quiet riotsi.quiet riots by blubbityblub
i crave permanence.
i've been aching for ink on my skin,
a promise of time and things to come,
so that i can say
i'm here, i exist, i am a constant
instead of fading in and out of focus.
i crave permanence.
i've been straining for consistency,
but falling into old melancholies,
thrums of insufficiency and fear-
fear that you'll tire of me.
because my insecurities will quickly turn
from endearing quirks to crippling flaws
and my childish, clumsy hands will lose their
youthful, giggly charm.
it's the eighteen year of war, and this raucous mind does not tire
instead, my soul does, and it's all i have left.
distraughtgoodnight.distraught by blubbityblub
are you asleep? i hope you breathe easy
i hope the morning finds you well and rested
i'll be awake when you rise, because my mind and body are at odds-
there is dissension within this tiny vessel, and neither loves the other.
there is no fucking space in my soul for two.
but yet i live in halves, a ragged split etched deep,
an impossibility crammed down the corridors of my mind
so that my halls are always full with the drifting of my ghosts
the ever-lurking ache for constancy still sits comfortably
in the pit of my shallow heaving chest; the same one
so full of uncertainty and half-ready love.
but i know i'm not the type you'll be proud of,
i know that you won't write poetry about me.
is it easier to die?
hello, moonchild. i hope you have a good day.
belgardpounding in my breastbone,belgard by blubbityblub
my heart sings and quavers with the stress of existence;
the years sift like boracay sand and my soul is wracked with change
the mind disconnects, the flesh decays
be my skyline, i'll be your wave
and let me return to the ashes from which i came
as i expire, the soul remembers how it was treated
i'll not paint over the cracks in my brittle psyche
instead fill them with rebirth like kintsugi
i have learnt to be whole,
and my thunderous screaming heart may rest.
bromidei'm tired of turning myself into poetrybromide by blubbityblub
how very tired, how very cliche;
i have no stardust running through my veins,
i do not exhale beauty with my breath,
my eyes do not sparkle like arctic shine
it's been years since i've been comfortable in this skin.
i'm tired of apologising and shoegazing
how very exhausting, how very contrite;
i wish to fold into myself and buckle and break
i hope to die in my sleep and take the black
i pray to silent gods who stare down unblinking
that they'll take me away and eat my soul
my ambitions lie unfinished, but strangely-
it's been months since i could rouse myself to care.
nicotine.there's something burningnicotine. by solis-ortus
about the numbness of menthols
and his eyes
when they bring back all the fucked up memories.
it's not like
i don't remember. no; i know
exactly what he did,
and i remember falling apart in red puddles
curled up on my bathroom floor.
but his love
is just like cheap cigarettes;
i just can't get the taste
out of my mouth.
we don't want to die. but
we're all going to.