Tag Archives: writer

who falls in love with a poet?

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quotes

i’m only

borrowing

inspiration

from poets

that i loathe

because all

their words

make sense

while mine

has no worth.

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in which love is just another imagined story by a hopeless writer who has dysgraphia

“and though to my arms you are forever lost,
you are a prisoner in my fantasy.”

~Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

~*~

you are my sweetest fiction,

conjured, derived from the very ends of

the lacklustre impediment

that is my algid imagination.

light calla lips flushed pleasantly

(though, i may only be imagining it so)

elusive soul a taunting fugitive

(from which i could never hope to catch

with bare hands and bare feet)

cerise smile melting upon liquid gaze

before i then realise—the blood was my own.

missing birthdays, unsent letters

piling into sealed dictionaries upon my oaken desk

and again, i weep the night sky

in the grievous absence of your starlight.

falling, falling; lilies, lilies,

plucked like shimmering innocence

from the skin of my gritted teeth, sighing

irreplaceable—!

though, your divine body is not mine

to ruin and revere relentlessly

under eternal storybooks and lost volumes of

anthologies, the empty pages

all at once interjecting: “impossible?!”

but, is it always so? must my fluttering shyness

be short-lived like your tyranny?

surely we must not always adore the

blinking butterflies, cascading iridescence

billowing solemnly into my reverie—

accidental interruption.

aralias, aralias; painful, painful;

i am to dirty fly as you are to decadent fruit

dragged down rather cruelly into

the ad infinitum of your fiery veneration

and i am unable to twist my words into cathartic

crashing, collapsing, holding it in…

but, i do not mind at all; for i lost mine

the moment you slipped from enthrallment into

the ache of my charismatic sternum,

submerging me in pacific oceans of desire—

enchantingly alluring me into the cozen, shackling confines

of the prison you call your heart.

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writer for hire (the sellout)

shivering at

the very thought

of ink and repulsion

as tongues invade

collected silence

with interrogation

i’m simply complacent

just a noiseless

typewriter thereon

so hire me for your

sanity, then pay for

every emotion

let me be your proxy

poetry and your

bastard bard

your ever-watching

eyes, a sacrifice

to be scarred

apathetic sentient

the irony of the

unsentimental heart

but i’d rather die whole

than to endure infamy

that tears me apart.

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writ[er?]

it’s like

every time

i write,

i keep losing

a part of

myself

until all i’m

doing is

borrowing

and plaigarising

words from

other people’s

emotions.

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An Artist’s Love

may it be piano

or a guitar, i’ll

play it for you

may it be a pen

or quill, i’ll write

unfettered true

no matter how

many fingers i

break or bruise,

for you my dear

i’ll endure every

blister and callous.

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Hidden Universe

The way that you wrote your A’s—

Like incomplete stars missing a line.

I could simply open your notebook,

Flip it to one of your lyrical compositions,

And make constellations in paper;

White parallel lines in two dimensions.

The way that you wrote your A’s;

Like unfinished stars waiting to scintillate,

I always liked the way they appeared.

Your A’s were little constellations,

Existing within a galaxy of ink stains,

On a universe of art, doodles, and words

In that tattered and frayed notebook.

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Lost Work

As a writer, you have had those insanely frustrating moments where, perhaps by your own careless fault or perhaps by unforseen circumstances, you accidentally delete your work, when it’s already a lengthy output and you’ve been slaving at it and typing it down for literal hours. And no matter how hard you tried, begged, or prayed to the million feasible gods, goddesses, and any ethereal entities that may chance upon to listen to your unfortunate situation, it’s all futile, and you’re still unable to get it back. With no backup copy and unwilling to recreate the same rendition, you just sink in a depressing state of regret and drown in an ocean of violent expletives, as you think vexingly about how your work is forever, vanished into the blue, swallowed down the drain, evanesced into nothingness, ultimately disintegrated into the goddamn aether where all lost ideas all go to fucking die.

…Now only if the problems and anxieties that you inputted in that lost work would just as easily disappear with it.

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Misacquaintance

Dear Miss Acquaintance,

This is quite simply such a lovely weather today, is it not?

A fine blending of the seasons, neither too chilly nor too hot

Matter of fact, the sky matches perfectly the blue in your eyes

A cool ice cream colour with a sunny disposition, quite nice

Flattery? Ah, no no, dear miss acquaintance, it is all genuine

Although I quite like the rogue in your cheeks from the dopamine

But enough compliments, before I embarrass myself silly

How was your day, dear miss acquaintance? Pray tell me

I bet it’s been absolutely marvellous, a bonny little jive

Perhaps you’ve gone out with a parasol to take the stars alive

Or caught a redhead fairy in your perfume jar, named it Amelia

Gave it as a present to your cousin, who cheers in hysteria

Maybe you found a butterfly weak, tucked it within your lace hanky

Wept emeralds and rubies in a fit of an injustice melancholy

Ah, how awfully kind it is of you, dear miss acquaintance

Oh how I wish I wasn’t admiring your kindness from a distance

I sorely hoped I was there to offer you a comforting wonder

Or feign a jocular slapstick act to lighten your spirits asunder

Did you pass today by the candy shop, hugged all the sticky kids?

Did you pet that calico tabby by the park, just like you always did?

Did you set in motion a million carousels, spinning pins, Ferris wheels?

Did you make this planet a little greener than it is with your soft rosy heels?

You are quite the mystical creature, I must say, dear miss acquaintance

Your precious soul’s much too fine with purity for the universe to even taste

You splash colour to leaden tinsel towns like a Rembrandt with your dance

Making assurance that not a single day goes by you to wither and waste

Yet now it’s quite the gracious blessing to be resting at the same park bench

With you, dear miss acquaintance, it pulls even my stubborn heart at a wrench

You sit there with that whimsy smile of yours, polishing painstakingly your glasses

I stumble silently on my quill and linen as centuries cease, a sluggish second passes

Ah, it seems, dear miss acquaintance, that you’re rested and ready to head on home

You smile back to me, a glowing lollypop smile, and I trance before I wound up alone

Sitting dumbfound, holding a shaky envelope, a lost letter of all the things I have yet to say

Forgive me, you’re a busy maiden, my dear miss acquaintance, perhaps you’ll hear me out some other day.

Best Regards,

Sir Reptitious

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Greatest Treasure

My mistress’s soul hath longed to seek finer fortune winds

Whereupon seeds of chartreuse grass blusters and grows

Akin to the radiant canary sun, her most youthful fair skin

Upon the cherry blossom horizon, glitters finely and glows

Treading tentative upon quaint dotted rhododendron bushes

To fill her wicker basket with the ripest succulent blackberries

Silvery light catches her mellow lemony hair’s ringlets tresses

My bonny mistress’s efflorescent spirit nay falters nor wearies

Lithe body like a chromatic hummingbird’s wings arched in flight

Roses damasked red and rogue on plump lips and flushed cheeks

Serene zephyr doth pass, carrying with its breeze a sound quite

Like the merry Stradivarian laugh that which thy mistress speaks

She flits posthaste, non dither, questing from blossom to nectar

Yet soon my aromantic honeybee learns that life isn’t all sweet

When flourishing foliages swiftly wilt, leaving but a tawny scar

And those frigid turbulent rains make her vitality falter and fleet

My mistress doth seeked her fate on the outside world, yet she barely survived

Only to discover, unfortunately, that all that joie de vivre hath but misery belied

My lost mistress shall wander her path home soon, when her heart finally realises

That her greatest treasure sits lone writing her melodies, a bard sending inkstained kisses.

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