#prose Tumblr posts

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    The closet skeleton


    The skeleton beneath which exposes the truth of the lies lurking behind


    They were warnings in disguise as promises buried by the suffocation of love or what you convinced me it was


    But lies fester and mould eats, away at skin, away at bone, eventually time reveals all


    I made an hourglass from your skull, all the pain the sand, so I can watch the doubt flow again.


    To harden heart against pain. Reluctance to grow fond of friend.

    I found myself caught in a web too taught to bare


    So I broke free, smashed the glass, rose again, flesh allows us to bruise and heal, all bone does is break


    B.A.A

    #not my art #anselm kiefer#dark academia #dark acadamia aesthetic #poetry#writing#healing#bones#skeleton #love and lies #my writing #poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #liquid thought#prose
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  • My finger inches towards his face to lightly tap on his nose. My plan succeeded! He’s smiling. His eyes are still closed as he shifts on the couch, looking for a more comfortable position. He’s not quite asleep nor fully awake.

    I am torn between throwing myself at him with a hug or letting him fall back asleep.

    “I love you,” I blurt out almost as a reflex.

    “I love you, too,” he murmurs back quietly.

    Few things make me this happy. He is the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. The fact that he loves me fills my chest with wild joy.

    The urge to cover his face with kisses rises in me.

    I breathe to calm myself. He needs his sleep. I will spare him for now. There will be plenty of time to kiss his cute face when he wakes up.

    ~~~

    Try this?

    ~Four

    #dicerolls #like if you read reblog if you want #txt#things4said#prose#writing#story
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  • Love like fire burns out


    When I close my eyes your image doesn’t snuff out

    In my minds eye you twinkle like a dozen stars

    Your flame is engraved in my mind and your frame has moulded into my palms

    the burning doesn’t stop but I can’t let you go

    People say you were a hot potato and to drop it

    But your scent in the steam enticed me to watch you glow

    How was I supposed to know all you wanted to do was burn and as a consequence scatter my ashes in the process

    Our love was a raging fire but now it’s a smouldering mound

    I hope your happy with the inferno you’ve found


    B.A.A

    #poetry#writing#my writing #poems on tumblr #love poems#endings#fire burns#liquid thought #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #prose
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  • My finger inches towards his face to lightly tap on his nose. My plan succeeded! He’s smiling. His eyes are still closed but I can tell from his shifting to search for a more comfortable position that he’s not fast asleep at the moment. I am torn between throwing myself at him with a hug and letting him fall back asleep.

    “I love you,” I blurt out almost as a reflex.

    “I love you, too,” he murmurs back quietly.

    Few things make me this happy. The fact that this most kind, most patient, smartest, strongest, coolest person I’ve ever met loves me fills me with wild joy.

    I grin and clench my fist as a distraction from the urge to cover his face with kisses. I breathe to calm myself. He needs his sleep. I will spare him for now. There will be plenty of time to kiss his cute face when he wakes up.

    ~~~~

    Uhm… what…. what do you think…?

    ~Flare

    #dicerolls #like if you read reblog if you want #txt#things1said#prose #describing my boyfriend #I love him so fucking much
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  • I rubbed my eyes, winced at the alarm clock. I had an hour to get to school. I could have stayed home. No one would push it.

    If they tried, I could push back. The thought came unbidden. Almost naturally.

    I got out of bed. Still sore, still worn out. A shower helped. I didn’t have it in me to attempt food, but I managed to get my things, call a cab and made it to school. It wasn’t much of an achievement, but right now it was human and I clung hard to that.

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    • 9 june
    • i don't want to.
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  • The Neon Cowboy matched the pace of my Pontiac, like a school of fish drawn towards a curious diver. His horse was so dark, you could only see it through its glistening skin drawn over the mountains of its muscles. The desert belonged to just the two of us.

    I waved at the Neon Cowboy. He turned towards me, as if he’d only just noticed me. The bright neon shone on the ground around him, and on the horse’s skin, his clothes glowing green and blue and pink and purple, and his skin pure white, and his hat orange. If it weren’t for his sunglasses, I would think he’s just a flash of light.

    The music turned up, I banged the side of the car door. It was a little ditty by a country musician, which I thought the Neon Cowboy would like.

    We drove like that, under the moon, until we came upon a gas station. I didn’t really need that much gas, but I did need to talk to someone. I also needed to see if the Neon Cowboy was real, or just my imagination. Could also be both. I had to find out.

    I pulled into the place and slowed down. I closed my eyes for a few moments, and when I opened them, I expected to find the Neon Cowboy gone.

    The lights, the sunglasses, the orange hat—he was waiting for me on the other side of the road.

    “Your buddy need anything there?” An attendant asked.

    I glanced at the red-uniformed young man, who had cheeks like the craters of the moon. I turned back to the Neon Cowboy, and in the background, lightning crackled down to the ground in strong, wiry arcs.

    “Have you seen him often?” I asked the attendant.

    The attendant took a sniff, and so did I. Petrichor rose from the ground.

    “Never stopped like that,” the attendant replied. “But always riding past, following some lonely driver out in the middle of the night.”

    “What is he?”

    The attendant shrugged. “You want to keep him waiting like that?”

    I smiled and tapped the driving wheel. “Something I should know about him? Desert legends or things like that?” I licked my lips. “Am I going to die if I see him? Is that what it means?”

    The attendant shoved his hands in his pockets, and the rain made its presence known. Long grains of water, striking down like arrows launched by some distant enemy. The Neon Cowboy threw up steam, sizzling in place. He looked up to the clouds while the rain around him came down in green and blue and pink and purple and orange and white.

