#web weaving poetry

[eternaloptimistsphere]

start seeing everything as God, but keep it a secret

[sageandscorpiongrass]

I think I hate my father.

The Sun is Also a Star, Nicola Yoon | Woodtangle, Mary Ruefle | pinterest comment | Anatomy of Cat and Dog Skeletons, William Cheselden (quote unknown) | Father, The Front Bottoms | I'm the Villian in his history., Nat (Oh Fathers, Key Ballah) | @/inkskinned on tumblr | Thomas Builds-the-Fire, Smoke Signals, Sherman Alexie | no children art print, Rainboon | Untitled, Franz Wright | Franz Kafka in a letter to his father | Seventeen Going Under, Sam Fender | Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong, Ocean Vuong (from Night Sky With Exit Wounds)

[basilpaste]

Love isn't the sacrifice, it's the act of giving.

letters from medea, salma deera | giovannis room, james baldwin | all i ask of you, phantom of the opera | because dreaming costs money my dear, mitski | water lilies claude monet | bittersweet, rumi | in case you dont live forever, ben platt | quote by sade andria zabala | photo by leonardo papèra | the rockrose and the thistle, the amazing devil | radio silence, alice oseman | this is how you lose the time war, amal el-mohtar

a silly little web weave based on perrie.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

everywhere under the sky there is light

No Gifts from War, Angkarn Chanthathip [x] / Houses and People, Angkarn Chanthathip [x]

[imbadatparking]

In the beginning, things were different. 

I wanted to spend every second of my tedious days with you, wanted to make the tunnel vision I was witnessing real, wanted to prove to you that I could be everything you wanted when you were the same for me. My love for you grew under my nails and in my ribs and pounded through my heart with every love-addled beat. I used to see you in every face that passed by, whisper wishes of our union during every 11:11 and on the wind-lifted beauty of dandelion seeds. I spent my afternoons ripping up flowers and whispering he loves me, he loves me not, while beautiful yellow butterflies, what I’d convinced myself were sure omens of my love for you, fluttered around my head and hands. 

It was soft. It was simple. It was what I wanted. What you wanted. What I thought we wanted - what we both wanted.

Or I had thought. 

Now, it’s not the same. Being with you no longer means what it used to. Navigating what you’ve allowed me to have has taken careful consideration. You’re faltering, unsteady terrain takes cautious treading, something that’s hard to do when I’ve worked myself raw trying to make myself smaller for you. You’ve given me a lot of things — the bags under my eyes, the shakiness of my resolve, the relenting of my unrelenting. But one thing you never gave me was what it is you’re looking for. In my attempts, I crushed my soul in the space between my bones and made me easier to hold, easier to handle; it was only ever for you. In the effort of clambering over myself, I lodged my shoe in my rib. There’s a bruise there now, in the shape of your handprint, darkening into a garish purple. You may not have delivered the blow, but it wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for you. 

It didn’t turn out how I imagined it would, of course not; it never does. Still, I thought you’d be different. I didn’t expect you to hurt me like they did, and now that you have, I’m not sure I have the strength to take a step back. I’ll let gravity push my soles into the Earth and use it as a tether to you. I’ll follow you around, even as my own insecurities and inability to understand leaves seeds of doubt to grow. 

Was it all just a ruse? Did the thousands of wishes mean nothing to you? Was the time I spent just a waste? Did you place a cruel spark of hope in me only so you could watch it burn out?

Did you ever really love me? Does it even matter?

After all, it’s not like I’ll leave you; you’ve got me exactly where you want me, trapped in your unmistakably kissable maw, seducing me only to spit me out again, shaking and dependent and scared. The little girl who sat in that field too big for her, using all her afternoons to pray for love in the hot grass. I’d tell her now if I could, how much of a waste of time it all is. 

Whether he loves you or not, I’d say, you get to have him. It’s just different, not what it used to be. Not what I wanted. Not what you wanted.  Not what I thought we wanted — what we both wanted. And now I’m paying for it.

| k. - @nosebleedclub march prompts, xxi. clamber.

[dietmountaindewlover]

[wwtpca]

on hope and simple days.

[rosealouette]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ credits! all quotes are from "woesome is clarissa" by rose alouette nightingale. photos: the three graces by edmund thomas parris, conversation in the garden by oliver rhys, un bouquet de fleurs by pierre paul leon glaize, a painting by auguste toulmouche.

[ineedibuprofen]

cool about it, boygenius // i don't want to hear any good news or bad news, elisa gabbert // ana mendieta // this post, @inkskinned // drowning sailor, jack nichols // you are jeff, richard siken // everything i wanted, billie eilish

[joshatchurch]

unrequited love hidden behind a relationship of rivalry

[poetryorchard]

hello friends! this friday, we'll be reading + writing about grandparents, elders, and memories from our childhood.

while this workshop centers grandparents, you are invited to join even if you're not close with your own grandparents or blood relatives at all! it's going to be a sweet time where we share memories with each other and preserve them in writing 🥰

sign up here!

[eternaloptimistsphere]

but i feel the dynamite in you

[sageandscorpiongrass]

Have you ever thought about losing your brother?

me vs. making webweaves on dying and family. really this was just an excuse to think about killing flies.

