How to pretend that you are a writer. by lupus-astra, literature
Literature
How to pretend that you are a writer.
Act like you're not
okay when you are and
that you are when you're
not. Run barefoot in
the snow. Stand out
in the rain for an hour
and think about anything
and everything you can.
Fall in love with
riddles and things that
aren't real and the
way some stars
shine. Cry when
you realize that life is
just one big sham and write
one hundred cliché poems
about it, and then write one
that you actually mean.
Use profanity. Be the
one fucking introvert
in a room full of
extroverts and scream
shit just for the fun of
it. Swallow every goddamn
metaphor you ever dreamed
of and write them down
with your own blood.
Eulogize your own
misery. Put a
The Girl Who Was Afraid To Be by UntamedUnwanted, literature
Literature
The Girl Who Was Afraid To Be
She speaks to me fondly
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
apologises
for speaking at all.
All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
by ignoring
her beautiful words
and telling her to
shut up,
keep it down,
nobody cares.
People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.
Friday 5.30pm, and my face was pressed to the armpit of another man, with the leather strap almost cutting off the blood supply to my hand. The groin of a stranger was touching my back every time the carriage cornered. A girl breathed hot chocolate into my ear. It sounds erotic, now I think about it, but it wasn’t. The only way I can cope with that squeeze of people, the second-hand air of three hundred diseased strangers on the Jubilee Line, is by going into myself. I become utterly absorbed in the music on my ipod. Ray Davies is singing only to me. Sometimes I accidentally mouth the words and attract the disinterested but oppro
Swamp was almost empty that night. A few people were sitting alone on the couches, or reading a book and smoking a cigarette while enjoying coffee or a nice glass of red wine. I could see the tips light up orange in the dim room as the tobacco burnt silently. I thought about walking up to one of them and asking for a smoke.
A woman was dancing clumsily beneath the red spotlights near the stage with a glass in her hand. She was lifting her other skinny arm over her head in a waving motion, in sync with the rhythm of the soft saxophone, then she ran it down her body, snaking it provocatively along her yellow dress. The poorly bleached hair
words to say to your reflection by aprilwednesday, literature
Literature
words to say to your reflection
i am a collection of dust and stars,
blue luster in a sea of inky void.
i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,
shaping sounds that matter.
i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,
four miles of haphazard beauty
on a lonely night.
i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,
though the air outside is cold
by now.
i am the snow at 6am.
i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.
i am the snow at 6pm.
i am still beautiful.
i am the sound of rain just before sunrise
on a sunday morning.
i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,
blossoming and unfolding like a
Nights have become colder and longer
The winds have become faster
And snow has risen
I perch at the perfect platform
The creator in my good hand
Running along a fragile surface
The hot tendrils flicker
Their dancing brings about cracks
Which is all I need hear
Along with all the warmth I need
My mind wanders like my hand
Thoughts becoming known
Pictures coming to life
A world confined
Cup filled and emptied
Platter then holding orts
Hand slowly being smeared
Eyes watching like a film
I look then at the surface
I made a moment last
Living only upon the parchment
And that, to me, is perfect