favourite

This is by Some Girl. I don't know if she's leaving blogger. But she is an incredible writer and blogger. I had two favourites when I began blogging 15 months ago, and she was one of them. This is an excerpt from her latest post.

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I started this blog because I needed to know what I looked like on the inside. I needed to build a separate perception of myself...I never looked into my own face until I started this blog. This has been a simultaneous process of hiding and revealing. What I hid during the day, I revealed at night to a blank Word document. I used to be someone was the first sentence I ever wrote here and it's one of the truest things I've ever said. I used to be someone, I used to be a lot of people. First, I was a walking archive and then an arsonist, searing the past, memories and people alike, into ashes and then I was just some girl sorting through the wreckage. I can write myself out of anything, even the past versions of myself. I wrote until the multiplicity shrank so tiny that the ropes loosened and fell away. I used to be the person who needed to build this place but I don't want to be that person anymore. The clock has rolled back to zero and I am free.

i need to remember

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“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late
or, in my case, too early
to be whoever you want to be.
There’s no time limit,
            stop whenever you want.
                   You can change
                   or stay the same,
                   there are no rules to this thing.


We can make the best or the worst of it.

I hope you make the best of it.

And I hope you see things that startle you.

I hope you feel things you never felt before.

I hope you meet people with a different point of view.

I hope you live a life you’re proud of.

If you find that you’re not,

I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

by Dylan Thomas

Do No Go Gentle Into That Good Night 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Broken

By P.s. I Am Me from Shades of Green and Grey

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It would be easy to fall apart.
Piece by tiny piece.
And it’s hard to be put back together again once this happens.
Because, like with all puzzles, pieces get lost.
Maybe you’ll never be whole again.

Sleep-washed

A poem by Saba Vayani-Lai

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This,
This simplicity,
This sleep-washed morning,
The raindrops dancing gently
Upon soft glass,
Reflecting the sleeping forms of
Living poetry,
Of us,
Lost in a mindless tangle of limbs and
Sheets and sticky puddles of light.


At last,
Letting the words and the yearning finally,
Finally,
Spring from the page and into motion,
Into reality,
Into this tangible mess of feeling,
Lazily looped not in ink,
Not in restricting monochrome and colour-starved
paper,
Not caged in the heavy iron lattice of forced rhyme
-
But in the mixing of our breaths,
In the mingling of a million miniscule atoms,
Air cocktails slipping, shared,
Between our lips.


And then…
I feel the resignation festering,
Wild mushrooms growing in sad lumps, slow
and hungry,
Around my tired heart –
Such joy,
Such interdependent joy,
It cannot last.
It can only cling
As raindrops do to a spider’s web,
Desperately hoping the wind doesn’t lose
Her temper.


But I have traced stars
With fearless fingertips –
Traced that pale harmony between living and
Expressing
In the creases and valleys
Of your skin.


To have known such joy,
Even just for a moment -
It is enough.

This,
This simplicity,
This sleep-washed morning,
I watch our lazy forms reflected
In rain-speckled glass –
All drowsy smiles and
Poetry,
Alive at last.

(This is in the 2009 winners if you follow the link)

writing letters

By Melee of The Midnight Train Of Thought

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Dear You,


Whenever I write, I always feel the need to address myself to you.
You, you! It's so ambiguous. You could be male or female. You could be my mother, you could be the dog next door.
Sometimes I'm not even sure who you are. You are my lover, you are my enemy. You are a sonnet, you are prose. You are sufficient; you will never be enough.
But you know... you always know. I can tell you those things I always wanted. Whoever you are, I need you. Because, in writing to you, I feel a little less lonely: you're reading along.

Thank you.
Ever and Ever,
Me

post

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I miss writing poetry.
But it's one of those things I can't control.
Occassionally I've tried to force myself to write,
but I never like the poems later.
But it's a past-time that I really cherish.

I hope my words come back.
I'm getting sick of excerpts and sad stories.

So, maybe for a bit I'll post other things than my writing,
things I love and want to share.
Just enough to remind me.

don't ask

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She was Numb. Numb. Numb. Sometimes she whispers that word to herself, when she gets strange looks she smiles.

What is there to tell you about her? She drinks. She smokes. She starves herself. She does whatever it takes ease the numbness, or distract herself from it.

The other day she cut herself. Seventeen slits, on her left forearm. She used the razor from a pencil sharpener -just scratches, she tells herself. Today she accidentally let them show as she was taking off her jacket. Nobody saw, she doesn't know whether or not she's relieved.

She goes home and listens to music that gets in your head as she goes on Tumblr for hours. Around her, her friends are kissing boys and laughing and studying and growing. She writes things that are similar to the young Tim Burton's poetry. About girls who will grow up before their time. She is in a blur. When she looks around, all she can see is fog.

morbid curiosity

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Raindrops are drumming against your window. You can feel their icy whispers gathering around you. The room is dark except for the glass which reveals the greying street, and the cold glow of the laptop's screen which illuminates the dim forms of a bed, chair and closet behind you. There is the thick taste of a hard-boiled lolly in your mouth. Behind the rain you can hear the vague outlines of Sad by Pearl Jam humming in the background.
All this, with the mixed, broken scents of hair and rain and cotton sheets and lavender, holds you for a moment. And you pause in your typing, your fingers hesitating on the keys before you continue typing, in a more assured manner then before. This is who you are, now, in this moment you feel more yourself than you often do. And it's like a breath of fresh air. But even as you type you wonder whether you will post it.
And a small, dissatisfied part of you thinks about why people read the erratic, endless writings of others shadowed by the anonymity of cyberspace. And you can't help but feel it's for the same reason that humans stretch their necks to get glimpses of car crashes.

