In Meaningful Ways

Hello! I find it fascinating to use the word "red" within other words (sometimes I obnoxiously put it into brackets, sometimes it isn't there at all). Coffee is my lifeline, reading is compulsive, and lisztomania is hardly an affliction.
This started out as a poetry blog. It still is mostly, but on occasion I'll post prose. Usually it's something snarky.
Snarky is good.

You can call me Jae. Stay awhile. We'll imbibe caffeine until the wee hours of the night and tell each other stories from another life.

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Posts tagged spilled ink
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I caught you trying to steal the ocean and immediately recognised the mirrored folly in that.
The sea would never be your comforting blanket to warm you on cold nights, glass carpet to dance across as the music plays softly or lover’s lips to kiss roughly in secret. No, before you could sneak it in through the window it would swallow you up and spit you back out when you had learned your lesson.
And worst of all, you’d always be thirsty for more, addicted to what could never be yours. 

I don’t know where home is; right now “home” feels like that goofy photo of us taken not that long ago*.
It’s a fond memory,
it’s the past,
it’s all but gone.  

*It feels like forever ago because I know how long we will be apart, like premature nostalgia.

lightningtheraintransformed:

You sang softly to me your sweet melodies, planting seeds of hope to grow out into astral fields of sky blue.

There is something wrong.
Suddenly, the only verse I can compose is dedicated to
you and your perfect words.
Your silly smirk and the lips I want to kiss.
Deeper meanings, philosophy, breathing and simple logic
may as well be dead languages. I want something beautiful
and rushed,
something that doesn’t make sense.
I’ve never been much of a pyromaniac, but
I’m itching
to pour gasoline all over this to
ensure the spark spreads like wild fire and
to kickstart my already fluttering heart.

There is something wrong;
your lips aren’t on mine. 

As we Conspired

allthathasledushere:

If there’s an infinite number of parallel universes,
as they say,
then surely there’s one in which I can carry a pitch,
you don’t feel the compulsive need to put tiny,
knotted braids into my already unmanageable hair,
and one where you and I are
the sisters we’ve always claimed to be.

Letters to impossibilities: Warnings 

ponderingcomplications:

There’s something you ought to know
if ever you decide to hold my hand -
I am as wild as the ocean waves
that crash and dance upon the sand.

My soul is far too wild, dear,
and it is like that of a growing flame -
I hardly care to reign it in,
and prefer to leave it untamed.

My heart is not crimson, love,
it is ebony, and it’s only ink I’ll bleed.
I won’t falter in love for you,
and your acceptance is all I’ll need.

My mind pours unbidden
unto this ivory web page,
and I shan’t try to bridle it,
nor keep it within its cage.

I breathe poetry only, honey,
and my lips are stained with rhyme.
I will not change how I am,
and I doubt that I will change in time.

I am not so different from you -
Your loyalties are to yourself,
and mine are so deeply entwined
to the lines of poetry upon the shelf.

So, if you seek to claim me,
you have to understand from the start,
that writing is the only thing
that has ever truly reached my heart,
 
But, my dear, I will write you in it
if you wish to remain cherished, too.
My loyalties are to my pen,
but darling, I could just as easily love you.

Don’t ever
ever
ever confuse shooting stars with
falling stars.
There is a difference between
falling into place and falling out of grace. 

Topless Nostalgia: as topless as it gets 

toplessnostalgia:

everyday we ate fish and chips
in town,
at the place by the lighthouse.
we’d never tasted anything better
(albeit it being our favourite dish),
we added ketchup and malt vinegar.

that’s how summer smelt to us,
and to me what its essence is.

after, we’d let heaven digest
in the golden sand and mist,
as the dogs of tourists panted
happily and ran all around.

i’ve always thought,
i love this shifty, unstable ground.

like ourselves, our nostalgia was topless
and thriving.

time burnt on as the sun reddened
and as it slyly disappeared
(as the sun went down on us
after the climax of its lust),
it wrote goodbye in the cirruses
and made a marvel for our irises,

ushering a celestial masterpiece
worthy of Van Gogh’s canvas.

we watched the stars, eating ice cream.

You were looking for an unsolvable puzzle,
a question, with an elusive answer, leaving
only mystery in its wake.
Quite frankly, I’m not the sphinx and I ran out
of stupid riddles a long time ago. All I’ve got
left are answers (and you don’t really want
to hear any of them). 

I don’t believe shooting stars can
change fates or barter with destiny,
but I saw one last night and
no “wish” came to mind.

lightningtheraintransformed:

We found each other young just wading in love so innocently not knowing that sorrow was waiting in the wings for the wake of old.

Sharing air was enough for you,                    I am a musician and storyteller.
breathing in the same room,                        Breaths are saved for the end of
being.                                                           phrases and dramatic pauses.
You only wanted                                          You didn’t get it.
the air in my lungs                                          It was suffocating, being in your
and for my beating heart to                          open-aired presence. 
be next to you.                                                My crescendos and staccatos 
Never did you wrong me,                               fell upon deaf ears. You ignored
but you tried to tether me                               exclamations and puzzled over 
to you                                                          parenthetical phrases.
by our unsynchronized pulses                           Purpose I could do without but I
and asked for my hand, with                            wanted to spend time together in
nails painted black, to find                             meaningful ways that amounted to
its way to your hand.                                      more than numbered exhalations
Sharing air was enough                                   coupled with sweaty palms.
for you.                                                     Could you really be happy knowing
Somehow, I made you happy.                                          I was so unhappy?


foundoceans:

Titillating darkness, undulating unseen
peaking in swirling,
salty whispers.

Níl na bealaí d’aois atá caillte,
wet your toes, my love,
in the deep.

Wave-crest mist graces your lips
left from a selkie’s
missed
kiss.

Riamh fret, mo ghrá, never fret.
The ocean only sings with evil tongues
when nightmares right through its depths.

We sat on shingles and stared at the sky.
Explosions went off around us, any direction
we craned our necks, casting colored light
onto houses, treetops, us and the navy 
void above. The house below meant so much
less to us, than the memories we were
reminiscing over.
When the summer ends, long after the 
firecrackers have been forgotten, I’ll be
leaving you and I’m terribly sorry for that.
(If it matters at all, I will miss you and the
hour we spent up on the rooftop will become
one of the stories we laugh about later, maybe
on some other fourth of July.)
 

Construct makeshift, paper wings
from broken promises, forgotten days
and things that are both thin and fragile.
From the ground I will look like a tissue paper
mosaic. All colors and delicate grace. 
Follow my Icarus too high, too far from the ground
too close to the burning, raging sun. 
Enjoy the free-fall on the way down, it’s the only
freedom I’ll ever know. 

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