#poetry in practice

[irregularspace]

Healing cares nothing for what caused a wound… Its only desire it to recover, to repair the damage and rejoice in being unbroken…

[welcometogrouchland]

ANOTHER SKETCH DUMP! Featuring more of me playing with lineless art. Batman reborn era trio (dick, damian and steph) I miss you...when will you return from war. Also featuring Steph designs bc I've seen ppl dissatisfied w/ her current look, some good mom Talia, and Jason Todd poetry club. Duke is confused not that Jason would start a poetry club but that he'd have such mid poetry opinions. (ID in Alt)

[avicecaro]

i think it’s important everyone knows about the little roman girl who died at only five years and seven months old, and her grave reads "dum vixi, lusi" or "while i lived, i played"

[thatgaywizardoverthere]

Arthur “Disaster Bi” Pendragon learning about true loves kiss as a cure like:

Gwaine: For fuck’s sake, he’s not enchanted every time he smiles at someone else, Arthur! He was literally just laughing at my joke!

Arthur, aggressively frenching Merlin on the council room floor: YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO CAREFUL OKAY-

[thespilledquotes]

My darling girl, when are you going to understand that being normal is not necessarily a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage.

Practical Magic

[lirotation]

Went thru my old sketch book and saw this quote. I thought it really suits my Tav. This is a verse from "Love’s Philosophy" By Percy Bysshe Shelley

[gale-force-storm]

He refuses to fall for the first person to show him kindness. He may be feeling sorry for himself, but that's a bridge too far.

Even if they are beautiful. And kind to everyone, not just him. And brave. And clever. And strong. And they love animals, and reading. And they have a wry sense of humour that he adores.

He won't. He can't. Besides all else, this is decidedly not the time. A bomb in his chest and a worm in his head and a weight on his shoulders and a shame in his stomach and a shattered heart he's still trying to gather the pieces of. Desperately clinging to the cloak of his past, wrapping himself in his former confidence, pretending it hasn't been worn threadbare with time in isolation and eaten ragged by the moths of doubt and fear and past mistakes.

He fell from grace so far so fast, but he cannot beg affection off the first hand to offer him help up, even if it is the first time he's touched another person in months. Even if that hand did send a sudden warmth through him and feel so right in his own he could almost cry from it.

...This is getting out of hand.

He can just be friendly with them, surely. How does one make friends, again? Shared interests? He mostly just has the one, so he'll share what he can. They pick it up quickly, and the warm magic that surrounds them is a balm on his soul. Right up until they imagine kissing him, and his heart skips a beat. It can't be. It can't be. They can't want him back. It's not possible. And how, after it all, after everything, is he meant to resist the overwhelming temptation of being wanted?

They don't let up, either. Lingering glances. Warm smiles. All but propositioning him at the tiefling party. If there is a single positive thing to be said about his year of orb-imposed abstinence, it's that the willpower he had to build up and the practice denying himself were the only things that enabled him to decline their advances.

Well, that and the risk of blowing up the both of them, along with everyone else in or near the camp.

The warm smiles and lingering gazes and casual touches still continue, though.

This is fine. He's fine. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, someone cared for him like this, and he can't do a damn thing about it, but he's fine. Everything is fine. As fine as it can be, anyways, given everything else about the situation.

He supposes he should probably be more upset about Mystra's orders. At this point, though, it's hard to feel like it's anything besides a way out. A relief that he can be good for something. One more miserable experience, and then he's done with it, and all their problems are solved. There are worse things.

Except.

They're so angry about it. Everyone is, but them especially. Arguing with both him and Elminster the entire time, insisting there's another option. That they'll find or make one. Whatever they have to do to keep him around.

Gods help him, but he does want to stay with them. Stay for them.

He sleeps that night, and awakens with a jolt, a groan, and a realization. He's glad that prestidigitation exists to clean himself up without leaving his tent and risking the others' notice. His body had, apparently, caught up with certain implications before his brain. Though from what snippets of his dream he remembers, maybe it was only his waking mind that had been lagging behind.

He wants them, and he can finally have them. Can give them as much of himself as he's able, in the time he has left.

He had refused, at first, the idea of falling for the first person to show him kindness. And he hasn't. He's fallen for someone who is so much more that that. And he will not, cannot, die without letting them know. If he has to leave them, and he fears he will, then he will not leave them feeling unappreciated, or uncherished, or unloved. Not when he can finally embrace the full depth and breadth of what he feels for them. Has felt for them for what can't have been more than a tenday or two, but feels like a lifetime and a moment all at once.

He will not leave without showing them the full scope of his admiration and appreciation and sheer joy at their presence. The full scope of how impossibly deeply he already loves them. Not while he has any say in it.

[kiisuuumii]

Kaveh Akbar, from "Every Drunk Wants to Die Sober It's How We Beat the Game," in Calling a Wolf a Wolf

[filmnoirsbian]

Spilled Inktober day 9: inspired by a favorite Halloween movie

[raayllum]

6x01 / 6x09

[irregularspace]

Slow down, be patient…

Flourish in your heart…

[philosophybits]

Our language is either — mechanical — atomistic — or dynamic. But true poetic language should be organically alive. How often one feels the poverty of words — to express several ideas all at once.

Novalis, Miscellaneous Observations

[thehopefulquotes]

My darling girl, when are you going to understand that being normal is not necessarily a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage.

Practical Magic

[astralstarlight]

"Thank you." You say.

Atsumu doesn't say anything. He's still just staring at you, trying to figure out what you're thinking before he says something he might regret. It's easy for him. He knows you. He sees your stiff shoulders, and your hands clenching. Unclench. Clench.

Your face is still turned towards the floor, but he catches you swallowing.

You're nervous, he realises.

"Hey." He says quietly, stepping closer. "It's okay."

You swipe at some tears that still haven't fallen yet, pretending to scratch an itch on your cheek. His hands wrap around yours, pulling you into him and allowing one hand to automatically tangle in your hair. You mumble something he doesn't quite catch, but it sounds like another expression of gratitude.

So instead, he laughs. Not mean-spirited, nor awkward. It's Atsumu. And he's always known just what to say to anything you're feeling. And that's always been nice to know. Because if he really thought it wasn't important enough, he would tell you.

Atsumu doesn't mince his words, not even when it comes to you. But he's grown to understand it -- maybe it's not important enough for him to cry over, but it's important to you.

"Sorry." you say, sniffling. "I just forget sometimes. So, it's good that you're here." You wave your hand, still trying to hold up some nonchalance even through the fresh wave of tears in your eyes. "To remind me." You finish.

"And I will." Atsumu flashes you his signature grin.

You manage a half-smile, and Atsumu considers it a job well-done.

"I love you, okay?" He murmurs, hand patting the top of your head.

And it's Atsumu saying it, so of course you believe him.

[trickstersaint]

fr though you have to write bad poetry. poems are not handed down to you fully formed by god they are things that you have to work on and practice your skill at creating. nobody would expect you to sit down at a pottery wheel and end up with a perfect vase with no practice. it's a skill! art is a learned thing!! you have to make the shitty little pots with dents and marks and your fingerprints all over them in order to get better. and you're allowed to be proud of those first little pots you made too

[whaliiwatching]

Hey hello. Consider. Hobie reading over and suggesting edits to drafts of Peter's writing and then going home visually with clippings and quotes from said writing as a part of him. Alternately, Peter takes inspiration from quotes visible on Hobie

heart on your sleeve…..