not your star @eddielhouse - Tumblr Blog

Writeblr intro

I'm Eddie. I've previously only really written poetry (and the occasional short story) but I thought I'd take the plunge and try to encourage myself to work on some longer pieces by starting this.

They/them

90s kid, in my late 20's

Queer

Busy as all living hell

I mostly write poetry and YA fiction. Poetry can be found under the mine tag, short stories under snippets and longer form works under currentwip

I'll add to this as needed hopefully

You can support me with likes, reblogs, comments, buying me a coffee, sending me an ask, or downloading one of my works which are pay what you can

#spilled ink #writeblr #young adult #poetry #writing #new writers corner #new writeblr #writeblr intro

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beguines

I wouldn't even be a religious person were it not for poetry, which has not only repeatedly brought me into contact with an other, but has seemed to demand something of me in its wake—very like Teresa's visions. But poetry remains perpetually open. God moves through art but doesn't get stuck there. I sometimes think he gets stuck in theology—fixed, frozen, and therefore inevitably falsified.

Miroslav Volf and Christian Wiman, Glimmerings: Letters on Faith Between a Poet and a Theologian

bottlecap-press

From Ami J. Sanghvi’s chapbook, Lipstick[less] Mania: A Ritual For No One, available from Bottlecap Press! https://bottlecap.press/products/lipsas

candiedspit

Elliott Smith in my diary

k1llingeve

Writing by the gorgeous Jasmine Ledesma @candiedspit

candiedspit

From the first chapter of FODDER which u can pre-order here

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themuseera

bottlecap-press

From Elisa Rowe’s chapbook, Every Imagined Tundra, available from Bottlecap Press! https://bottlecap.press/products/everer

bottlecap-press

From Reverie Koniecki’s chapbook, The Arguments, available from Bottlecap Press! https://bottlecap.press/products/_argurk

heavensghost

I dream of soft fruit

candiedspit

on depression

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rie-writing

Misery, My Baby

Her words take up all the space in the room, even with her dry mouth. Drinks cough syrup to sleep, wants to live but can’t take the heat. So livid over your own mind, yet consumed in your lust, in love with your perilous state. It takes two shots to get her next me, two more to talk. Never takes a deep breath. Why won’t you share your secrets with me? Looks like she sees ghosts, sitting in the back of the car (maybe she just looked into the rear-view mirror). Beauty and the bitch, I unravel a mess from the sheets. Skin pulsing, constant cold feet. What does she look like in the morning, sipping Pinot Noir for breakfast? She likes the men that give her ice in summer. Misery, my baby. A blood tongue, red eyes. How do you like her now?

blueegrief

two-bees-poetry

bring back the dead // maggie

mist-of-flowers

original poem : & i am your daughter

inspired by @two-bees-poetry !

first time so it’s not my favorite （ ´_⊃｀）

saltair-and-webweaves

and bless the daughter but fuck the family

it lingers for your whole life - katie maria/the sun is also a star - nicola yoon/the lost girls: a poetry collection on girlhood, grief, and growing up - lyra wren/crush - richard siken/unknown/on earth we're briefly gorgeous - ocean vuong/ @emmajadepaige/stick season - noah kahan/promises of gold - josé olivarez/matilda - harry styles/susan smith - wych elm/tangerine - nolune/#6 - aroara/right now - gracie abrams/love & a loaded gun - emily rose cole/someday I'll love - ocean vuong/ @parentless-suggestions/unknown/the burning - venetta octavia/you can love him but you can't keep him - @pencap/a poem from the adult daughter to the narcissistic mother: not your fault, not mine, just is - katherine fabrizio/courtney love prays to oregon - clementine von radics

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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

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amoonmadeofflowers

To the Girls in the Parking Lot

We were barefoot on hot pavement,

trying to disappear between the cracks

of a church that called itself sanctuary

and still made us feel like sin.

We were twelve and

already fluent in the art of woman.

Already knew how to say

“I’m fine”

in seventeen different ways

without ever meaning it.

Together we laughed so hard

the tears couldn’t be traced,

talked about getting run over

like it was some kind of joke,

And not

the most honest prayer we knew how to pray.

But you made it.

We made it.

We didn’t stay quiet.

We didn’t stay small.

We grew teeth and poetry,

clawed our way out of the shame

they baptized us in,

and we found people—our people—

who said,

“You don’t have to hurt to be holy.”

“You don’t have to fix yourself to be loved.”

“You’re allowed to rest.”

I want you to know:

That girl who wanted to vanish?

I saw her. I see her. Even now.

She became someone soft,

someone loud,

someone full of moonlight and swear words

and glitter and grit.

We are no longer the wound.

We are the ones who walked through it, bleeding; aching.

We are not what they tried to silence.

We are the voice that survived.

So here’s to the girls in the parking lot at church,

and the women they became.

Long may they reign.

I don’t understand how to walk human

The tarmac is crushed beetle shimmer in the sun

And I’m the spoiled milk seeping in the warmth

One misplaced dance step in the social order of a primary school classroom and

I’m a puppet with cut strings

I don’t think I understand how to walk human. Everyone cycles an endless pattern with me at the centre, unable to join the waltz, not knowing where clumsy feet place. Life’s a set of instructions torn clean down the centre and I’m spelling out hieroglyphics with a foreigner tongue. What comes natural never felt so artificial on my bones.

I’m told that one day it won’t matter; that I’m an old soul; that peer mixing isn’t for every child; in the near distant future this will all be obsolete and yet-

Under another six-year-olds withering gaze

The crushed beetles start to crumble.

#autism #poetry #spilled ink #mine #spilled words #new poets society #quotes #feeling disconnected #social anxiety #social outcast

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