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@poemsmadeofwhiskey / poemsmadeofwhiskey.tumblr.com

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fishnetbabe
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Uma Thurman, 2017 a.d: “So. I’ve been waiting. to feel. less angry. And when I’m ready. I’ll say what. I have to say.”

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wnq-writers
let me tell you something: no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered and think - damn, you are beautiful. no one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and assemble them into a beautiful whole. hell, you won’t even look at yourself and think - I made broken look beautiful. you know why? because all those writers lied to you. yes, all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and blood dripping down chins, pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like hurricanes. liars. so you and i, we are going to make a plan. you are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror, you are not going to romanticize the lover who doesn’t understand you but still writes about you. here is what you are going to romanticize instead: you are going to romanticize the first day of spring, its gentle hands all over your body, lifting you up until you are as light as a feather. you are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love, no hurricanes, but sunshine that builds you up from within, that helps you make it through the worst days. you are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend in yours, telling you that it is going to be okay. because it is. and don’t trust poets, we’re no good, we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster, but in reality - there ain’t nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls. you know what is beautiful, instead? the days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile, scars and all. music that makes your soul flow like a river, books that offer comfort, families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm, friends that give you strength when you can find none, lovers who make you laugh through tears. baby, from now on you are going to romanticize healing; honey dripping down your fingertips, August nights that stick to your skin, the day you find your purpose, long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now. bad news: no one is coming to save you. good news: you can save yourself.

Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers)

Source: wnq-writers
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your       lips my                    skin                                    it's late. you're not here and these sheets are empty without your warmth wrapped up. i long to be close to you. the        desire                    to be touched a human sense that wants to be loved.

Sleeping Alone - GP

#latenight#latenightthoughts#poetry#prose#senses#writing#journal
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It feels like my words aren’t pretty any more. They do not paint oil pastels of frilly flowery jasmine trees Or put the taste of ocean salt water in the air you breathe. I do not slave over placing the words just so that they dance into the ear, A honey smooth waltz to please the mind’s eye. Now I write harsh, choppy realities that have been bouncing around in The metal walls above my neck for years. They are the ruins left behind from the common housefire, Dumped into this landfill of words I’ve been hoarding in my backpack. I no longer think of your hands on my hips in the summer or the smell of pot on your laughter or the balmy wind slurping in through car windows that felt like jazz music on my skin . I mostly think of what I am and who I am and who I’ve failed. I think of so many things I can hardly lift my heavy ghost from bed in the morning, I think of pills and rabbit holes and getting lost Because lost is all I really know.   I know how to live lost better than any other way. Perhaps I seek a greater, greener lost full of rivers to take me away from here, Instead of the dark alley whiskey bottle lost I live in. But I am where I am and right now I think of broken glass and write about the color grey. I tell myself its all in my head and the thoughts I think will take me somewhere someday. I’ll think and I’ll write and I’ll get lost and remember you and all of the colors I have ever seen. It’s a familiar story, familiar words that aren’t pretty anymore.

Gabrielle  poemsmadeofwhiskey

#poetry#freeverse#prose#words#thoughts#lost#getlost#rabbithole#reality#writing
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