#pining poetry

[ramblingsofaporcelainheart]

My heart pouring out

Through my eyes

Weeping for another “he loves me not”

Sisyphus pushing his stone

Up the unyielding mountain

Hoping for anything but the inevitable

[tithonusramble]

do you even care to know me?

I don’t think you do.

Otherwise, you would be trying and I have to squint just to see you.

never bother to ask about my day

Never asking about all the things that have happened.

Starting to feel like a backhand.

i would gladly tell you—please

But why should I? It would be wasted breath—wasted energy—wasted time.

You don’t deserve that. Probably don’t even deserve to be mine.

why do i even care if you stay?

Maybe this is all a waste.

All these poems that I’ve written, I’ve wasted them all on you.

[a-certain-type-of-frog]

This chair doesn’t let me sit right

with its strange desk arm

and position yards too far away

I’d sit under the piano if i had to, if i could. 

Its keys sing gently to guide us 

through a field of song

chords ring out i am not looking

at those platform boots at hair

that lays in different angles from

moment to moment hands gusts of

wind pushing it any direction

hands that move so distinctly i could

recognize their rise and fall in my sleep

I have seen them in my dreams

they live in my thoughts

my monday wednesday classes with 

screens that reflect my own silhouette 

instead of the one behind me

my emails as i aspire to what they

so easily encompass i am trying

not to stare.

[mikimuun]

the trauma compelled him to correct stanley's grammar

[yvixtraedoesartthingsxd]

Untitled #2

One, two, three heartbeats’ worth of time is how long it takes for me to finally decide to get up and leave my mess of a bed-- or really, just a nest on the floor of my walk-in closet, a barely cohesive pile of blankets pillows and plushies.

I haven’t taken the time to swing by his studio for a few weeks now, and I feel guilty for letting my awkward anxiety tell me that it’s best to stay away and waste the stupid amount of effort that went into outright asking him to be friends, how I almost was visibly shaking as I fumbled over trying to explain being so late to ask even though I’d seen him around a fair amount last academic year.

There’s a sense of pressure to try and look a little more put together before going outside under the excuse of getting my usual order of boba tea when really, I’m mainly hoping to see that he’s there today.

The walk there is both over too fast and too long simultaneously, my body on autopilot as I speedwalk music probably too loud through my singular earbud phone and wallet clutched in a claw grip in one hand whilst the other is on the strap of my bag knuckles white as my legs start to ache and my breathing grows slightly ragged.

I barely spare a glance at any of the people I pass or the park on my way there, making sure to check and double check my mental rehearsal of my order though I’ve gotten the exact same boba for years now: Matcha milk tea, traditional boba, fifty-percent sweetness.

When the destination is within my line of sight essentially just a really solid stick throw away, I take a moment to give a second reminder to myself to ask if it’s okay with him if I make a simple kandi single for him and if he wants anything specific for it but I can’t help the thought that it’s an odd question.

Gingerly stepping through the door I rake my gaze across the restaurant, quickly assessing that he’s not here currently if he’s to be here at all today but still wish to not waste the trip and simply order anyways, unsure on if it helps my anxiety for the moment resigning myself to trying to see him again at least one more time before winter break to talk and ask about the bracelet.

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am your mould, but the shape of you is true absence, leaving me purposeless.’

[text id: and is this not treason? / my soul belongs far more to you than it does to me.]

[rosarysgarden]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’

[text id: i have the everlasting tendency to ruin everything i love.]

[void-dude]

hi!! Love your shapes and pines au, and just wanted to ask

Even though I don't own the book of bill I know somewhat of it, and we'll, bill has a spect of his dimensions under his hat (I think?) does tad have something like that? Sometimes from his original dimension

Oh you know, just some dusty things! I'm sure he'll throw them away at...some point! ☝️

(also I'm very happy to hear that you're enjoying my au!!)

Oh Little Billy, please tie your shoeeeesss Taddy‘s tired of velcrooooo

[clarisimart]

It's just so funny for me that Stanford Pines' biggest flaw is arrogance, and that he wants and needs so badly to be special and important and the protagonist of the world, and God's special-est lil man, and then he gets EXACTLY what he wants, he becomes (a) god's favorite AND the whole narrative revolves and kicks off because of him and his actions, BUT it ruins his fucking life, and everyone else's life around him

[bloominginsilence]

You're going to meet someone who will love you like it's breathing.

[wordscanbeenough]

I'm not too gone to be healed, am I? / I'm not too gone am I?

Alice Notley, from In the Pines

[ramblingsofaporcelainheart]

Few things in my body are the same

as when I loved you

My right knee still aches in the cold

Cold like the first time we were clocked as a couple and I said “just friends”

And forgot to let you answer

God why did I never ask you

My hand still tingles with gentle pain

Phantom pain from the high fives we perfected in place of kisses

A chasm I dug from my fear

Grown too great to bridge

Few things in my heart are the same.

But I loved you.

[tithonusramble]

This love sick gut feeling has been making me nauseous.

I can’t do anything but lay in bed—

high out of my mind to not think of you.

Why are you stuck there so tight?

Can’t seem to shake you loose.

The chocolate on your lips keeps me coming back—

you tasted so pretty.

I can’t go through my day without thoughts of you.

I want to be done. To be over you.

Please, I’m begging.

End this.

[mournfulroses]

Mary Oliver, from a poem titled "The Garden," featured in White Pine: Poems & Prose Poems

[aamerchive]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s my body is a slaughterhouse.

[image credit: pinterest]

[yvixtraedoesartthingsxd]

Unhinged Laments of a Depraved Craving

I wish it were easier to sit with

both the old and the new

thoughts and feelings that surface over him

but I suppose that's a bit much for me to ask for

and so the brainrot never ends.

I'm either unable to tear my eyes away

or can hardly stand to even look in his direction

because of how fast the guilt

has swept me away this time around.

I wear my heart on my sleeve

for better and for worse

and never before have I so terribly hated

how open my expressions are

on accident,

how you can see the confession written across my face

like some sort of damning sin,

though it honestly might as well be.

I am but a humble and hopeless devotee

to a god that I cannot reach

and therefore cannot receive answers,

cannot find a home for my teeth

in his flesh as it parts beneath the force

of my hungry bite,

cannot lap up and savor

the crimson essence that consequentially

beads up from the wound after,

cannot plead for him to do the same

in kind and tear me asunder,

my blood smeared across his teeth

and dripping down his lips and chin

mirroring just how I crave to wear his red,

cannot beg for him to devour my heart whole

as it beats

served on a silver platter--served just for him.

Only for him.

In a desperate offering to be known,

to be loved at where I'm most surrounded by ruin,

to be able to have even a hope at tasting

the salvation I just know his kisses would grant me.