I thought that maybe if I didn’t respond I wouldn’t feel the weight of your words crushing up against me. As if goodbye can never turn to absence or loss if it’s not spoken aloud or apprehended or accepted. Keeping my face from revealing the inner turmoil though was the hardest part of my brilliant plan. Suddenly memories of a drama class we had taken together came rushing back at me and I was once again center staged, blushed and embarrassed unable to pretend sadness and tears and despair in your presence for all I could feel back then was bliss, utter happiness and all these other emotions necessary for really experiencing the end of the road as sudden death. Sudden death indeed, but in the end maybe you didn’t really want to look hard enough at me for the signs. The door behind you closed all the same and I convinced myself that any recognition on my part towards your impending departure wouldn’t have made any difference. Any drama wouldn’t miraculously turn back time allowing you to make up your mind differently. What was done was done. What was spoken was spoken even if not in theory heard. And as I remembered the depth of my love for you I realised I was left not broken nor crippled but shattered; a previously calming silence suddenly deafened by the noise of emptiness.

There were times all we felt was love but unlike fairy tales told as I was loving you and you were loving me the bubble in which we used to live turned concrete and steel and grew bullets and escape gates leading inside smaller bubbles and smaller escape gates deteriorating into a world of satin sheets with tiny signs that read in whispers of light blue sans serif font love to us is nothing but mutual asphyxiation.

Hitting hard that head on that wall

again and again and again

 though, never really…

I acquired these bruises

that proudly parade across my face

 from time to time

making it obvious to their eyes

that this soul has lived life.

Their tongues and hands moved in sync when they decided

my life is a project soon to be terminated,

a finished experiment

a budget cut

that I call

unlived, unfelt

incomplete but now

apparently absolved

existence.

shakespearneverdidthis:

Do you write about me?  She asks me this all the time.  Late at night in bed.  In the morning when the sun is warming our skin through the big window in our bedroom.  The kitten plays on our bodies, leaping back and forth.

I never answer her.  Not really.  I tell half truths, I say things that, when you break it down, have no meaning.  They are just words and I know how to manipulate words.

Some things I write are influenced by you, I say.  When I write about love I write about the way I feel about you, I say.

But the truth is I’m devouring her completely.  I am sucking her dry.  There is nothing off limits, nothing sacred or untouchable.  There is nothing that can’t be named or described.

Writing is betrayal.  This is what I want to tell her.  Writing is about betraying the people you love the most.  It is about betraying them in every imaginable away and not thinking twice.

I will not hesitate.

You take the people you love and you take notes on everything.  You watch and listen and absorb them, and they are like food, they give you energy.  And it is undeniable and you will never stop feeding on the lives of the ones you love.

I am in bed and the sun is warm and golden on my skin and I am thinking that writing is betrayal.  I am thinking that before the end I will have betrayed everyone close to me.  I will have absorbed everything they are and regurgitated it in whatever way pleases me.

I am Judas, I think as the kitten nibbles on my hand.  Her little needle teeth pressing hard, but not too hard.  The kitten stops and looks at me, at my face and eyes, and her eyes are green.  She knows, she knows, what I am.  Because she is like me.  We are both devourers of living flesh.

I sing the song that

brings down this boy

on a Friday night…

The one we danced

that… fateful night.

I sing the song your mother sings

when she comes out to play

from her little man-made grey grey grave.

I sing the song your father whispers

when he violates

your soul, your dreams, your safe-safe-place.

I sing today about yesterday

when our songs meant something

we wished to communicate.

So hear me out for once

and then lets bury me together

hear my song this once

and then lets bury me forever.

‘cause I know, yes I know

oh how I surely know

how to sing your life away!

I meant with love to heal those wounds of life you so tenderly keep

as I was taught in the early years that

 this that won’t deny you of hope

 could never dream to really put you down

but I fear some days I have not the strength to pull you through.

Frozen is the grip of yours that holds on to pain

weak is your need to come forward

and I, I am alone in this cause I embarked for in your name

while you are killing the hope I simply tried to nurture inside you.

uhuhuh, liking this questions! spread the word and sure, ask away.

jayarrarr:

I see y’all reblogging these “ask me a number” things, and I’m not saying they’re not interesting (okay, some of them aren’t), but none of them are tailored to the “writing community”. You call yourselves a writing community? Act like it! I’ll start. Here ya go.

Note: you can ask me these questions if you wish, but reblog them so others can ask you, and get asked, and we can all get to know one another as writers. That’s how you build community.

