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Fickle [userpic]

sleep, baby, sleep
I'll bury you six deep

Fickle [userpic]

stay out of my fantasies, please
they don't have room for you
and world domination both

and of the two
I'd rather rule the world
you just don't look as good
when I put you to the fire
and the sword

Fickle [userpic]

you don't love me
you don't love me
you don't love me
you don't love me

if I say it enough times
maybe I'll remember it

Fickle [userpic]

when you create the perfect man
you don't expect him to run off
with the perfect woman

Fickle [userpic]

everyone says that you're like a rainbow
colorful and brilliant and rare
that I should enjoy you while you last
and not try to find where your end lies (where your lies end)

the problem is I'm colorblind
and your lies don't dazzle me

Fickle [userpic]

I don't want the world to end
before I tell you I love you

Fickle [userpic]

there was going to be a poem here but my puppy ate it

this is performance art

Fickle [userpic]

you're wrong about me
but you never believe me
when I tell you that

and the sad part is
you argue better than me
so I'm beginning to believe
that I'm wrong about me too

Fickle [userpic]

fuzzles and fur
and nuzzles and purr

and in conclusion: KITTEN SOUP

Fickle [userpic]

this love is not a lie

Fickle [userpic]

winning is easy but the problem is
what do you do afterwards?

trophies collect dust on the shelf
you drink from the skulls of your enemies

pureed brain has a flavor all its own

the cats love it.

Fickle [userpic]

I crave the normalcy that your skin promises
everything will just be okay if you kiss me

one more time

In your eyes, cities rise
the future is too bright to face

Fickle [userpic]

You said you'd make me better.

You made me quiche instead.

It was tasty.

Fickle [userpic]
I believe in a thing called love!

Photo-essay-ish thing, inspired by RP from last night. Not triggery! )

Fickle [userpic]
I can never ignore this meme.

Find a poem you love and post it.

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

-Anne Sexton

Fickle [userpic]
you have ten minutes or less to write a poem, then post it with this subject line

cybernetic future, wires through her veins
she feels the pulse of information in place of emotion
emo poetry and pro-ana make her suck her cheeks in
she regards herself in the mirror and camwhores
camera in her eyes and the click of her eyelids
the perfect old-style camera covers

her smile is black and every tooth is lettered
her canine teeth are enter keys and her tongue
is made of cables braided together

she is the perfect girl for this digital world
she is a creation of her own self-loathing

humanity was never worth it
humans never deserved her

now she is unique

and tomorrow
there will be a million more like her
marching down the assembly line
demanding android rights

Fickle [userpic]
more poems please?

thursday: drowning in love

friday: drowning in doubt

saturday: drowning

sunday: God, I can't drag my
self to church this morning.
please make a house call.


next month:

find someone new.

this month:
get over you.

this week:
get you back.



I'd have a nervous breakdown
I've been through
this too many
times to be



Keep it a question.
It's not really an answer


the layers I have put
around the pain of
your going are thin.

I walk softly through
life, adding thickness
each day.

a thought or a feeling
of you cracks the surface.

a call to you
shatters it all.

I spend that night in death

and spin the first
layer of life
with the sunrise


I'm past the point of going
quietly insane.

I'm getting quite
noisy about it.

The neighbors must think
I'm mad.

The neighbors, for once,
are right.


I am missing you
far better than
I ever loved you.


I write only
until I cry
which is why
so few poems
this month
have been

it's just


a new morning
of a
new life
without you.


there will other.
much finer,
much mine-er.

and until then
there is me.

and because I treated
I like me better.

also, the sun rises.


the need you
still remains.

but less and less
you seem the way
to fill that need.

I am.


Someday we are going to be lovers.
Maybe married.
At the very least, an affair.

What's your name?


I loved,
which was purgatory.

I lost,
which was hell.

and I survived.


I found the poems in a book called "How to survive the Loss of a Love", along with many others, but those are the ones that I liked best. Especially "Layers" "Neighbors" and "Plans". Originally, I posted them to my deadjournal on the 14th June, 2003, and while I was going through my deadjournal and flocking entries, I found them and decided to share them here with all of you.

They don't have to be about love directly. I take them more as a set of general life rules for survival.

Current Mood: contemplative contemplative
Fickle [userpic]
Theme B, by Langston Hughes

Theme for English B

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

-Langston Hughes

Current Mood: sick sick
Fickle [userpic]
Pick up lines for feminists.

pick-up lines for feminists

Lesley Kartali

making the move

at the bar

the club

the pro-choice rally

or the conference

on women's rights

in the 21st century

is no easy task

for feminists

young and old.

how do you

subtly ask for digits

while still making it

perfectly clear

that you are fine

being alone

and are certainly

not buying into the idea

that women are worthless

without a significant other?

just remember to smile.

or not.

(depending on if you

feel like it)

and try some

of these lines

on for size:

if i could rearrange

the alphabet

i would put u and i


and then we could

work on trying

to think outside

of this male dominated


your paradigm or mine?

you're so sweet

you put hersheys

out of business.

so sweet

you can bring down

all those

bastard big businesses.

somebody better call


assorted goddesses/etc.

because he/she/gender neutral being

are missing an


*if atheist this line may not work

did it hurt?

when you fell

from the top

of the hierarchy

when society

identified you

as a woman?

pinch me.

with consent of course.

you are so

third wave

i must be dreaming.

where have you been

all my life?

hopefully fighting

against oppressive

patriarchal systems.

your feet must be tired.

because you have been

running through my

mind and struggling

against the repressive

gender roles

that we have been

socialized into

all day.

if the personal is political

then our getting together

has the potential

to subvert the patriarchy.

what's your sign?

radical? liberal?

socialist? cultural?


if these lines fail

don't worry.

it's probably just

because our

fascist media

has embedded

said pick-up line


with the idea

that you are a






just keep telling yourself.

if they haven't

started questioning

what society

tells them yet.

then maybe

they are not

the one

for you.

I am weirdly fond of this, even though I hate pick up lines in general. XD Maybe it's just because these amuse me with how twisted they are.

Fickle [userpic]
Genius Child, by Langston Hughes.

Genius Child.

This is a song for the genius child.
Sing it softly, for the song is wild.
Sing it softly as ever you can -
Lest the song get out of hand.

Nobody loves a genius child.

Can you love an eagle,
Tame or wild?
Can you love an eagle,
Wild or tame?
Can you love a monster
Of frightening name?

Nobody loves a genius child.

Kill him
- and let his soul run wild.

-- Langston Hughes

This is yet another poem I came across thanks to that anthology of poetry and adore.

It fits a lot of the characters that I like to RP; it hits me hard every time that I read it, imagining the command 'Kill him' being said in a whisper.

Fickle [userpic]
Inaugural post!


All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.

-- H. D.

Last, last spring, I found this poem in an anthology for a course on poetry that I was taking. I fell in love with it, wrote it out by hand multiple times to make sure that I would remember it, and now I'm reposting here for other people to read and adore. Helen, obviously, is Helen of Troy.

I have a thing for beautiful, painful poetry. Expect lots of it to be posted here while I'm backing up my livejournal. ♥

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