    Waving goodbye to the attendant, I drove out of the gas station. The Neon Cowboy picked up the pace, until he was riding next to me again. The rain tore against us, striking us like spray from a motorboat.

    A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, coming in my direction. I pulled my hand back in onto the wheel. Seconds later, a truck passed by, throwing rainwater all over the Pontiac.

    The lights on the other side were gone. The Neon Cowboy had disappeared, and I would never see him again.

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    • 7 june
    • i run away in my dreams everyday.
    • but when i wake up, i don't . i guess i'm just better than you. i don't abandon my life. i don't let go of things i never deserved in the first place.
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  • It is time to write my own story, not the stories I have read about what I have learned, fed from the poets before me, from great writers missing other great writers, from Warlords and Damsels, from Kings and Queens, today I am writing my own story, it is time.

    In confessional poetry a lot has been about missing someone, about losing someone or something. One might have lost his mind, or his keys to a door, or his keys to a heart. We have all been there and even though most stories are stories we can all relate to, there are also our own stories, stories that define you and your road, your life.

    I am still alive and this is how my story begins. The other day I was playing a card game with my grandmother, who is 80 years old, and she said something very important, she said; ‘You have never been lucky in love, you are 35 and you are still alone, not married and no children. How come you are so unlucky in love?’

    And I looked at her, in shock.
    ‘Unlucky?’ I asked.
    ‘Actually, I feel very lucky in love; every relationship I had in the past has taught me something, has showed me love or showed me what it is not.
    Still, every person I came across has been there for a reason and I feel lucky to have met them and I feel lucky to have learned to love myself most, out of all these people.’


    She understood what I said and at the same time could not really understand it completely, as she is from a different time, in her time love was about spending your life, at least for the public eye, with one and one person, alone.

    ‘So you are not lonely?’  she asked me.

    And  I smiled.
    ‘Sometimes I crave something or someone, sometimes this can be solved by seeing my friends or my family, or, play cards with you.
    Sometimes it is solved by a glass of wine, or a bottle, listening to music, painting in the nude until 3am. Sometimes it’s solved by falling in love, most times this only lasts for the moment.’


    ‘Don’t you want someone taking care of you?’ she asked me then.

    ‘I take care of me. I have my own house, my own car, I pay my own bills, no man or woman needs to take care of me, honestly, that could never be a motive to look for a relationship. and I say relationship and not say ‘to find love’ because love I have, all the time, love I have found in everything and everyone around me.
    So no, my dearest Grandmother, I am not unlucky in love, I am actually very lucky in love, and while being very lucky in love I have indeed not encountered a relationship acceptable to society. And to me this is fine.’

    She stopped asking questions there and there.
    I think it took away some of her worries, the way she prayed for me every night, asking God to please find me a husband, never knowing I already felt happy and lucky just the way I am.

    I am writing this down because most of my poetry and writing has been about missing someone, or something, keys to doors, my mind, my lover…

    I wanted to write about what does not make me want to write as often anymore; the fact that I don’t seem to miss anything.
    I am complete, I feel complete and I do not need to feel happiness, just life as it is, is fine. I must say I am happy, as it is. With all its hardships and feelings and Warlords and Damsels, I am at peace and this has little to do with luck, it has a lot to do with hard work.

    I love you, be brave.

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  • It would seem I have had an awakening. An authentic understanding of self. And without going into details I need to say, I will be the perfectionist no longer.

    It truly does not matter if my words are polished and refined. All the anxiety kept me from writing as much as i’d like. It stifled me. I built up unrealistic expectations as if I would disappoint you all.

    I just want to share what I feel without regard to the style/quality/subject of writing others prefer. I want to write as I did in the beginning. So if you think my poetry as of late is too anaemic or uninspired, you are welcome to find the exit. My soul deserves the freedom to express without trepidations about how I will curate an emotion more evocative than the last.

    I think we can all agree I mostly mastered the English language. Now I’d like to get back to enjoying my writing. No more measuring myself against previous versions.

    #thoughts#prose#introspection #sorry for reposting #accidentally deleted this🤪 #and i really want it on my blog #<3
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  • A sword.

    A sword is a woman’s only true lifelong companion.

    She must keep proper care of it. She must keep it clean, keep it honed. For her mind is only as sharp as her blade.

    She must know how to wield it. Where to strike, when to strike, and how to strike. For her blade is only as sharp as her mind.

    They are intertwined, the woman and her sword. Its grip, worn and rugged, inseparable from her hands. Its edge, the very essence of her soul. An extension of herself, which twirls around her in a mesmerizing dance.

    When she pledges her sword, she pledges her self.

    She is a protector. She is an artist. She is a champion. She is a lover. She is forged in fire, and she will not be struck down.

    #writing#prose #artists on tumblr #spilled ink#scheduled post#sapphic#swords#lesbian moods #don't @ me for these tags lol #i'm gay okay?
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  • You were gone for 2 weeks.

    I know.

    I was worried.

    I needed distance.

    Was it because of me?

    No, because of life.

    (and because of you)


    silence.


    You were gone for 2 weeks.

    Yes. Because you made me sick.

    What? Why? I didn’t do anything.

    That’s it. You’re never there for me and I don’t need a child. I am no one’s mother.

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  • Here’s another thing to remember: hope keeps you alive. Even when you’re dead, it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.

    Lauren Oliver, Before I Fall

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