yeahwrite:

“If you’re only going to write when you’re inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you will never be a novelist—because you’re going to have to make your word count today, and those words aren’t going to wait for you, whether you’re inspired or not.  So you have to write when you’re not ‘inspired.’

…And the weird thing is that six months later, or a year later, you’re going to look back and you’re not going to remember which scenes you wrote when you were inspired and which scenes you wrote because they had to be written.

Tell your story.  Don’t try and tell the stories that other people can tell.  Because [as a] starting writer, you always start out with other people’s voices—you’ve been reading other people for years.

…But, as quickly as you can, start telling the stories that only you can tell—because there will always be better writers than you, there will always be smarter writers than you…but you are the only you.”

Neil Gaiman

(Source: brainpickings.org)

In transit

Is this how we grow taller, how we grow meaner?
Not with a foot out the door
Not with a ring around the finger
Not with somewhere else to be
Is it just caring so much you exhaust the life out of yourself
And you feel spent but you keep buying into it.
And you feel dumb but you keep selling it.
And you’re sold but you know you ain’t worth much.
And you come home but you still ain’t worth much.

poetry lecomplice in transit

« It »

Beaten and I cannot help it
Beaten brutal and I keep taking it
A fist to the face
For
wanting you and wanting you
And swallowing it
And daring to think it
And wanting it and wanting it.

poetry lecomplice

For a smoke

I counted your freckles counted on you
I breathed your words in inhaled the smoke
Took the February air let it freeze me
Just to see you just to be with you
Just to hear you see you’re truly flesh and bones.
Because
I don’t get to come any closer
Will never get to hold you closer
Get to flip your cap around
Get to say to say I love you
And flip it back around.

poetry for a smoke lecomplice

Darling don’t you share

Darling don’t you share the fabric of your bones
The matter is heavy, too heavy for
them. Don’t
Share darling you’ll end up alone.
A poetry writing, hole digging, mess in the rain ringing
Late late calling piece of a person
Nobody to read you, to say yes don’t say no more
I am here I will be here we will be together.

poetry lecomplice darling don't you share

Room

Another night weighs on the balance
The guilt is a cold sweat I can never shake.
I have a box full of faces and fears
But as a drive all through the night,
in and around the red dot,
I realize there can never be any room for that.
There can never be any room for that.
There can never be any room for that.

poetry poem lecomplice trust room

On the table.

I have never been one
to presume your existence.
One to call you my own
without a genuine heartbeat on the table.

Yet this is addressed to you
The second person
I want on my side
and have shamelessly imagined
Through sounds (dusty, mellow sounds)
Through words (ever so voiceless words)

And you may rest easy;
You remain faceless.
I will not draw you out completely
You remain a malleable shadow of hope
For some ease and comfort and complicity
On this table.

hopes and dreams poem poetry lecomplice

You wake up
A ball in your throat,
Dreadfully conscious
Of everything you’re really made of.
Wondering about the past climbing back up
To choke you dead
No fingerprints or desperate cry,
Footprints or long goodbyes.
The hand that made you simply reaches in
To remind you
That you carry your own becoming
As well as your own end.

dreadfully conscious

I’m usually torn between wanting to share anything and everything, and wanting to delete every trace of myself online because who even gives a shit


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