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A day.






















23 Jan 1615: John Donne ordained deacon & priest in by Bishop John King (NPG)







23 Jan 1641: d. Andrew Marvell father of Andrew Marvell MP & in a boat accident on the Humber Estuary (WilberforceHse).







Oh why it was truly an enchanting evening hosted by I was swept away by the romanticism of the way you read his poems was truly captivating 😘 oh Peter and Sarah the haggis was delicious 😋 I’ll be back next 📖🌹










First poem being put out into the world. Glad I’m slowly getting back into writing. please leave any thoughts for me✨




तू मुहब्बत नहीं समझती है, हम भी अपनी अना में जलते हैं. इस दफा बंदिशें ज़ियादा हैं, छोड़ अगले जनम में मिलते हैं. ✍️















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Notes of a Drunken Young Soul

Somewhere

between water turning into wine

somewhere

muddled in blood

from the gashes on my chest

to the marks that lay present

beneath the bags under my eyes

still somewhere

between sunsets and nightfall

where stars fade

memories

just the same

glimpsing if golden isles

found only after death


grimhearted

(01.23.2020)

I think I’m slowly going crazy.

My mind is racing. Jumping from one thing to the next, never staying at one place for long. I cannot focus. I cannot concentrate. I don’t know what to do. I wanna run around in my room and just do something but i can’t. It’s like I’m tied down to my bed with no way to escape…

On gravelled streets with wayward stones
I chanced upon a child’s groan.
He fell like kings fall from their thrones -
as lord of all to mercy thrown.

On his swing he’d proudly swung
but the straps to which he clung
snapped.

On autumn’s golden languid leaves
he tended to his two grazed knees
sapped.

In the shadow of the church
I raised him by a ghostly birch.
I begged him not to let this stop him
swinging.

“Sometimes the weight you carry breaks
the chains that bind your hopes together.
Fate may shake you from your tether.
Still the choir goes on singing
under every weather.”

—  Howie Abel, Under the weather

So many stories left without an ending, conflicts unresolved.

So many characters still waiting for me to return and give them the story they deserved.

Ideas, half formed, that are pushed aside for others.

They sit there unfinished,

unread,

untold.

Put on hold till I learn how to connect their pieces,

their beginning,

middle,

and end with tearing them apart.

I want

you with every bit

Of me, every last drop

of love within my body sings

your name in the language of love,

my sweet baby.. my heart beats to a big

melodic tune that rests within my soul. Am

I the one you seek? Is our love not warm

with the heat of a thousand suns of

perfection, the likes that this

world has never seen in

a millennia soft

with the heat, wet

of our sweat? I do love

you so much, our love being

sweet and divine.. and within my

very soul do I know the sound of your

Voice. I can feel it in every breath of mine, a

soft cacophony of music to my ears with

love.. the sweetest tune of all, your

heart baby. And your soul is the

gentle melody that stories

tell throughout time,

and I love you

for that.. so

much.

- The only story I can tell is one of love, this simple way that lovers do.. the only story on my mind.. a story of our love, a perfect love that rest within the bounds of our heart that shall never perish. I love you - eUe.. poetry..-

To My City: Why?
image

Sleepy northern town,

houses sprawled out with their yards
grasping for one another through thickets
and bushes,
where do your secrets lie?
Empty streets
and the flickering lamps that line them
don’t populate your houses.
Yellow halos,
orange dots,
peeking through the mist like stars through the clouds.

How long have you been hiding this,
oh, silent city?
To share your story,
to you,
is to share your demise,
yet you cannot see.

On the left,
the sky is turning cold,
clouds lined with not silver but purple.
On the right,
the sky is turning hot,
clouds lined with not purple but orange.
Beneath my feet, beneath your faces and watchful eyes,
beneath the sky and the heavens and above the fires,
snow glistens in the dying light.

The houses are gone,
rubble and ash.
Your body is now pocked,
but I will not praise you like the stars,
because you do not sparkle in the same way.

Something deep within you
begins to writhe, 
begins to howl with the wind,
and I can see it in your eyes,
ancient village.
I can see it under your skin.

It is not as pretty as you could have been,
nor does it breathe the same as you,
lonesome village,
though I think it is a part of you.

There is rubble caked in the cracks of its skin,
and dust coats its tongue.
It has torn down your walls,
destroyed you,
created from what majesty you had
a mountain.

No,
pled your people;
no, mercy, please,
yet none to them came,
and you did not try to move,
instead crumbling.

It slept after the chaos was wrought,
and still, you stayed
watching as the gruesome creature
rose from the ashes of what you were.

“Girl, you have

my heart in your sexy socks..

GOT me rock hard,

not just talk,

but you WALK the walk.

I think SEX

. . . with you has got to be the

sexiest thing in

this world,

who? My girl,

for which I take AWAY all

of her

hurt, her pain, her sadness, her

love do remain

like grains of sand

upon lands of HOPE..

as she’s skiing the slopes of my

HEART❤,

and I just know

that we will never be apart.

