you in the strangest ways—if permitted, i would colour my blood

in all your hues. i craft an inconspicuous religion in the impreciseness of

your language; your pauses are ornate prayers waiting to be deciphered,

and at the crux of it, your words are memories waiting to embody.

i think, if you were a gentler god

you would not leave me burning on the shores of myself, uncertain

of everything except you.

#poems #poetry #writerscreed #poeticstories #writingthestorm #writtenconsiderations #bitsofstarglow #smittenbypoetry #deadwatered #inspireamuse #poetryclub13 #poetryportal #poetselixir #inkstay #spilled ink #poetryreruns #original poetry #my writing #poets of tumblr

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suffering-is-cute · 3 months

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you are my littlest secret and loudest love.

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prasannawrites · 2 years

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love is a precursor. click for better quality. transcript under cut.

like a gentle breeze warmed by the sun,

you pour over me in a steady stream, constantly.

i cannot escape you—not that an attempt will follow this poem,

but you’ve subdued me in the most peculiar manner.

you gave me room to dream.

it was then i found how close the proximity of grief is to love.

loving you is grieving you.

i am swollen with your eulogy.

i carry you in a way atlas knows nothing about.

i love you in a way that’s inexplicable to others,

outside of time and reason—you are,

and i love.

#poems #poetry #writerscreed #poeticstories #writingthestorm #writtenconsiderations #bitsofstarglow #smittenbypoetry #deadwatered #inspireamuse #poetryclub13 #poetryportal #poetselixir #inkstay #spilled ink #poetryreruns #original poetry #my writing #poets of tumblr

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prasannawrites · 2 years

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love bares its teeth at midnight. click for better quality.

consider the litany of beauty—

tonight, there is you, nestled in the fists of silence,

borrowing tenderness from dreams we never dreamt.

you—marauder of sleep, thief of holy & unholy,

still carrying with you a primal scream

you want to let loose in billows of softness.

(you’ve been weary).

kanna, i know.

tonight, there is longing—i still belong to you.

this too, will become an elegy in little time much like

the night sky. in a soundless language, i'll tell you that

i love you. silence isn’t always a precursor to violence.

what truly was said in this poem?

i'm still inaccessible to myself—only you make sense,

in this little life.

consider the litany of beauty tonight, kanna.

#poems #poetry #writerscreed #poeticstories #writingthestorm #writtenconsiderations #bitsofstarglow #smittenbypoetry #deadwatered #inspireamuse #poetryclub13 #poetryportal #poetselixir #inkstay #spilled ink #poetryreruns #original poetry #my writing #poets of tumblr

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suffering-is-cute · 4 months

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and you always seem to think that the heart's barrier

is just a thin shell hiding something golden and glowing within like a pearl

flowing fragrant.

if you can only prise it open,

smash through that rock sugar shell, you'll find the sun's breath easing in and out of your chest

but the hard honesty is, the shell is just an easily cracked halfway evening

once you've slammed your way through the thin convex curves, it's a broken eggshell and everything within is vacant.

sometimes, the house is just empty,

and no one's furnished it in preparation for you to live in,

because as hard as it is to answer like this,

not everyone wants you as a tenant.

and maybe you're tired of hearing that they don't want to take your meticulously prepared rent, your careful displays of concern.

you've learned from the start about the concept that love is hard to find

but still you think (and this angers me)

you think that this next heart may be different

imagine, you of mayhem, you force your entry into a heart filled with photos of another life

you will be an interloper if you do not learn to leave eggs alone

you are cracking an egg in the edge of the bowl and your head slowly faces down at an unnerving angle in

response to the sudden coldness of white fluid splashed at your feet

you take the thin shell, no matter, and treat it as if it was still fragile and precious despite the fact that it is broken and you seal it

with a thin coat of paint and dot polka dots on to make it an Easter egg

as if, if you try very hard and be very good, God might make your lost love rise again from the dead.

when will the love ever come back?

is it too changed to come back?

you have this challenge with yourself that if you can hold a conversation with the mirror without flinching, you will get to do whatever you want for a day.

