once my poems
threw out light
and warmth
the fascination
stopped.
my fascination
with light
and warmth
threw out
more poems.
more poems,
more light.
(Source: nearlyayearofmagic)
nearly a year of magic
magic is hard to find
Writer’s Block
A picture says a thousand words. Write them.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
as sunlight filters through
deeply hidden secrets
of thoughts and minds
leaves diving blowing
the emptiness of
lack of care or thought
peeling back bark to see:
is the girl-tree still green?
(Source: nearlyayearofmagic)
and i write to
escape the tiny
fingers of fear
that whisper into
my brain “you
are not good
enough”
(Source: nearlyayearofmagic)
Tamora Pierce Fan Problems:
The books are underground popular, making it impossible to talk about to pretty much anyone.
(via sleepmybeauty)
Novels are forged in passion, demand fidelity and commitment, often drive you to boredom or rage, sleep with you at night. They are the long haul. They are marriage. Stories, on the other hand, you can lose yourself in for a few weeks and then wrap up, or grow tired of and abandon and (maybe) return to later. They can cuddle you sweetly, or make you get on your knees and beg.
(via writeworld)
drunken fingers
stumbling into secret
places
little giggles
kissing down thighs
sucking up insides
of arms
hiking through
hair
nuzzling through
breath.
(Source: nearlyayearofmagic)
i am not
gone.
i have been
happy-making
with the happiest-making
girl
i have ever met.
happy-making is waking up
every morning
to her kisses
to her hand tangled in mine
(when she’s not pushing me
off the bed,
that is)
to her legs
brushing me.
happy-making is not
having to shave
my legs
every
day.
happy-making is
being who i am
for me
because
she loves me
for every
thing
i could ever
hope to be.
(Source: nearlyayearofmagic)
it is a wonderful feeling
being comfortable
in the skin
you’re in
when someone else loves
the skin
you’re in.
this process
working you out of
my system,
working me back in,
working on
being
happy
has finally paid off.
i learned
how to be
happy
again.
the tiny rush of fingers
curled against mine,
the coolslickpress of skin
burrowed into my back
the burst of joy, wriggling fingers
into sides
(and inside)
the press of smiles against lips
just touching
the press of tongues
learning each other
through movements
and words
(more than you ever
bothered to know
about me
at
all)
the sheer joy of seeing
yourself
through her eyes.
the purity of knowing
you are liked
for just
who
you
are.
happiness is not a person,
or not only,
but tiny spiky glinting smirking laughing
smiling laughing learning touching holding
sleeping cuddling feeling thinking asking
listening comforting healing teasing
knowing wondering sharing wanting
ginger girl
is contributing to mine
in a way I have always hoped
someone would.
at last I am happy
and at last i
am free.
i thought i needed you
to remake me,
help me become
everything i thought i’d lost
in the process of becoming
yours;
the tiny girlchild curled up
inside what i’d never hoped to become,
the seed of truth buried
inside an entire life
of hiding, of comfort,
of barely-there fear.
i thought i needed you.
when really, i needed me.
(Source: nearlyayearofmagic)