#something like poetry

[fs-lewisartistry]

This body passes by so monotonously,

Yet, this heart still skips abominably.

7/11/23

-FS Lewis

[imactuallyagiraffe]

Things that spin:

- records

- wheels

- compass needles

- dancers

- the whole worlds

- and my head

[druid-for-hire]

[image id: a four-page comic. it is titled "immortality” after the poem by clare harner (more popularly known as “do not stand at my grave and weep”). the first page shows paleontologists digging up fossils at a dig. it reads, “do not stand at my grave and weep. i am not there. i do not sleep.” page two features several prehistoric creatures living in the wild. not featured but notable, each have modern descendants: horses, cetaceans, horsetail plants, and crocodilians. it reads, “i am a thousand winds that blow. i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain. i am the gentle autumn rain.” the third page shows archaeopteryx in the treetops and the skies, then a modern museum-goer reading the placard on a fossil display. it reads, “when you awaken in the morning’s hush, i am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. i am the soft stars that shine at night. do not stand at my grave and cry.” the fourth page shows a chicken in a field. it reads, “i am not there. i did not die” / end id]

a comic i made in about 15 hours for my school’s comic anthology. the theme was “evolution”

[alphessa]

Okay so a few days ago I was thinking about the God is love verse and wondering 'Is God just love?'

And then God led me to realize: The apple is red. But the apple isn't just red. If you cut it open, inside it will be whitish-yellow, and past that the seeds will be black.

God is love, but he isn't just love. All of his traits may be described by love: honesty, gentleness, and so on, but he is also a person. Love incarnate but also the creator of all things.

God is more than love, and the apple is more than red.

[peachyyykat]

ada limón, ‘salvage’ // broken social scene, ‘anthems for a seventeen year-old girl’ // v.e. schwab, ‘the secret life of addie larue’ // lorde, ‘ribs’ // my search history // @/delicatethunders, tumblr

[dancingtortoise]

too much and too little

i feel like i'm leaving so many things that i'm thinking unsaid. indistinguishable thoughts that are hov'ring vaguely inside of my head. and yet i feel lost, i feel empty deprived of both feelings and speech. although you are sitting beside me you feel just so far out of reach

[somewhere-write-over-here]

Show Me the Sky

Tonight as I sit here, in the waking nightmare of the future yet to come,

I look at the sky and wish for stars.

The birds sing and the city still thrums,

But the gray haze of the streetlights and wildfires blots out the night sky.

If I could just see the stars, maybe everything would be alright.

Maybe everything would be alright.

Maybe.

Poem from May 22nd, 2023

[scarsletters]

Feral Girl Fall.

Eyes of ice

Hair of fire

Thighs of brass

Hearts desires

And all that ass

Angels choirs

Err Err she said she said

Out of the ash I rise with my red my red

Ember hairs, violent stares

And I eat men like the air.

[trulyfuly]

[riddlerosehearts]

i really need everyone but especially anyone who romanced gale with a bard tav to know about this interaction from early access that larian took from us

[fs-lewisartistry]

It’s just -

Sometimes I feel there are bits of you still stuck in my teeth,

And they keep falling out, whenever I speak.

-FS Lewis 4/18/23

[carbonbasedmatter]

I miss the comfort in being me

I miss the kisses from all the misses

I miss the comfort in a child

I miss the comfort of a mother

I miss the warmth I found in honesty

I miss the hugs from the bugs

I miss being missed.

[shadowhaert]

missing someone bad for you

trista mateer / trista mateer / sue zhao / u.k / u.k / clementine von radics / trista mateer

[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)

[teddybeartoji]

it's not often you get to see a sleepy suguru.

it's not like he's not tired – he's fucking exhausted; the dreams just don't seem to like him all that much. but he's usually toughing it out, trying to seem as composed and put-together as possible. the dark skin underneath his eyes betray him, though.

so you don't really know why today is different. is he just more tired? have all of the sleepless hours caught up with him? or is it just you; could it be that your body is the most comfortable place to rest his heavy head? or is it your perfume that's soothing him to sleep?

or is it the fingers in his hair?

he doesn't really let others play with his hair too ofter either. satoru and shoko had been the only exceptions but that was before you came along. satoru uses his hair as a stim, something to play with when he's bored. suguru has taught him manners though – a few slaps against satoru's fingers and chest to remind him to be more careful. and shoko is just more likely to brush a strand from his eyes or help him tie them up in a half-assed bun whenever his own hands are full with whatever.