and you've never won and never will.

because these weekends are your weakest moments, automated.

you've designed yourself to not die under duress, proud of not your survivability, but you call it a strength regardless because you have to live with needing to survive for the rest of your life.

and you can't ever sit straight again without fidgeting.

because you love the way the snow loves -

as much as it can before it melts. and because your love is drawing snowmen in the mist on your window at midnight, crouched up and making the stick hands hold the snowmen together in an embrace.

your love is reminiscing about days you'll never manage to hold properly.

you are property of your dreams. you can't help that they have a leash of you. sadly, you can never help that you still believe.

and you always seem to think that loving the bare bones of a place shows how uncomplicated you are, when actually, it's much more a testament to how you've sipped tea from chipped mugs stained with toothpaste

sitting on floorboards wide and thick with no furniture in sight, staring at the sky that surrounds you on every corner and inch.

you, alone in the room that is a house. you, running hands up rafters that are not burnished. you, trying to find things that comfort you and figure out a way to be happy in a place unprepared for you.

sometimes you are meant to take the cue and walk out of the life of someone who cannot love you, instead of

trying to make the best out of it.

why, what made you cry?

what did i say wrong this time?

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prasannawrites · 2 years

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repetition. click for better quality + transcript under cut.

“…and the wound was a place of shelter for you, wasn’t it?”

You sincerely ask. You speak the grief I’ve been anxious to admit.

I want to admit to you, here & now—that I am a wounded thing,

there's a certain tenderness in the sadness / I’m not apathetic,

I still feel, and therein lies the root of the problem.

I want to admit to you, softness does not come natural to me,

I must shepherd it; I don’t know whether it’s my inclination

or a trauma-response, but cruelty tends to draw first blood.

Do you still think of me the same?

I want to admit to you, I’m a carefully crafted attempt at a human being,

but I think part of you knows this. In between the lulls of the mundane,

you’ve peered into my void and saw a reflection.

I know this because I saw a reflection in yours.

Maybe there’s a certain gravity / a certain sickness,

when it comes to people like us.

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prasannawrites · 2 years

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the execution was stayed, click for better quality. text id under cut

the execution was stayed

and what else perches upon this body, but the hot breath of

regret, as if sorrow opened its mouth, turning on a faucet

that it forgot to turn off and left the room.

watching it spill onto the floor from the next room over, the room floods,

softening your bones into something soft, waterlogging flesh

to the point where touch ceases to be touch,

& instead becomes a vivisection.

it could have practiced patience for the clockmaker to spring

time forward, but it’s anything but considerate.

mourning follows the branding of lament,

the searing heat wasn’t enough to puddle me—

but you, the beautiful, neat, amalgamation

of everything that ails me so?

that's more than enough.

how do i admit that i can no longer

keep your gaze, without wanting to break down

at the fact that you seemingly can look past all the facades,

without looking like the big coward, we both know that I am?

the space i inhabit always seems too big for me.

i try so hard to cut the excess and cram all of me

into the smallest possible box—maybe then you

wouldn’t notice that i'm nothing but a walking

wound, a sunken being clinging to the little light.

most days, it’s a stretch to call me a person—

i'm almost a person.

scratching at the surface of all the unsayable things,

i pay too much attention to the little things,

& never the big things. i feel too much,

live too little, you split the difference.

you make things beautiful.

i only find things beautiful.

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suffering-is-cute · 3 months

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please backstab me. by sufferingiscute 23. 01. 2024

and i tell myself no, i click open your profile, i check for what i know is empty, a bin without food, no leftovers, no nothing. i tell myself no, and i open the lid again. i say this time i will open the covers of a story that will not ignore me, that will reach back to me, and i waste what i have on bus trips to your neighbourhood, blowing a kiss good-bye, goodnight to all my spare change.

empty purse, beautiful love.

enthralling, useless, starvation, grumbling, unsatisfied, unfulfilled love.

all the same, love.

