Sep 29, 2014
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the domes of your shoulders gleamed like temple
roofs in the oldest cities of the world and I swear
they are so beautiful that people would come from
all over just for a single look

there’s a reason why people worship things
whose existence they can’t be sure about and it’s
because they need an explanation for marvels of the 
universe like niagra falls and solar eclipses
and the change of seasons and the infinite
browns of your irises

Sep 29, 2014
1 note

infinite limits

calculus changed the spectrum of colours in 
which i saw the world in a way that has
not been documented since the fruit of knowledge
showed Adam and Eve that they were naked

since the start of term
i’ve mostly learned that the phrase “infinite limit” is an
oxymoron, because 
there is no end to infinity (something
my pastor says when he talks about
eternal damnation in hell)

i’m only four weeks into it but i’m already
positive that calculus is the second cause of original sin

for my mother, it’s a security blanket
swathed in nostalgia and comfort, the way
religion is for some people
but for me, calculus,
like religion, is admittedly inevitable
but better off in the hands of those who give a damn

Sep 29, 2014
1 note

high-heeled boots

when she walked it was like you could hear
the clack-crunch combination of her heels
hitting the ground, dusted with the sharp
little shards of broken hearts

Sep 29, 2014
1 note

and on the third day

finish your sentences because
too many books go unfinished
due to dying authors and words
unlike people
can be resurrected 

Sep 29, 2014
1 note


your siren song’s a symphony and
when i hear it i’m reminded of
biology class and the way birds
sing to attract mates and the way
lightning bugs flicker in a 
certain pattern to find their one true love

my bio-luminescence is quieter
than that so i say goodbye to 
dusk and only return when the night does

by then the sky will be thick with dreams
and you’ll rise, your silhouette
stark against the moonlight, as though
you’ve come directly from someone’s 
unconscious subconscious
and we’ll complement each other in our
contrast the way peacock couples tend to 

Sep 29, 2014
1 note


blue songs and treble clef
yellow in all its trilling simplicity
synesthesia is a symphony
all on its own and
who needs cocktail hour 
(I can’t even drink yet)
when there are surrealist paintings

close your eyes and count to
one thousand and you’ll have
reached every colour I can name, periwinkle
for thirteen and royal purple for
forty eight and sunset orange
for one hundred twenty six
your birthday—
January 28th—
is gold and silver and the deepest,
most revealing, most insightful
purple, the kind they don’t tell 
you about in art class
because they want you to 
discover it for yourself
and maybe they’ll appear in an 
arrangement of words if you get
lucky and pick the right book.

penstrokes are all short and scratchy
and silver but yours are colored like
the number one thousand ninety
two, an olympic steal

Sep 29, 2014
1 note


pull those words from your mouth
like a magician pulls handkerchiefs from his 
i’ll be your assistant
pose and smile at the crowd
as you tip our top hat and bow with a flourish
cut me in half with the biggest saw you’ve got
and then put me back together
mold me and shape me, stuff me in a box
stab knives through the wood, and don’t tell anyone
i’m actually a contortionist
even as the audience screams
or waits with baited berath

Sep 29, 2014
1 note


you were obsessed with effect, outcome, progress
evidence of your contributions to the universe
to yourself, to the cosmos, to me
when you ripped off a band-aid you wanted to see blood
when you rode on your bike you relished the sensation
of sweat rolling down your cheek
the page count of your most recent novel
and the mud that crusted onto your dungarees
after an afternoon of working in the yard.
you did not keep score because that would suggest
an ending and you never planned on dying

Sep 29, 2014
0 notes


A skateboard is not a pirate ship
but from the way you glide from shop to shop
island to island
a wake of gravel and asphalt roiling
and roaring behind you,
i almost wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
First mates are hard to come by, i tell you
so you’re lucky I’m volunteering 

Sep 29, 2014
1 note


I stopped dreaming on a night when the stars
played freeze tag with each other on the midnight
lawn of a skyscape, and the moon was bashful as it hid
its glowing blush behind a whispy, feather fan
that fluttered in the night breeze,
coming off the ocean in sporadic fits

Sep 29, 2014
2 notes


pull your hair back because curtains
don’t let in the sunlight and this room
deserves to be lit by the light of your milky way irises.

i’ll wrap you up in the parka that huddles
in the corner of my closet and you’ll breathe on your
hands as though you’re actually cold

your hands will be the warmest things in the world and when i 
touch them I will recoil as though burned
and then i’ll envelope them in my own
palms grazing your rocky mountain knuckles
and the great plains that are the back of your hands
and the grand canyons between your fingers

molten lava runs in the arteries beneath your skin
and freshwater rivers rage in your veings

i’ll press my lips against your palm just to feel
the beat and thrum and pulse of
your tectonic movements and that’s when 
you’ll shuck the parka with a polite ‘thank you’
because maybe it’s just your milky way irises
but it’s definitely getting warmer in here

Sep 29, 2014
1 note

scar tissue and recent rubble


I learned in a book that I wish I could forget
that none of what we see of the earth comes from its origins
and its all scar tissue and recent rubble
and that’s when I started to think of the lines on my face
the wrinkles on my knuckles the folds behind my knees
as canyons, quarries, trenches
and the spots and moles on my face as volcanoes
dormant—but I am nothing if not hopeful

I remember the way you threw that book against
the wall when you finished it because it was a load of
bullshit and you never wanted to set eyes on it again.
The dent in the wall’s still scuffed grey and
when I run my fingers along it I remember
the pitted scars on my face and how the earth is made only of 
scar tissue and recent rubble

Sep 26, 2014
2,556 notes

Writing Tips #73: Top Ten Tips to Create a Character Arc


Tips by Samantha Stone

Originally posted on


Just as in real life, characters on a page change and develop throughout your story. This is natural and should happen. You can write a story without any character development, but…

Sep 21, 2014
73 notes

A poem during a storm


Because we are not supposed to write only about the weather,
even though it’s been raining for weeks, the monsoon blowing

east, and it won’t stop, as if this place were an open wound
that needed to be blown upon so that it’d dry up and produce

a scab. The sunset always bleeds in to announce…

Sep 2, 2014
3 notes

history and art, but not art history

They don’t make colours like yours anymore
don’t worry, I asked
though trust me
it was a little difficult to articulate
to the representatives at prismacolour
and derwent and crayola and copic
and godforbid roseart
exactly the shades that made up
your early morning yawns
and post-dinner scent
and the curves of your knees
and the laugh lines around your mouth.
you weren’t discontinued
they told me even as i 
insisted that it was the only option,
because you were more real than 
anything i could have imagined.
they had no equivalent to you.
but i suppose i shouldn’t have been too surprised.
i now realise
the colours you gave me only have life
in the fairy tales written hundreds of 
years ago, the ballads they sang when 
mankind was still in its relative 
adolescence, your colours
your colours were the stuff dreams
were made of when humans still
hoped for immortality
and your colours are just as timeless
even if all that is left of them
is some writing on a wall

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"far far, there's this little girl
she was praying for something to happen to her
everyday she writes words and more words
just to spit out the thoughts that keep floating inside"

-yael naim

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