Poetry Drafts

As I watch Within Temptation live on stage from way back, I cannot but wonder: are you a Gouda man? Ok it is a cheesy question, but hey you wanted questions so!!!! I remember driving down from Amsterdam to Breda, passed the windmill to the right, nibbling on the cheesiest of dreams :) I will return one day!

Poetry Drafts / / By

definegodliness:

Nope. No Gouda. See, I have a cheese guy. 

I live in a rural area and every Friday ‘my guy’ arrives in his cheese truck. Sells the good stuff with his son. That flavour, I gotta tell ya, really puts any store bought brand to shame. And the mouth feel! That young matured cheese just melts in your mouth. 

Also, awesome to read you didn’t stop at Amsterdam! I know that’s our main attraction, but it’s so international you hardly get the Dutch experience.

“I have a cheese guy” – respect! My culture also embraces cheese, but unfortunately I now have to survive on cheddar…

Angel of syllables

Poetry Drafts / / By 
For those of you in the know, and you
Not yet fully enlightened,
I hereby proclaim my innocence;
I am no longer a virgin of words,
No longer an Angel of syllables,
I speak my words without fear (a lie)
I whisper my dreams without tears,
I let my last moment of youth
Embrace me, before the final toll,
Before the final reckoning





Descends

Poetry Drafts / / By

madeofsaltwater-deactivated2021:

.

an inventory of topoi

there was a fruit fly in the room

named it amy lawless shouting in the corner

is a bug hotel are they doing it on a glass ledge

(thats so sexy)

play tom waits

you mean nick cave

i mean dry demos

did you know when a bat falls from a cave onto a pile of cockroaches,

confess

conFESS

hand over knees wretching stop it please

i jest,

my lips are lined perfectly

.

Any writing referencing fruit flies deserves a reblog

“What it’s like to be a poet”

Poetry Drafts / / By

imperiallefty:

Writing for an audience that may never see your face and vice versa.
Creating stories that may never have a beginning or ending or middle.
Describing dreams as nightmare and days like nights.
Chewing up and spitting out cliches until they too become a cliche.
Dying forever just to live in a moment.
Writing a thousand words just to use one line.
Being loved and hated by strangers and yourself.
Idolizing the dead, romanticizing the fictitious, forgetting to pay the living.
(sometimes)
Understanding that your art may never pay a bill, save a life or make someone fall in love, with you or anyone else.
Being a poet is having a superpower that changes without warning and turns your villains into heroes.
Have fun with that thought.

Hear hear

Fade into oblivion, for them

Poetry Drafts / / By 
I never watched you disappear into
The ground, never found your grave
All too appealing.





We shared images of women naked as
Backdrops to better living, yet your safe
Were filled with other pieces.





Your video collection, private, as the
Other half never understood your
Secrets, filled with filth and otherwise.





You shared the self with others,
My skin not by far thick enough
To understand and reciprocate
Whatever you did unknowingly.





I wish for less of your DNA
To permeate this earth,
For less of your ideas to
Remain a viable future





For them.

Bouquet of Being

Poetry Drafts / / By 
I am always watching,
Always listening to the silence,
To the unspoken words of your
Inner being.
Aligning to your specific fragrance of
Death,
To your bouquet of
Being you among the trivia of
Life.
I am always watching
You, and loving it…

Stars

Poetry Drafts / / By 
We never buried the hatchet, kept the flames licking our broken bodies until, one day, we made a vertical video. It went viral as far as viral infections go, topped the charts of broken hearts, broke our recorded promises in half, kept us melting; apart. We never buried the hatchet, but now, at least, we are stars.

Genes

Poetry Drafts / / By 
The passing of genes down the line,
Down through time unwanted,
I never could say no.





The father of the mother enjoyed
The bitter drink,
Far too often &
Far too long.





The father of the mother had a
Father of a mother who enjoyed
Their madness raging,
Far too long ago &
Far too close to comfort.





The passing of genes down the line,
Down through time unwanted,
I rage over ever being conceived,
Of ever being





Wanted

Meow

Poetry Drafts / / By 
As I let the cat out of the bag
I realise the bag is
Unremarkably transparent,
The last of the nine paths to freedom
Already trodden,
The torn thread unfurled
With a sullen





Meow
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