MY girl, my lover..

my Queen, I WILL never want

another lady,

for I truly do

LOVE YOU

baby cakes.”

Our relationship gets sexy, we get down, but it gets deep too.. you are so hot, but we are so much more than just sex. We are all of it, all rolled up into one.. you really turn me on, but I really love you too. From the bottom of my bulging heart - eUe..

We are knitting needles
dancing skeins of passion
into woollen loops of love.
From the formless
we form patterns.

In the ageless womb of yarn
creation swells.

Imagination
weaved from threads.
Stitch by stitch
the calloused hands of meaning
are laved in embryonic life;
when our needles spark
we are just the channel
our future surges through.
—  Howie Abel, Knitting Needles

It’s Obvious Now

image
image
image

Girls are so lovely, and pretty, and nice.

Yes, hello, I’m sorry, may I ask your advice?

What is a crush? And how does it feel?

What is the point of this whole ordeal?

~

Boys are just boys, and I guess they are fine.

But this whole process seems like a waste of time.

No I can’t like her, no she’s just a friend.

I promise I’m straight, or at least I’ll pretend.

~

Why can’t I stop thinking about her?

Why is every thought and feeling a blur?

Could this be a crush that I’m feeling today?

But it can’t be a crush, I swear I’m not gay!

~

Wow, she’s athletic, and pretty, and smart.

I hope she can’t hear the racing of my heart.

Wow, alright then, but I’d still date a guy…

But I want a girlfriend, so maybe I’m bi?

~

How about him? He’s smart and he’s kind.

I guess I could date him, I guess I wouldn’t mind.

So I’ll tell my friends that I’m crushing on him.

Just based on a thought, on a hope, on a whim.

~

Although now I’m hoping that he won’t ask me out.

My dread of a boyfriend plants a seed of doubt.

But don’t I want a husband? Must I date a man?

Would another label fit? Could I be pan?

~

Oh my goodness, she’s lovely. Oh my, she’s so smart.

This girl now has sole possession of my heart.

Every time she smiles, the butterflies win.

Well it’s obvious now, I’m a huge lesbian. ❤️

•••••

Hi! Thank you for reading my poem! So this is about my experience with compulsory heterosexuality and getting past that to accept myself. I did think I was bi, and then pan, for a time because I didn’t want to be a lesbian (thanks a lot, internalized homophobia /s). I in no way think that the labels of bisexuality and pansexuality are inherently for people on the way to a lesbian identity, I think that these identities are beautiful and valid and important all on their own, but they were a part of my journey towards finding the label that fit me.

Thanks again for reading,

With love,

Vi

Fresh White, Acrylic Paint

Goodbye kisses are my first and only memory of what love is supposed to look like 
How it seems only when you’re leaving, can a kiss quench the burning and make it feel all better 
It’s a simple childhood wish, maybe I thought finding it could make it all clear 
I mean, the weather. 


I never made myself out to be my first pick, 
Teams weren’t my style, if I ran for miles I could just drop off the thoughts at marker 4 and wonder what it would feel like to follow them into the river, 
See, I’ve always been a dreamer, but only if I was a bit thinner did I feel that’s what it meant to be achieving, pulling down the clouds for candy, eating them alive instead of just settling for the sweetness 
But they left the taste of feeling empty, that you learn the hard way you can’t fill with self-pity 
Hind-sight is 2020 but it felt so fleeting until I noted it was 
November again and it snowed in my head, leaving sun reflections in my iris,
Do you ever feel so tired like this? 


I think for the first time I’ve tasted and swallowed purpose, it likes to stay awake at night, made me a new canvas of fresh white acrylic paint and never once, did it try to force it’s way out of my skin. 


I think maybe we’ve become friends.


01-22-2020 -:- 11:32 pm

Punctuation

punctuation, a guise that says it marks an ending, when really it is a beginning. “please mind the gap,” please take mind when you read to heed the space and prevent your verbiage from drowning out the point. periods just tell you what you’re supposed to think, when it could be meaningless and aimless. it confines you to a track, one position to sit in presented by some other impending force. Perhaps it’s not meant to feel this tragic, but what it tricks us into is thinking that it’s all there is, that deep down we really only care about the path of less resistance, free of periods, maybe that’s why I feel I’d be terrible at argumentative rhetoric. this way I won’t have to argue back but just be lectured to. at least I’m thankful periods only come once a month.

01-22-2020 -:- 11:25 pm

I’m way too smart for my own good

I wish you could blind side me

But you can’t

I want to be surprised

But intuition

I want to be loved

But cynicism

I want to be held

But I couldn’t hold still

I want to be wanted

But no one will

I want to be cared for

But independence

I want to be smart

And beautiful

And athletic

And successful

But I can’t

I can’t

You can’t

We can’t

And that’s when we stopped