guilt. growling stomach that i try to stifle the sounds off every time we do happen to meet under the blistering sun, you waving cheerily.

how can i say that i do hate you? that i do, indeed, not really hate but resent you? that i am ready for you to make it easy? if you are going to leave for so long, then don't come back home.

you can't ignore me as you like anymore and you don't get to know that i am leaving you my share of my shoulders. i want to say this, i want to scream, but i only smile and make idle chatter about meaningless things until my time is up and pretend to love you. there is only a shell of you here. even if i hug it from night till noon, i cannot infuse it in warmth.

i will freeze over.

say this, i do. i also keep visiting the same place, getting off at the same empty apartment, clutching on to my leathery bag, walking around in circles, getting back onto the bus, hearing the whispered gossip of those sitting behind me, bearing the bus driver's pitiful glance like a shawl of shame, checking my phone.

maybe i should care less - it has occurred to me, but i know nothing better than i know burning, a candle wick soaking up every last drop of wax in an attempt to see you through the night, although you've long left the room. you think you can catch up, restore, recover, return. i say the least, the surface, the smallest truths, the easiest burdens. and i keep my secrets to myself where they will not fell you.

i was never an easy person to love! you ought to know this! if so, why did you split hairs, and decide that i was a manga you could pick up after a while, a few months after dropping it! i made myself difficult to love because i do not want to be left easily!

i lie again. or maybe this is my lie, and what i tell you is made truth. it's all subjective, the scarring. to me, it hurts to flex an arm, to you, there is only slight discolouration and i cannot see my own skin unless i crane my head over. call me faintly and i turn my head, i wish i could call myself busy and walk away, but i

am living poetry, which means i regret always the love that i hold up to the light like gold you can peer through and pressure myself to be love's full form again. then, i console myself with saying it is the right way. if it is right, where is my reward? seeking rewards in itself is foolish. love is not supposed to be an equivalent exchange.

so call me hungry, call me ugly, call me desperate, call me poverty. call me a deranged lover and call me pathetically ready to please. i will take any abuse i can, so blow me up enough that i break like a stretched balloon. set fire to my fuse and key me free to murder the breath in the sky like one of those fireworks you so dearly love.

CALL ME PAIN! call me ANGER! call me irreprehensible inconsequential inconsiderate nuisance! call me a night to be fled from a nightmare you shake away from call me shackles and binding and everything delightfully unremorseful!

Make me ugly, paint me black, so I can hate you! Blind me with no more half-enacted kindnesses, let me LIVE/leave.

please tell me softly, almost on shattered ears, to my startled eyes, that my stomach is distended. that I look disgusting this forward, hunched up like a ragcloth doll discarded at your green bin. admire my tear-streaked, dirt-stained face, the cheap way my mouth twists at the corners, the yellowing of teeth that have drunk too many teas of sweet sweet sugar. tip my chin up with your precise hands and deliver the deadly blow.

punch me. thrust me far. only leave no hope for me to hold out behind.

this is only my beginning. for now i am clothed in clothes of previous reincarnations, the fabric you wove for me on your loom. and these clothes are stained ripped shredded torn smeared delicate fragile ended. hold me up to the light and tread me under your heel saying that i am nothing of worth. then and only then will i be able to believe it is time badly spent and stand up again.

don't make me do it.

no matter what, don't make me do it myself.

every edge of the sea pleads you to let me out of this twisted carnival.

let me go is not enough.

drop me OFF the DAMNED OVERHEAD BRIDGE!

hey, I'm calling your name, so come be my villain.

please, I beg of you, be cruel to me.

#poets on tumblr #spilled ink #original poem #original poetry #poems and poetry #twcpoetry #writers #poets of tumblr #writerscreed #poeticstories #sufferingiscute #broken relationship #broken heart #ending a relationship #overhead bridge #writeblr #poetryreruns #poetryportal #smittenbypoetry

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prasannawrites · 2 years

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15/30. Text ID under cut.