1. Who is your favorite tumblr poet — the one you always, without fail, must read — and why?
2. Who is your favorite tumblr prose writer — the one you always, without fail, must read — and why?
3. Who would you say is your greatest writing influence, in terms of your own writing style, and why?
4. Paper or plastic?
5. List three books you’ve read more than three times.
6. Do you find alcohol or other drugs enhance your creativity/writing ability, or detract from it? Why or why not?
7. Where is your favorite place to write, and why?
8. What other artistic pursuits (if any) do you indulge in apart from creative writing?
9. When do you find is the best time of day for you to write, and describe why this is so?
10. You get a brilliant thought/phrase/idea at an inappropriate moment (in the shower, while driving, while drifting off to sleep). What do you do?
11. Cake or death?
12. What are some of your favorite words, and why?
13. If you lost all ability to read and write for a day, what would you do?
14. Do you desire to be published or to make writing your profession? Why or why not?
15. Tyler Durden and Holden Caulfield in a no-holds-barred fight club grudge match. Tell me the story. Who wins?
16. If your writing process were or could be analogized to a movie, what movie would that be?
17. What is your favorite style or form of poetry to read, and why?
18. What is a style or form of poetry that you cannot stand, and why?
19. Who would you save the last dance for, and why?
20. What one thing would tell you that you’d “made it” as a writer?
21. Why would anyone ask this question?
22. Lyrics or music, and why?
23. Do you prefer to handwrite first, or compose on keyboard? Follow-up: if you do both, do you find your writing differs if you write it on the keyboard versus writing out by hand?
24. This, or that?
25. If you were a merperson, what song would you sing, and why?
26. What subject(s) do you find you cannot write about, and why?
27. What is the end?

There is this thing we do after we’ve grown a fair amount; hurry past the detail straight to the whole picture. Let me clarify a moment. Have you noticed how when you were a new student you would pay attention to every letter before reading aloud a single word while now you just ejaculate the written word as if the only thing that matters is the context behind it and nothing else? Nothing, say like that word you haven’t stumble across before but it really isn’t important since you can decipher it’s meaning from the rest of the sentence. Now, what was that word again? Edjuculate? Edgeculate? Why am I even bothering, man. It’s not like I have an essay/test coming up where I could impress the teacher thus scoring a higher grade. (well in this case it’s for the better since if I had bothered with a dictionary I wouldn’t dare use ejaculate for school related projects but you get my point anyways) All in the name of gain and efficiency! Time is money, people! I am Greek, if I looked up every unknown word of this universal language English has come to be I wouldn’t even have gotten past my second semester of architecture studies (the first one is really as you all imagine, sketching irrelevant buildings and flowers). Oh and let’s not forget that feeling, that terrible shame of being proven inadequate, imperfect - me, asking for information/directions/editing advice? Never! I am 24 now (well, almost). I am made!

My excuse is once again my father! He would answer every question you posed whether he had the answer or not, and if later on it turned out his answer had been wrong he would seriously brainwash you into believing anyone other than him had no fucking clue about shit. I am certain that he would rather drive around in circles than admit he’s lost. (my father to this very day has never been lost - at least out in the open - even if we are heading somewhere he’s never been, even if we are in a foreign country for crying out loud! I used to think of him like a human GPS and before that like a god really, but now I honestly believe he spends his time secretly memorising maps and routes beforehand! The man has to know everything! In the same way he needed me to know he knows everything and he exploited every opportunity presented until I stopped creating them. He then tried the undermining technique for a while. I saw right through that too. I am that perfect!) So yeah, my excuse for not seeing perfection in the exposure of one’s vulnerabilities, in little and simple imperfect and unfinished things or on the other hand in time consuming things, in things requiring effort and commitment and obsession is my father. But I am not the only one being a common though arrogant ass. My arrogance allows me to make the assumption that you are one too. So, what’s your excuse?

The tag revealed more than I could take in. The little hole at the end of the stonewall was leading two stories down in a man’s cell; a man that had been blinded such as I have, betrayed such as I have, alienated such as I have…though the resemblance stops there. As he was a man imprisoned in the dark cell for he kept his mind bright with his vision for our world and his faith to his abilities and strengths whereas I walk freely day after day blissfully full in soul of doubt, disbelief and cynisism; all in the name of realism….all in hopes of a ratification of the absence of meaning in existence itself.

So, someone said..hey V, why don’t you make a blog with your dog in it? And I was like, nuh, it’s been done before mate..but then I made it anyways….’cause I love my dog and fuck you that’s why!

lol

awkward change of tone…

so guys, here’s the link

http://chickentreats.tumblr.com/

check it out, pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

cheers,

vanessa