Bits of Tumblr brilliance I want to highlight. Poetry and prose that amuses me, or rattles my cages.

- Savage Henry Lee, of



who used to cup my words in his lips  

like they were teardrops

when my eyes could no longer cry

who undressed my veil  

spoke of the truth from what he found

in the mute heart that laid inside

who claimed to have read every word

and said something as simple

as ‘You have written an awful lot today,

are you sure you’re okay ?’

and how every phrase

fits you like a casket

meant for your heart  .  .  . 

Nebulosa Laguna


Shone brightly
long since
being kind -

darkness empty
secrets are hidden by
face undefined

Comet eyes
& hunger yet
to brighten
darker planets -

Earth eyes
foam fills
the mystery
of sullen tubs

She is space
not absence
not cheap puns
‘waiting to be filled’-

He is ocean
full of longing
to misplace waters
empty himself
into oblivion

She consumes the
demon voids
that feast on hearts
with lesser hungers
than the ones
of less hot heat
or less bright light

He stifles the urge
to retreat
holds his heart as
an offering
with the hope that
her break
will be sweet

-collaboration between notesfromtheunprofound (standard text) and wednesdayshambles(italics).

Maybe, just maybe.


Maybe, I haven’t responded,

because I find you to be a bore,

your rants about American history,

put me to sleep,

and the way you eat,

makes me want to scream.

Maybe, I haven’t responded,

because I find my skin crawling as you type,

and even more when you speak.

here’s a thought,

ask about me?

Maybe, I haven’t responded,

because you pissed me off,

within the first five seconds,

as my father stood at the door,

waiting for a hello, maybe something more.

while I slide into your front seat wanting to die.

Maybe, I haven’t responded  

because you don’t mean a thing to me,

one stupid hour and a half date,

(oh I counted the seconds, let’s get that straight),

does not bind me to you,

trust me I’m running,

to the hills and the mountains,

don’t expect a reply,

because you and I,

are not going to fly.


The blinds are closed
The blinkers are on

The place is here
And it is quiet

Too small for

Too small for


witches sagging honey moon.
seas wet mouth suckling dime store romance.
a voyeur closes his eyes across the street.
for once a fairy tale ending in climax.
listen as the carousel marches through limp mountains.
where snowy white gumdrops smooth out rocky voices.
it is here.
it is here.
but to stay?

Electrum Procella


You don’t look like much, all moon skin and bleached bones. With wolf eyes, amber eyes, ochroid eyes, that see everything and miss nothing. And you can’t possibly hold that much under your skin, can’t possibly be the earth quake inked into veins like you warn them you are. They don’t see you as a threat, and you’re not normally. Normally you’re all sharp words and idle chatter. Your not strong enough to hurt someone with fists so you learned early on how to use your words, so they don’t take you seriously, how could they? But you’ve known, known for a while now, that you have the potential to cause pain, to torture, to inflict agony unto someone if they dared to harm those you love. You saw it in yourself from the beginning, even if no one else did. That’s what makes you dangerous you decide, because you don’t look it. You look soft and warm. Sanctuary, asylum, your friends call you. But you know that you are storming and thundering, all lighting and fire. You have lived your life as the quiet before the storm and it’s been brewing, brewing since the say you’re father told you your mother wasn’t coming home, since they day he picked up the bottle and you forced him to put it down, since the panic attacks and the diagnosis, since the woods and the body and the bite and that full, dripping, gibbous moon that still waits for you in the night when you can’t help but feel the guilt, since the first time you were slammed against a wall and beaten just close enough to death so that you could still limp away and no one came to save you or bothered to ask about the bruises, since your best friend, who you have tried so hard to keep from growing up because you were already grown up yourself and you knew that there was nothing fun about being an adult, started to become a man, since bruised boys that healed with golden eyes, since blue and red became fixtures in your nightmares, since the metal of blood became just another smell, since the lies and your father’s disappointed smile, since the night on that field and her wrist and her blood and your love, since a molotov cocktail in your hand and the flames when it left, since insomnia and the something in your head that isn’t you, since darkness, since death and the never ending chaos pouring down on you from this cloud soaked sky. And now the storm is upon you, raging black like death, and they will pay, pay with their lives and their blood, there can be no other way. Not for them, not for you, because humanity is sometimes its own worst nightmare, as you once told the man who came back from the ashes of your fire, and monsters don’t need claws or a bloody maw. Because that is what you are. A monster, and they can’t stop you, can’t stop this tempest that shakes the Earth and cracks the sky, and as someone once told you, you’re a natural disaster cloaked in thin skin and it doesn’t take much for a human hyde to split and spill forth all that was contained. There is a reason for your honeyed eyes, because lightning can’t hide forever, and when you were little your mother once told you that electrum meant amber and you hid the heart beat of storms in your eyes. You’ve always been a monsoon and now everyone is bending in the wake of your gales.

(Source: welcome2thegoondocks)


As far as comedy goes, I started doing

relentlessly ugly improv

with these really heady modernists

It’s just so repetitious

it takes on the air of someone

self-flagellating themselves

I would dig writing for television

about unthinkable tragedies every day

or some brand name beer

Teenage Jesus goes on a road trip

with his family to (surprise!) California

Sorry to be so negative about the world

I honestly don’t think I’d heard

of the rapture until a few moments ago

My grandmother lays snoring in her hospital bed


My grandmother
Lays snoring
In her hospital bed
It’s a foreign place
With her foriegn gown
Foreign pillows
And even foreign dreams
But nothing foreign
Could be said
About the sound of her

(via inkeddiaries)

Constant Whereabouts


Paradoxical aversions
Put off conversation
From privileged look-a-likes
Reciting written attempts
On undiscovered projects
Inevitably a day under way

Adding new hues of red
Between cherry blossom trees
Caught on traffic stop signs
Readable for reasonable
Obscenities inbred reactions

Bold with a hold on doldrums
Insignificant buy outs sold
Thrown up knockings upon
Crumbling egos strewn
Alien thoughts threatening

Frightened eye processors held
Up by unpredictable lies suggesting
Convictions of quiet presence
As anti-riotous reactions sampled
The best of reasonable seasons

Enabling proactive answers
Unsettled ignorant dreams
Fixed around bad hair days
On street cornered dares
Diverting stares as the sun sets


The Fear of Loneliness


His favorite color was blue. Her favorite color was red. His favorite color was red.

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