But maybe you shouldn't think about that right now. Maybe you should just finish your sentence.

just a letter

This is a tag created by Felicity which I was tagged in by the exceptionally talented Katherine. All you have to do is write a letter beginning with 'Dear You' that can't include any names, only pronouns. It's really freeing and easy, I hardly ever write in such a straight forward manner, I think I'll do it more.
I tag : Chlo and Sabine Cara for fairly obvious reasons I feel.
I was going to tag Jokerman but my account isn't working properly and I can't comment on his blog to let him know, so if you get this Danke, I hope you do the tag.

Dear you,

I've wanted to write this letter for a long time, but I haven't. I'm not sure why. I often put off things like this. It's because when I think, I think through everything and sometimes it's too much. It's difficult being a thinker sometimes. It's a lot messier than those who just accept things.

I'm talking to him again, well today and yesterday. It's funny, it's not that we weren't talking, but we haven't talked to each other a long time. He's curious like that. Someone said to me on Wednesday, "He is always a bit angry at everyone." I think that person's right.

I haven't been writing a lot lately, not even in my journal. Honestly I suppose it's a but more of a diary but I don't really like that word as much. And I haven't been writing on my blog. Which is annoying because I really want to, and even tags I've been given I haven't been able to fill out, except this one. It's frustrating because I love to write, but it's so erratic. I have to be in the right state of mind and a lot of things mess with that for me.

My friend is doing okay (I think), if you were wondering. We all are. But I wonder where we are going to be in 6 months time, when we don't have the support and stresses we have now. It could go either way I think.

I wish I could use my real name to sign off, but I won't. What's in a name, after all? If anything because of the anonymity of the internet, I've been more myself as Lilah, or more open to the parts of me that I don't want everyone to see at least. Except for her but that's okay. She is different. A friend once said to me, "She is one of the few people that actually care", they don't even know the half of it. I don't think I do either.

With love,

Mud in My Tears



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For two thousand sessions
and three analysts
and so many tears

I've gnawed over
this division of roles
for twenty years

what happened
what happened to her
what happened to me

I've sorted and sieved
and dissected
I've strained

through this corset
and shamed myself
I've repeated and remembered

and divided
the borders
she was the mother

I am the daughter
I am the daughter
born after the war

after the hunger
after the torture
after the typhoid

after the disfigurement
after the disinfection
after the dead

and well after
the rape
and the German Shepherd

I am the daughter
born after the war
but I've stalled

I am stuck
like a pig in mud
mud from the barracks

mud from the huts
mud from the bunks
mud from my eyes and lungs

mud in my liver
mud in my mouth
mud ringing in my ears

mud in my fingers
mud in my screams
mud in my tears.

-Lily Brett

Awake

I want things again.
Plural.
And I really want them, I care about them, I have enough energy to try and get them.
So this is about all the things I want, to remind me if I ever forget again.

I want to dye my hair hot pink

I want to appreciate people and personalities



I want to finish the HSC and do well, not because I need to but so I can be proud of myself

I want to kiss someone who I actually care about

and when I do I don't want to be numbed

I want to act

I want to read

I want to write

I want to travel

I want to meet people

I want to experience

I want to fight for who and what I believe in

even if that means breaking the rules sometimes

I really want to remember the inherent goodness of humanity

even if it's hard to see sometimes

And honestly, part of me

wants to go back

but not for a bit

And until then, I want to remind others about what I so easily forgot

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Thank you for everything

You all helped me a lot.

ever after

This is a post by Ever, that i adore.

There is so much,

too much,

to say.

I can't begin to wrap the words together

nor can I undo the ones I have created.

The thing about creativity is

once it is done,

it cannot be undone.

The intricate vines that you weave

layer themselves

into the most unspoken beauty.

They thicken until each and every reader

is shut out

from their truth; their connotation.

The denotation,

while pleasent and blooming

with lilacs and sweet pea blossoms,

is never what it seems.

Eventually, what you have created

will begin to bloom itself

cascading into the neon sharpness,

carving into acute angles.

Withering until the flower-scent

seeps into your mind.

It's pollen wiggles into the crevices,

dangling along your neurons

puncturing your occipital lobe.

These vines encase you

wrapping into a tight shell,

protecting your innermost softness

and locking your secrets up tight.

Together, you sprout thorns.

unlucky

creative writers are more likely to be mentally unstable. or mentally unstable people are more likely to write creatively.

it doesn't matter, we all knew that. really.

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Sylvia Plath effect

The Sylvia Plath effect is a term coined by psychologist James C. Kaufman in 2001 to refer to the phenomenon that creative writers are more susceptible to mental illness than other people. Kaufman’s work demonstrated that female poets were more likely to suffer from mental illness than any other class of writers. This finding has been discussed in many international newspapers, including the New York Times. The finding is consistent with other psychological research studies.


The effect is named after the American poet Sylvia Plath, who committed suicide when she was thirty years old.

When I read your words.

As a writer,
you
are
Like a butterfly, you
gracefully dance through life
capturing its essence in a few
words.
Twisting and turning you allow
the generic to become unique
the lonely to become breath taking
words to become worlds,
ideas,
moments.
You measure time with a piece of paper
in your mind
instants are continuous,
momentous,
lifechanging.
seconds minutes hours blend
they can be lived and relived
emotions running wild
thoughts in overdrive
you're a maker of magic
because you stop time.
and hold it in the palm of your hand.



As a moth
i look on
aware of our differences
accepting that beauty takes many forms.