#poetic vomit

[oatmealdaydreams]

Aftermath of a Nightmare - A Sanders Sides FanPoem

Shall I speak like an organ bleeds?

If I tell, promise me

You won't find humor in it?

Alright, then...

My love, what ails you?

You may speaks as freely as a raging river, and

You needn't my approval.

No, I won't snicker nor snide.

Oh, dear hearts I hold, are you okay?

Of course, always, dearest star.

As our prince says, no need for

Our approval to tell what hurts you.

They hold him dear

Tonight

Now you cannot touch him

Tonight

They ease his tears

Tonight

Now you cannot choke him

Tonight

@analoginceweek for Day 2: Nightmare

[catboybiologist]

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[astrowarr]

can we SLOW DOWN. POPPIES AND LILACS? LAST LIFE COLOR PALETTE? GRAY STREAK IN HAIR? just hold on. just wait WAIT HOLD

[innocentsardonicpotatoes]

Relax.

One step at a time.

Take breaks.

Allow yourself to breathe.

The journey is difficult.

But not impossible.

[f0r7una]

There's a way that artists look at each other. A hunger masked as appreciation, as understanding. I've seen it in gallery openings, in writing workshops, in late-night conversations where wine loosens tongues but tightens focus. We call it inspiration. We pretend it's gentle but, art has a way of lying to you.

[jb-cohen]

There are nerves in my stomach

Often described as butterflies

Sometimes I feel them as bees

Busy as can be

I feel them now bustling as I am anticipating an

Arrival of

another

Waiting for that door to ring

My skin scraped up

Just above & below the knee

I keep finding myself beat

outside & hanging

around men

But I never minded a bruise every now and then.

[bloomingsoul333]

Untitled Thought

Here they go again.

Anxiety arguing inside my heart.

How do I sweat them out of my heart is such a frozen state?

How do I sooth their souls when mine is so tangled?

...

I thought it would feel nice to enjoy a bit of normalcy before the commotion.

But it's too late. Been too late for a while...

All these moments to myself and in my head and on the floor and wet from tears-

Today I am strong.

I feel it deep in me, immersing into my soul.

Strength...

I used to run from her in fear of the things she would do to me; the things she would say in my head.

The person I would turn into.

Who I would leave behind-

Jaded into Peace.

I didn't recognize myself, and I still can't...

Who is that looking at me through my forehead?

Peering at the skin like a mirror and smiling through me...

Why can't I stop looking back?

What is this warmth I feel-

I felt so much that I froze in my thoughts.

And now I feel my right shoulder becoming warm. But I cannot see. Which I hate to admit...frightens me.

Am I thawing out or freezing into silence?

[cogentsummoner]

i will never ever shut up about toshi this is a promise and a threat

[electrozeistyking]

please don't tell me i'm about to lose someone i care for in a way i never wanted to experience again.

please don't tell me i'll never get to say yet another farewell. we'll always be here for each other, right?

please. let me open the door and reach out to you.

i can't bare the thought

of losing you, too.

[oatmealdaydreams]

People often say they were borne to do something.

"I was borne to write." // "I was borne to sing." // "I was borne to be a quarterback."

And on and on and on.

But that's the thing, isn't it? No one was borne 'for something'. You weren't borne for one little purpose. For a single thing. You weren't borne to be a writer or a singer or a football player. You were just borne, and you chose what to do and who to be.

I was borne. I chose.

[andromedagrrrl]

{anxiety and old sweaters}

anxiety is like an old sweater,  smelly and itchy,  probing at my insides until i cave until the vomit stops it keeping picking and picking leaving marks and bubbly red scars  keeping me from my loved ones. it was my grandma’s sweater.  i can't leave it  can’t take it off not until it stops hurting.  not until the vomit stops.  my anxiety is like an old, crumpy, ugly, itchy sweater all wrapped up perfect in a box with a bow hiding from the world.  yet presented to all. 

-vick ☆

[avecamour-espoir]

would you still be everything i wanted, if i finally had the chance to have you?

you see, i always thought i had all of you but somehow you would always manage to, just like water, slip through my finger tips.

so if i did have all of you, in my the palm of my hands, and if you were completely mine and i was completely yours, would you still be everything i ever imagined you’d be, everything that i hope you are?

because i like to wonder if you would treat me any differently than you did before if you had all of me, all the time.

are you a completely different person than what i had in mind, or did i make up this version of you in hopes that all of your red flags were only just illusions?

[f0r7una]

The Artist's Blood.

Art, like love, is obsession embodied. It feeds on me, an insatiable parasite cloaked in beauty, siphoning off pieces of my heart. Enthralled by my muse's intoxicating allure, I surrendered willingly, reveling in my muse's enigmatic allure, mistaking the gnawing hunger for inspiration. Memories blur, sanity fractures, and what remains of my heart becomes a fragile offering to my muse. Yet, my creation mirrors my own destruction, each masterpiece a monument to the pieces I'll never reclaim. As dawn turns to dusk, the truth becomes impossible to ignore: my muse is a parasite. It whispers promises of immortality while feasting on vulnerability, leaving behind hollowness where dreams once thrived. It's a cruel, intimate exchange, akin to a love unrequited, where fascination eclipses possession, and devotion teeters between admiration and anguish.

Art becomes a conversation between what is shared and what is lost—an intimate, unspoken language of passion and pain. And when I'm left with nothing but the echo of my devotion, I realize my muse has always been a parasite. And yet, I'd offer myself again.

[wadingthroughgrass]

poetic rambling #1

Is there not a sickly beauty to those swirling tendrils of gas, yellow in the light that reflects pallidly off its twisting surface? It reflects off the menacing contraptions of steel it hides, enhancing the harsh steely lights that blind in their numbers. It hides the low-set buildings, heaping across the expanse of cleared land, small from the distance you care only to observe. Maybe in another world our Earth’s plague is a natural state of pristine beauty, such as the great gas giants we call ours — colossal and beautiful in their grandness — in a solar system where we are of the highest form. Or only form I suppose. Yet in the world we know, her beauty lies in the vivid blues and greens of her curves, the smears of oranges and yellows in places where her tears do not run, blacks in the depths of pressure where even the strains of our illusion of a society does not prepare us for. Her beauty is hers, so why is the beauty of Venus, a more likely comparison to the plague we’ve given our roots than our quietly looming gas giants of charm, present here? Venus, sweltering and acidic, bewitching to even our forefathers who deemed her to be Aphrodite. Soon there will be no separation between our worlds, and while our society struggles to accept the idea that everyone really is the same, we also struggle to accept the importance of uniqueness, the flavor that provides us with the perspective to truly appreciate beauty. For beauty, in all its wondrousness, is all that these worlds have to offer. 

[innocentsardonicpotatoes]

A love that dribbles viscous like syrup.

Dilute it into a nectar and maybe you'll get the fraction of its essence just as sweet as the source.

[a9saga]

chat can we get some puke emojis for cameron winning america's favorite houseguest