Unarmed. the papers said. I guess they forgot to mention, my only 'weapon' was the colour of my skin.
thewritersaddress.
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@thewritersaddress
Unarmed. the papers said. I guess they forgot to mention, my only 'weapon' was the colour of my skin.
thewritersaddress.

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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You can love the shit outta somebody but if they can't see that they're worth your love, then love isn't enough.
thewritersaddress.
Stay With Me In Sleep And Death.
Have you ever wondered how a memory tastes like? Is it salty tears of regret or sugar-dipped nostalgia? For me, memories are somewhat of a fabrication of the truth. I know what you’re thinking, how can my own memories be lies? But the truth is (and I use this term lightly) me and my subconscious have never been on good terms. I am not my own best friend. My own self lies to me and so in this perjury, my memories are fragmented, never whole, an angled bitter truth.
Today, something weird happened. I emerged grieving in my sleep, weeping as I slept. My eyes were glazed behind lethargic lids, compelling my body further into a deep slumber. I was no longer wrapped in red sheets, but somewhere else – this world was real, a prophecy or a memory I was not sure.
Dreams are strange experiences. They are, for a mere few seconds, as translucent as filmy acetate, vivid as Polaroids of your first time sitting front row at your favourite gig. Yet, the longer you stray, the faster they fade and the photographic memories burn away in the light, until nothing is left but an empty album of could have beens.
But as usual, I saved myself. Harbouring a writer’s instinct, I actively sought out pen and paper, scribbling away with one eye open, the little details that I was sure to forget. I became a crooked historian, seeming more of an imperialist recounting and revising history, conquest and righteousness in my own favour – somehow believing the ridiculous notion that a written forgery was much more real than a mental one.
From what my memory does justice, we were conversing in my front garden. I still remember the deteriorating brickwork of dirty terracotta, the atmosphere of an old road filled with ruined terrace houses, the sounds, smells and sights of a bustling community. I felt a connection to this place, it was home. I remembered the chafing of the textured, almost ribbed, aesthetics of the metal garden chairs, reminiscent of the types of dining at low-rent baguette restaurants. I remember how my heart felt, almost nostalgic but aged, as it hovered in this childhood as a grown adult,
Somehow, positivity was not on the cards – the atmosphere feigned an ominous mask, casting doom and shadows over our furrowed brows. I was handed four balloons, and I looked at you, seeing fear in your eyes. It was then that I knew this was the end. I had come here to expire. I should have felt alarmed, but the moment felt both apocalyptic and anticlimactic, upsetting yet unfeeling.
You sighed and I adverted my eyes to the rising ant colony holding their last moments near the broken brickwork under our table. You told me to split the balloons evenly, two for you, two for me.
And so we stood up. I guess this was the initial moment where I realised that this man’s identity was unknown to me. His existence was a mystery, yet inside there scorched an voracious need for sacrifice and duty. Your eyes were brown, they were warm, they were safe. And whilst my heart fluttered with nerves, I realised the depth of my affections.
You grasped my hand and interlaced your fingers through mine. You told me to point the balloons to the sky, holding them as Thor would his hammer. And as we did, they began to lift us, until we were the descendents of Mary Poppins, soaring with household objects to the current of the wind.
The tumult began to rise again, the sadness became overwhelming. The prospect of endings started to strengthen until it was all that I could see. You pursed your lips and came at me – the kiss was familiar, and I relapsed into some foreign addiction, lapping at the taste of your tongue. I could feel us flying. I could feel his body hugging every curve of mine. I could feel the raising hairs on the back of my neck internally prophesising the altitude. We were higher than everything we ever knew. We were escaping it all.
I felt his hand grow closer around my fingers as he coiled himself around me, until his skin became a costume of protective armour. I think I heard him clear his throat, I think I heard him whisper my name, I think I heard screams.
And I think I heard the balloons burst. The butterflies flew in a frenzy like frightened horses running aimlessly at the summer carnival. I remember the sadness, the confusion – I remember the grey.
And I awoke with tears in my mind, a pool of emotion saturating my pillow. Unsure of the origin and what it all meant, I was sure I had never felt grief like this before.
Prisoner of Gluttony.
His fingers were marching ants, creeping slowly up my frame in servitude of satisfying their Queen. A slow whimper rattled the silence. It consisted of stifled breaths, each second feeling like a still taken from silent movies where gestures took the lead. The moments became broken and unexplained; as smiles entered with such intensity; they may have been incoherent battle cries in time of war. Backs were aching with small spasms rocking to the rhythm of shivering thighs- I can’t see anything but the ceiling anymore. The rug feels harsh on my elbows but I ignore the pain. You downcast your eyes, and I notice your clenched jaw, the delicious dip in your shoulders, how your tongue playfully laps at your moist lips- and I feel overwhelmed, consumed by something foreign. And before I can declare what of the tingling sensation; you place your hand over my mouth. “Ssh,” you say, so quietly that I’m not sure I caught all the decibels. You smile and I surrender, remaining voiceless to this peaceful invasion. But inside, insurgency is brewing, bubbling like the steaming cauldron of witchcraft and treachery. Your palm feels me breathe; and I shake away all desires to drink you, until I am bloated like the airy atmosphere of balloons blown too big. So I accept my fate as prisoner, wishing only to be handcuffed closer to you. Your hand doesn’t move; pedantic and almost distrusting- it occupies my mouth, quietening the cries of my prurient tongue.
and what will I be when you are gone? will I still hold my smile, will my heart still be this raw fire, will I crumble, or will I rise, will I still be me without you?
thewritersaddress.

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Andrea Gibson, taken from “The Madness Vase” and “Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns”.
I just love her.
i rarely sit down thinking ‘i’m going to write a poem today about ____’ & then do it. i usually start because of a buzzing in my head that goes 'you need to write a poem right now in order to keep feeling somewhat human.’ listening to that voice feels like the only option.
Anna Meister, interviewed by Laura Creste for Washington Square Review (via bostonpoetryslam)
Maybe we’ll meet again, when we’re slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I’ll be right for you and you’ll be right for me. But right now I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart.
(via black-banker)
I’m torn between the light and dark, where others see their target in fine symmetry.
David Bowie, Quicksand (via early-onset-of-night)
We are so much kinder to others than we are to ourselves. We build others up, remind them of their strengths and when they tell us about their shortcomings, we explain that it’s human nature to mess up, to regret and to start again. We make them aware that not every new beginning has to be painful, and that there is so much life out there to stop living. I think the day I realised I had changed was the day I spoke to myself like I was someone else. When I began to remind myself of my strengths and forgive my errors of judgement. There is too much life out there to stop living. And what may seem important now will in time become nothing but a memory, an anecdote of your youth.

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This is for the broken. Not just the heartbroken. This is for the tonguebroken. The wristbroken. The belly-full-of-gin broken. This is for the tired. The left behind. The four am souls whose only lovers are the streetlights that walk them home.
Louise Meets, If I Could (via wordsanonph)
And in the end, we were all just humans…Drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Pablo Neruda, Love: Ten Poems (via amargedom)
The combination of Bukowski's words driven by the emotion and emphasis of Waits’ unmistakable voice churns out one of the most moving poetry readings of all time.
If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness.
A phrase that was carved on the walls of a concentration camp cell during WWII by a Jewish prisoner (via xstayfocused)
Something really powerful about this that is definitely still relevant in today's society.

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expressing what's inside doesn't come naturally anymore, especially when your words still bleed from all those times you bit your tongue.
thewritersaddress.
How do you expect people to understand you when you can’t even do that yourself?
you don’t know who you are or what you stand for. (via northerist)