FRUITS OF THE SUN

After being tended to by parents, who had more hope for you

than love—who called out for a more benevolent sun to take

the shape of their desires, and needs, you learn that a storm is

always brewing in the distance. Good farmers know not to tend to the crops

but the livestock, and equipment because

crops are replaceable, and you are nothing more than flesh

meant to sustain and provide. You broke through soil, your bones rooted

from a hole in the ground, a grave—yours, most certainly.

Had you been tended

to with a little more care, a little more tenderness, a little more love,

you would not have noticed how close love is to hatred,

separated by a quiet line of indifference—I love you, so I’ll give you room to breathe,

I hate you, so I will say nothing.

Maybe in a different time, your flesh would have been sweet like sugar-apple,

and not the tart crab-apple you pluck before a chance it sweetens a little

because you realize it won’t ever ripen in this lifetime.

Did you know that most apple trees are grafted? A seed from a fuji apple won’t

grow more fuji apples. So, they take branches from a more successful,

more obedient apple tree and attach it to whatever rootstock

they have on hand. In short, most apple trees have a traceable lineage

that can be traced to one good apple—you were an apple that was

knocked off the branch, started to rot when you were picked

up and brought inside, only because you were a

firstling. You continue to rot, and they let you.

#poems #poetry #writerscreed #poeticstories #writingthestorm #writtenconsiderations #bitsofstarglow #smittenbypoetry #deadwatered #inspireamuse #poetryclub13 #poetryportal #poetselixir #inkstay #spilled ink #poetryreruns #original poetry #my writing #poets of tumblr

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prasannawrites · 2 years

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by chance. click for better quality, transcript under cut.

Happenstance—the way you turn the corner at full speed, bumping into me, spilling an armful of books that we both quickly resolve to pick up from the floor on the account of rain. I hand them back to you without taking note of any of the titles, making eye-contact was intimate enough. You, me, the bumbling man on the phone, oblivious to the rain pour into the bus shelter. He’s only concerned only with the man on the other end of the phone who won’t accept $2500 for the CRV he’s selling, to which the man rattles off a list of problems with the car that needs to be fixed: the timing chain needs to be replaced, it idles rough, brakes need to be replaced, and the air-conditioning is blowing warm air. We pay little attention to that conversation, and let the tension impregnate the silence. I try to catch a glimpse of your books to feign a reason to make small talk, but stop myself at the risk of catching your gaze again. You take the first step, “do you know when the bus will be here?”, you ask in the softest voice I’ve ever heard. The man breaks from his conversation, “I see it, it’s coming” and resumes haggling—"$2800 then”.

#poems #poetry #writerscreed #poeticstories #writingthestorm #writtenconsiderations #bitsofstarglow #smittenbypoetry #deadwatered #inspireamuse #poetryclub13 #poetryportal #poetselixir #inkstay #spilled ink #poetryreruns #original poetry #my writing #poets of tumblr

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prasannawrites · 2 years

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I SCORCH MYSELF ON YOUR NAME. 12/30. text id under cut.

Her hand atop yours, and on the inside, you are burning now—

at daybreak no less, you could not part. You did not want to

sing another aubade, not when her soft brown eyes swallowed

you whole. You have been waiting for something

your whole life—is it permission?

You fix your gaze on her once more, it’s not permission

you seek, you intuitively understand one another, there’s

little need to verbalize the big stuff. You’ve always been in

tune for those things.

Is it her?

I mean yes, and no. You thought about buying a lottery ticket

after meeting her the first time. As predestined things feel with

her, you still consider yourself extremely lucky, you were meant

for her, she was meant for you—your union is a holy thing.

It’s this exact moment—intimacy with tenderness, being vulnerable to

the point of immolation, every syllable of every word she utters

leaves you volatile. The crazy thing is, you want every part of this,

you wanted to live life to the fullest extent, pouring passion

into all the little things, everything feels significant and new.

You can close your eyes now, and sleep anywhere,

you don’t have to worry about whether its safe or not,

you can utter her name like a spell, and she’ll

be there, like you’re there for her.

You love her, and she loves you.

You’re loved.

Finally.

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