you like playing with hair, always have and always will. it's relaxing and it's fun and it's calming and you love it. when you first met suguru, his hair was the second thing you noticed about him (his keen purple eyes being the first). an irresistible itch burned in your fingertips everytime you saw him, everytime he wore his hair down. it just looked so pretty and soft.

he takes very good care of his hair, you know that much. specific shampoos and conditioners, masks and all – he's all in. and nobody bats an eye. not that they should but satoru definitely gets made fun of because of his stupidly expensive collection of figurines and shoko gets teased for her silly mug shelf – and yet, neither of them ever comment on the bottles and tubs of fancy products that lay on his bathroom counter.

his hair also smells good. the compliment always hangs on the tip of your tongue but stays hidden in fear of coming off too weird. too creepy. but he doesn smell good. even with closed eyes and ears and you'd find him in a crowd. you wonder whether he knows that.

as you grew closer and closer, the now scorching itch only doubled in need. you never did gather the strenght to outwardly ask him – if you could play with his hair? if you could caress it? comb through it? it was an accident.

a simple gloomy friday afternoon: you're both lazing on your couch, staring at the screen. it's funny – you find yourself muffling your already quiet bursts of laughter, suguru alongside you. he's sitting close by, closer than usual. you don't ask him about it.

he asked to come over; something-something about being sick of his own apartment. you understand that, so you tell him that your home is his home (you'd tell him that even if you didn't understand). you hear the faint smile when he thanks you over the phone.

even when he looks like he hasn't slept in months – he looks good. you can tell he's overexaggerating his smile a bit but don't say anything about it, rewarding him with a grin of your own. his eyes flick to your lips and how they curve and he thinks about how warm it feels to look at you. maybe he's not exaggerating anymore.

your arms open wide, inviting him into you and he obliges, as always. he smells good. as always.

his hands lock behind your back and your behind his neck. your hearts meet and they greet each other with a fastened beat, eager to be in sync – to feel each other again.

he pulls back and the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. he's not doing it anymore and you're happy to relieve him even if it's for mere moments.

he's wearing a sweather and his hair is down. he has lip gloss on; you try to think whether he's more of a mint guy or more of a shea guy. it remains a mystery.

and now you're on the couch with two cups of warm tea waiting for you on the small table. he smells good. he's so close. he snickers at the screen and you can't take your eyes off of him. it's the same small crinkle of the eyes and the faintest pink tint on his cheeks.

you know he knows that you're looking at him. you've been told to have a staring problem and he's just an observant guy. it's a terrible match. or a perfect one.

he doesn't say anything though; instead he leans his head back and little to the side against the headrest (he's even closer now) and you find yourself shifting an inch aswell. perhaps magnets are involved? the iron in your blood pulling you together?

no, that can't be. you'd have to be polar opposites for that to work. warm-blooded and cold-blooded? would that work? you're getting too poetic and he's looking at you now.

it's an accident. it slips out on its own. you smell good. caught off guard by your own comment, you're about to apologize when a hand on your thigh almost makes you suffocate on the words stuck in your throat.

he laughs and it feels so good. he thanks you. he means it, you see it in his tired eyes. he likes the way you blush.

turning his focus back to the tv, you try to collect yourself. a deep breath in and a deep one out and a deep one in and a de—

a weight on your shoulder. he smells so good. he's so close. you peek down, curious as to whether this is a dream or not. but suguru's head is in fact laid on your body, sinking a bit more into you by the second. a deep breath in and a deep one out.

seeking for a more comfortable position, you snuggle closer to him. it's hard to focus but you're making it your sole mission to make him feel safe. your arm curls around his body, his shoulder, and rests right by a flock of his hair.

his cheek is now smushed against the top of your chest and the weight of love doesn't seem as bad as everyone keeps telling you. his hand finds a place around your waist; loosely – as if he's the one who's afraid to scare you off. silly.

his breath against you feels right and the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. so you do what you always do when you get nervous – completely on their own, your fingers caress his hair. just smoothing over it at first but before you know it, they're combing through a strand and twirling the ends between themselves.

you wanna apologize, again, but the soft little grunt that emits from the man keeps you from doing so.

don't stop.

+ this is for @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat just bc it feels right

[guinevereslancelot]

i always wanted someone to make blackout poetry of one of my posts but so far i have only had one blacked out to say egg. i guess you if you can't write the poem yourself you can't choose the poem