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I keep thinking about what it would be like if we truly made names for ourselves– if we went down in history as somebodies, instead of soft, nervous girls with soft, nervous hands. I think about the literary scholars, years after we’re dead, combing through our work and seeing how we keep borrowing each other’s favorite cliches, how it’s impossible to mistake just who we are talking about. I keep wondering if they’d see these poems as our love-letters: if we would be like Hemingway and Mary Welsh, like F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, if they would bind up our heartbreak into its own book and sell it as romance. This thing, we kept it so close to our chests: all at once, out in the open and yet completely private. What would those academic types think about the way we put our wounds on display like museum exhibits? They tell you not to fall in love with a poet. I always thought it was because we’re too caught up in the language to live in the moment. I didn’t know it was because the aftershocks would be written in ink.

LIKE F. SCOTT AND ZELDA by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

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“So,” she started casually, as if she were about to ask him what movie they should watch. “When did you fall in love with me?” He almost choked on the handful of popcorn he had grabbed and gave her an incredulous look. She just grinned cheekily at him. “I don’t want to tell you.” “Oh, come on, why not?” She pouted. “It’s cheesy as fuck.” She laughed, and as a way of encouragement, said, “I like cheesy.” He looked at her for a moment and then rolled his eyes and sighed. “It was a couple of months back, when we were studying for finals in the library. I left to go find a book we both needed but when I was walking back, I stopped. You were sitting in the same spot but you looked different. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. The rays of light were pouring in from the big window and they made your hair look like gold, and your eyes glowed. A girl walked past me and said, "You’re looking at her like she’s the goddamn sun. Don’t ever let her go.” He winced, as if he couldn’t believe he was telling her this, but continued. His cheeks were tinged a rosy shade of pink. “When she said that, all I could think was, I never fucking will.”

n.g. // excerpt from a book i’ll never write #16 (via coffeeandpoetrydarling)

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Typewriter Series #1374 by Tyler Knott Gregson

Come say hello @TylerKnott on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter!

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This Poet Breaks Down The Importance Of Missy Elliott’s Hip-Hop Feminism

At the 2015 Individual World Poetry Slam, 26-year-old poet Miss Haze performed about how, after she saw the music video for “The Rain” at age 8, she decided: “I was gonna grow up to be Missy Elliott.”

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free crochet pattern 

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Happy New Years

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Happy New Year!

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End the old year and bring in the new with poems. Read the rest of this poem and others at Poets.org.

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The 16 Best Poetry Books Of 2015

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2015. the year that tried to conquer me, but didn’t.

10 word story of the past year, 228/365 (e.f.a.)

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You're the only one that can keep me awake.

My little cousins friend to her. (Redefining friendship -> exactly what kind of world do we live in now? A tiny bit ashamed to admit I like this definition of friendship)

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Your brother is such a mean person. He almost scared the..um...chicken.

My little cousin's friend. It's funnier when you realize that my cousins actually keep chickens in the backyard. Though I'm pretty sure he scared the girl too.

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A ten year old just walked by me freaking out a little saying, "I need to fix my make-up!" Since when is 10 a make-up wearing age?

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My interest in my botany class was solidified the moment my professor referred to a flower bud as a "bomb about to go off." That may be one of the best metaphors I've ever heard.

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I saw a tiny little snake on campus and thought it was cute. I wanted to pick it up but I figured that was on the list of stupid things I shouldn't do. (There are a lot of things on that list that I want to do.)