Killing Flies, Michael Dickman | Separation, W.S. Merwin | Eurydice, Ocean Vuong | It, Stephen King | Winnie-the-Pooh, A.A Milne | Fading Kitten Syndrome, ROAR | Quote via. Maurice Sendak | A Meeting, Wendell Berry | Anguish, August Friedrich Schenck | West Wind I, Mary Oliver | Planet of Love, Richard Siken | Quote via. C.C, Aurel | Oats We Sow, Gregory and the Hawk | The Living to the Dead, Käthe Kollwitz | Quote via Fortesa Latifi | Antigonick, Anne Carson | Killing Flies, Michael Dickman (cont.)

[basilpaste]

On Love As An Ending.

Mary Oliver, Dogfish | Hozier, Like Real People Do | Etel Adnan, The Spring Flowers Own & The Manifestations of the Voyage | Joseph M. Martin, The Awakening | Richard Siken, War of the Foxes | Mary Oliver, Dogfish (Cont.) | Hadestown, Flowers | Julian Gough, End Poem | Mary Oliver, I Worried | The Altogether, Goodbye | Everybody's Worried About Owen, To: Myself In Colorado | Emily Palermo, What I Could Never Confess Without Some Bravado

fine fine the poetry blogs in my notes win, ive made another web weave.

[ludocorradino]

August comes and with it an insane rage filled with deep melancholy pervades me.

August lies lonely on my shelf and july sings in its death, I tremble and shiver.

Its just another summer day, the heavy heat lingers, but its more than that, oh so much more.

August be gentle for im not as brave as you rember me nor as lovable as I thought, just terrified for your dear friend September.

Im not ready and too weary to bear the weight of my eyes.

The echoes of summer scream louder at its peak, as I never experience it, I only remember it.

ludov222

Agosto, infine, giunge e con esso un’insana rabbia perforata da una profonda malinconia mi pervade.

Solitario, agosto giace sul comodino e luglio canta nella sua morte, tremo e rabbrividisco.

È solo un altro giorno d’estate, il caldo intenso persiste, ma è molto di più, oh molto di più.

Agosto sii clemente poiché non sono così coraggiosa come rimembri ne amabile come credevo, sono solo terrorizzata per l’arrivo del tuo caro amico settembre.

Non sono pronta e troppo stanca per sostenere il peso dei miei occhi.

L’eco dell’estate è più rumorsa nel suo culmine, dopotutto non vivo mai l’estate; la ricordo soltanto.

[imbadatparking]

my mother's eyes used to change color. 

as a kid, i was obsessed with them, jealous of the way the way they could be foliage green in the sun, but then change to tree trunk brown when indoors. sometimes, when the sun was setting and tangerine and peach painted the sky, they looked blue – cerulean overlapped with navy overlapped with onyx in the dark. i imagined them an ocean, a safe place to get away when it all became too much. 

i don't remember a time when she wasn't slipping away, her mind frayed at the edges the way the hem of my t-shirts did when i was younger. she seemed in a constant state of unawareness, a sort of disconnect with reality. i never understood it – maybe i was too young or too naive – but i remember feeling bitter resentment at the universe and its cruelty. the disease that took my mother away would've never shown itself if there was a god, i was convinced. i hated everything when she left us, though i was careful not to show it. i knew i was looking for a scapegoat; i knew it wasn't my grandparent's blind faith or the way my father couldn't love my mother the same way she did him, or even her biological parent's that we're at fault. i just didn't have anything else to blame. 

there was a glass ball in my chest that grew every time i thought about my mother's ashes in a cardboard box because we couldn't afford an urn. everytime i thought about my younger sister i didn't – and still don't – know even though it's been nearly five years. everytime i remember my mother laying in a hospital bed, the beeping of the breathing machine the only thing keeping her tied to earth, the only noise in that suffocating quiet. it was the only time in my memory she'd been completely still when she was alive. 

i knew what it was too, because even then, with my father's eyes and my mother dead and a faith i'd never believed in in the first place shattered, i knew. i knew she'd never be proud of what i'd done. she wasn't looking down on me because angels didn't exist, but if she was, i knew she'd be disappointed in what she saw. the glass in me shattered; it cut me up inside and tore me open and left no room for mercy. 

i thought, how unfair it is that legacies aren't chosen. i thought, how unfair it is that i might be subjected to the same fate my mother was because of genetics. i thought, me and my mother and the generations before her and the generations after me deserved better than a disease that took everything that made my mother my mother away. 

now, i am sitting on the edge of a tin roof. the night is filled with empty space and the stale sort of quiet you get when the world is quiet. the moon is out tonight, pearlescent and luminous and bathed in pale oyster light. my mother would've called it a yareakh, and i would've looked at her as she pronounced it for me carefully, like she did every full moon, because i could never quite say it right. i wish i would've known then that time was so limited and there were only so many nights i'd get to see my mother. i would've memorized her ever changing eyes – the foliage green and tree trunk brown and cerulean and navy and onyx. i would've thought of how the blues of her pupils reminded me so much of a lake and i would've thrown an anchor into them to tether her to me.

see: this post