#original poem Tumblr posts

  • They saw the future in their dreams.

    A trying power, useful no matter their intentions.

    Both silence and action could be for good and evil.

    However, the ends of the future were never seen…

    until they were.

    Visions of beasts, death, and cataclysm;

    of angels, rebirth, and a city of gold.

    Tales of apocalypse covered the earth with hope and fear.

    This, they decided, was enough.

    Children were taught the prophecies, but not their own potential.

    Dreams were now a constricted imagination running wild,

    and nothing more.

    What they couldn’t avoid, try as they might,

    was the realization that their prophecies were coming true.

    They replaced elation with confusion,

    rapture with skepticism.

    In time, they began to believe dreams were obsolete.

    Still, they discussed their fantasies, and searched for meaning in them.

    This trying power, reduced to unexplained coincidence,

    still claws at the minds of those gifted with this providence.

    Oh, how stubborn the humans have become. ~

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  • oh, what to do when there’s nothing left?

    these pristine frescoes fade and wilt as legends do;

    fables with no keeper cease to flourish or amaze.

    beyond stories’ people lie storied people,

    warped by the pitch-black heat of firesides

    and the many missing memories men make disappear.

    how valuable a vanishing act!

    that which makes what’s gone go again,

    without even a magician to cast such a spell.

    no lone soul knocks the cobwebs from the past;

    those bones hold rocks, as though our corpses would rather

    throw stones than speak to our bleak present day.

    tidal waves of “finer days” through our dire straits;

    finer?  to whom?  what for?

    what a cost, making your memories more than yours.

    but there is our magician’s best kept secret:

    the water lies beneath the earth.

    the legends live in unmarked labyrinths,

    behind those spent canvasses.

    of course: when there’s nothing left,

    scatter the stones, rattle the bones,

    and let their echoes build something new. ~

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  • In Bliss, Idaho, at the Miracle Hot Springs,

    I sat squarely in the bittersweet water,

    the oil on my skin slowly drifting away.

    It was quiet; the thick, warm air was only broken

    by the dribbling streams and the humming earth below.

    Naked and alone, some fae magic bubbled up to me,

    healing the wounds that time had left upon my spirit.

    Clothed and calm, a man approached me,

    not breaking our astounding silence

    as he offered an open box of cigarettes.  Lucky Strikes.

    I declined.  He nodded, and took one for himself.

    His drags were deep, his exhales deeper.

    Without a glance, he took my hand, joining me fully clothed.

    I looked up, and he seemed upset.  Maybe he needed some magic, too.

    But then, I remembered what brought me to Bliss:

    the chance for a miracle, real magic.

    He was the bliss… or, he was trying to be.

    I gave him one last longing look, and he smiled,

    keeping his gaze upon the water.

    My wounds had been healed, but even so,

    I knew that it was time to go. ~

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  • The late spring sun beats down on the fields,

    choking the tall grasses into submission.

    The red wasps seek refuge and prey among the amber waves of harvests past;

    the bees hunt for resilient wildflowers whose colors remind them of home.

    Concrete paths and dirt trails scar the landscape,

    as if Mother Nature hadn’t left enough room…

    after all, Suburbia is not far away.

    It has become hard to tell if the trees stand as her great fortresses,

    or they’ve been allowed to stand solely for our comfort.

    Water rests only in bottles and clouds, but the bayou is not far away, either.

    We’ve thrived by taking, giving back almost nothing, not even awe;

    the beauty hasn’t been taken, try as we might.

    However, these are not mistakes to be reprimanded, but instead

    just another part of our relationship, this celestial matrimony.

    Either way, the only truth we have is this: things may not work out how you thought.

    Our consequences come veiled in rain, delivered by winds and waves;

    wrapped in dry heat, marked by the quaking earth.

    The odd dragonfly darts across the field, as unseen ants build worlds within our own.

    That harsh star rests behind the clouds, as if it’s learning a thing or two.

    Somewhere that isn’t here, the earth fights back,

    but I pay no mind; that which has not been taken from her

    is too beautiful to think of anything else. ~

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  • your face is wax and it is dripping, sliding off the framework of your skull. it is too hot and too loud and you are dying and you can feel breath upon your neck. shadows dance in the corners of your eyes in an effort to distract you. it is freezing and you are unbearably cold. you wish someone would touch you so you could remember what it feels like to be warm. you are on cement and a bug crawls over your wrist. you are on fire and everyone is too close, looming faceless mannequins all reaching out to caress you. you feel the only way you can release it is to slice off your skin. you are freezing. you look in the mirror and watch yourself cry because it is the only time you recognize yourself. you’re burning up.

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  • Foxglove Skeletons

    Dearest, dearest,

    So long you have travelled to the depths of the horizon, across the lake of my soul. Sweetest daze, unspent hours. You did not understand the language no matter how hard you tried to be a darling magpie, repeating all the sounds you heard.

    Infantile spirit, in this world, you kept wandering to the edge of the edge, living in the worlds of in between.

    Blossom after blossom, you carried a garden in your mind - words so fragrant, to shower on the heads of your closest angels.

    Perhaps you’re bleeding a little. From the the soles of your feet, or perhaps deeper? From the centre of your soul. Bleeding outwards into your thoughts and words and tears.

