#But not in years and NOT in poetry

[revenantghost]

I was not expecting the biggest Dread in writing the E poetry fic to be trying to come with a name, and yet

[tigerjpg]

nothing makes me go "ooooh we are NOT the same" quite like reading some post about how people talk with their parents about their interests. what do you mean you told your father about stevebucky. what do you mean he asked further questions

[potatoesandsunshine]

everything u need to know about me can actually be explained by the fact that i read that poem about the serving girl wearing the pearls so they're warm for her mistress when i was like 11 and it rewrote my brain chemistry forever

like this Changed Me

[zytes]

look alive, sunshine

[bliblically-accurate-raccoon]

i’ve been bed rotting in a decidedly self destructive way lately

being and nothingness, jean-paul sartre // the metamorphosis, franz kafka // i am the architect of my own destruction, juansen dizon // albert camus // as consciousness is harnessed, susan sontag // ralph waldo emerson // allen ginsberg // tennesse williams // letters to felice, franz kafka // sylvia plath

[that-butch-archivist]

source: The Little Butch Book, written by Lesléa Newman

[doreensladle]

The Dead Man’s Fallacy: Riz Gukgak

[sweatermuppet]

billy collins in response to being asked "if you aren't a poet, but were interested in getting started, how would you do that?"

watch the full video here

[theoptia]

Claribel Alegría, from “From the Bridge”

Text ID: poor deluded thing / you learned the consolations / of philosophy / before understanding / why you had to be consoled

[v1rginsu1cidal]

Blood still stains when the sheets are washed Sex don't sleep when the lights are off Kids are still depressed when you dress them up And syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup...

[hellwurld]

has it really been three whole years? has it only been three years?

or: how to miss something that never really leaves and how to know when something is dead or dying or sleeping. happy three year anniversary dream smp, i hope it was worth it.

david foster wallace, infinite jest (via tiktok) / tumblr replies, @goosekid / "cheater, cheater" twitter, @/mangobaii / tumblr, @hiveswap / tiktok comments, @/ashmanathletics / aeschylus: the oresteia, aeschylus / road to hell (reprise), hadestown

[typewriter-worries]

It's world poetry day so here are some (more) of my favorite poems:

What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade by Brad Aaron Modlin

All Trains Are Going Local by Timothy Liu

Rural Boys Watch the Apocalypse by Keaton St. James (@boykeats)

HOPE YOU’RE WELL. PLEASE DON’T READ THIS. by Lev St. Valentine (@dogrotpdf)

Time of Love by Claribel Alegría

Every Job Has a First Day by Rebecca Gayle Howell

ALL THAT WANTING, RIGHT? by Devin Kelly

Reading by A.R. Ammons

things i want to ask you by Helga Floros

Night Bird by Danusha Laméris

Prayer for Werewolves by Stephanie Burt

The Two Times I Loved You the Most In a Car by Dorothea Grossman

The Yearner by Rachel Long

If I Had Three Lives by Sarah Russell

I Dream on a Crowded Subway Train with My Eyes Open But My Body Swaying by Chen Chen

We Have Not Long to Love by Tennessee Williams

Jesus at the Gay Bar by Jay Hulme

Cracks by Dieu Dinh

and here's part one <3

[apoemaday]

Dog Years

by Michael Bazzett

We’re all aware that when we are walking the dog, and he spends an hour lovingly sniffing posts and tufts, and we then return home and his tongue hangs from his panting mouth,

that somehow seven hours have passed for him, which means that, allotting time for grieving, our lives consist of maybe five dogs, and when we clutch the slack skin behind a puppy’s ear, when

we gather up that impossibly soft coat into our fists, part of the stabbing intensity of our grip comes from grief. Right there. Even as that soft pink tongue is licking you. But what we do not

consider often enough is that old-growth maples peer down at us in the same way, bewildered by how soon we are gone, how little we grasp while we’re here, at our odd rootless ways of love.

[glorious-destruction]

the feminine urge to become fluent in every language on earth so I can read literature in poetry in their native tongues to get the full effect

[feral-ballad]

Erika L. Sánchez, from Lessons on Expulsion: Poems; “Amá”

[Text ID: “In One Hundred Years of Solitude, / Márquez wrote that we are birthed / by our mothers only once, but life obligates / us to give birth / to ourselves over and over.”]

[that-butch-archivist]

source: The Little Butch Book, written by Lesléa Newman