Notes App Poetry - Blog Posts
This is really concerning what was I rambling on about last night in my notes
Also I need moodboard suggestions 🙏
Doesn't the ice hurt when we skate on her?
Hundreds of blades cutting through her skin
But she doesn't cry, she resist as she hurts
When she is carrying all these lovebirds
To feel like being killed as others fall in love
With everyone but you, this must be hell
I'll write love poems to you ice, my beloved
So you don't feel alone while being cut up.
At this point notes app poetry is what I stay alive for...
Bodyparts are falling from the sky
An I'm trying to piece you together
I can't seem to find the parts that fit
Sometimes you're too small, or too big
But I try relentlessly to build your body
Don't even realize it's a monster I've created
It doesn't have your smile, darling
It's my fault probably, but I swear I'm trying
So I'll just redo it again, and again
Until my hands are bleeding,
And my eyes are blinded from the building
And I collapse on the chest of the monsters I've created.
I pour my thoughts out of the window
(I don't need them anymore)
It drips on the roses of my garden
I watch their petals darken
Sleepy eyes
Words slippin' through
Tired nights
I'm thinking 'bout you
Link to the observatory I got that picture from
I miss the sound of your voice
I crave it, so I can fill the void
That lies in the middle of my chest
Open for any temporary guests.
my mom speaks spanish better when she's drunk.
she's said it herself.
you wouldn't hear it anymore, but it's clear, it's there, in the way that when she's not, she's uptight held together and healed over she's wrapped all up in twine and the t's are really soft and the r's are strong and she said that when shes drunk, real, real out of it, the words just fall
out
of
her
mouth
and she knows how to hold a conversation again,
and some kind of wall got torn down or
crumbled away and the next morning it scabs over again
and i wonder if she knows it, if those trills taste like good grades and whiskey or if theyre a blanket and an escape and a pinch of cinnamon and a heartbeat
i'd never know how it feels, either way. i quit watching those cartoons a little while after i started calling my tío by his name, and a long while before the slice of her dream she saw in me withered and died like her wedding flowers, before she bought plastic ones.
i never stopped tasting red ink in my blood, but sometimes in november it fades a bit and im made of candles
and bread
and marigolds
and pieces of a life i didnt know
but they dig into my pale palms anyway
and then, just as fast as it came, it's over again, and i forget my words, and i wonder if i'll move back to the southwest, go eat fresh bread and drink something icky, wonder if it's something charred and bleeding in my core and my mom's and her mom's made of whiskey and red ink and old love
i wonder if we'd all speak spanish better when we're drunk
me fr
tears in my eyes, every time someone comments on something I wrote