    Oh my darling, you’ve forgotten how to dance and smile and square your shoulders back - back to that little child, carrying its dying rose, dying words, sad little heart dancing in circles in a dusty ray of sunlight. Curling up to sleep away from it all. Among the autumn leaves at the lapping waves between the worlds and your softest dreams.

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  • image

    “and it’s completely alright if your thighs touch

    if your hair’s a little dry

    your skin a little rough

    it’s comepletely alright if your breasts aren’t the perfect round

    if your waist is a little broader

    but ribs still protruding out

    the body caries a million little stories engraved on the curves

    trace your fingers on your own skin for your love has more worth

    and when they kiss it and touch it and make you feel like a universe

    know that you always were;

    for the body that you crticizse so much took a system of stars to combust

    and turn to dust.”

    @systemofstars

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  • I shouldn’t be upset with making my life better without you, when you’re the one who held me down all these years. But here I am, at three in the morning, worrying about going off on my own.

    —3 am anxiety

    #poems #girls who like attention #poetry#poets corner #girls with glasses #poemsofinstagram#poetsofinstagram #new poets society #poetscommunity#writblr#short poem#original poem#love poem #poets on tumblr #spilled emotions#spilled heart#spilled ideas#spilled words#spilled poem#spilled love#spilled writing#spilled ink #i thought of this at 3am #3 am feelings #3 am writing #3 am rants #3 am ramblings #3 am poetry #3 am thoughts
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  • Untitled

    I hope no one dares to gift me a red rose , for I believe they won’t love me so — for they will fall in love with the lustful ecstasy that bleeds beneath the surface until I’m deemed unworthy . The offer of passion , a loveless persuit that’s gifted upon me , for they gifted me a red rose laced with the false idea of true love I foolishly accepted . For I am not worthy to twirl the promising stem of the white rose between my fingers , as they gift it to another .

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  • someplace near, there was a boy

    they buried in the dirt.

    he wasn’t dead, just left alone

    with blood and fear and hurt.


    he laid without a faint idea

    of what was up above

    and the very ones who put him there

    receieved all of his love.


    he felt the air grow thin and weak

    and shuddered in the cold

    his skin would melt and bones would snap

    and eyes would fill with mold.


    but one day he grew very sick

    of rotting in the earth

    he wrote his plans in tears and mulch:

    the plan for his rebirth.


    he clawed his way out of the ground;

    he found a box of matches.

    he looked at a world that left him there

    and turned it all to ashes

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  • Eu gosto quando você me dá uns tapas, quando me faz dizer que sou todinha sua, gosto quando me prende entre seus braços.

    Mas eu queria mais, sabe? Eu queria que você me acalmasse naqueles dias horríveis, quando tenho vontade de largar tudo. Queria que me mandasse mensagem perguntando como eu estou ou só mesmo um “bom dia”, “saudades de vc”, ou até mesmo um meme.

    Eu queria poder te mandar mensagem sem ficar parecendo uma boba apaixonada; queria te mandar bom dia todos os dias, te mandar memes, fotos zuando, eu queria isso também sabe.

    Não somente uma noite de sexo quente. Queria um dia de risadas, um passeio em um domingo a tarde no parque, uma sessão de cinema no meio da tarde, um jantar, um filme com brigadeiro ou pipoca, uma tarde na varanda conversando sobre qualquer coisa.

    Mas, não. Acho que é pedir demais tudo isso, né? Então, tem que ser do seu jeito, uma noite de sexo e no outro dia saindo as pressas por conta do trabalho, sem risadas, sem conversa, sem brincadeiras, sem nada, apenas sexo, e o distanciamento no outro dia.

    F.G Lima

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  • Guilty

    When in pain,

    I’m conditioned to think

    about people less

    fortunate, without a voice

    or a sympathetic ear-

    I should feel really grateful.

    What I do feel though

    is incredible guilt- because

    in that moment

    still in pain, I’m privileged.

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  • image

    Oh, to make you smile so beautifully in the early morning when you are grumpy.. that is the most amazing feeling in the world, just making you smile when you aren’t feeling it - eUë

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  • I am always trying save myself of what I want

    I went after Sadness

    I threw hundred bad words

    as If I was ready for combat

    In a battle that was lost a long time ago

    Easy they come

    Easy they go

    I should have known better

    I wake up 4 a.m, my heart is racing

    Sadness hadn’t stopped me before

    He didn’t stopped me when saw through me

    He gave up on me

    Why call me beautiful If you don’t want me anymore?

    There’s nothing worse than someone who doesn’t want me

    Why call it love, when you only loved me

    When you were alone?

    I see Liar written in a yellow 90’s outdoor

    Whenever I think of you now

    I might never grow up

    But I will know better next time

    Than go after dead things I knew all long

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  • i dont wanna listen to the radio

    dont wanna watch the news

    dont wanna know what’s going on

    dont wanna pick or choose


    i want to wander through the woods

    i want to see the nymphs and fae

    i want to float on a mist of thoughts and i want the spirits to take me

    i want them to take me away


    into the unknown

    to mystical lands

    i want horns and nails so sharp

    i dont want to understand


    let me run and roam about

    let me see the sun

    let me live away from doubt

    my new life has just begun

    #poems on tumblr #rhyme poetry#original poem#poetry #for my undead friend
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