melissahem:

Original Poem Here

Poetry reading of “Resuscitate


I’d love to paint
With your words
Like blood spilled
From heart
Cut lip
Fresh bite
Raw wounds and
Salty strifes
Licking life
With those lips
Living like
Interminable infatuations
Inimitable ice
Endless eyes
Wandering wise
Wondering why’s
Pandering, pent up frustration.
Loving in lies.
Kissing, surmise
A thought
Kindness belies.
Clinging sunrise
a thought.
Transient tries.
Tan on the beach
Warmth in the cry
Tears dry
Salty seas
Sandy beach
Arm’s reach
Endlessly
Crash in me
Then recede
Pull me in
Then exceed
Overwhelm and
Then impede
Imposed on me
Composing me
Like writing words
Of bitter needs
And better deeds.
I’d better leave.
Shut these lips
Before I breathe
Another word
To implicate.
Just rescue me.
Breathe into me.
Resuscitate.

(Reblogged from melissahem)

Rejection

irrationalgraceistaken:

     You’re a loser Robert, a voice he didn’t recognize emerged from his mind, but it sounded like it came from the walls and underneath the floor.  It wasn’t a New Orleans voice, full of raspy innuendo or loving encouragement.  No.  
    It was the voice of the critic.  You went to college, it said, and wrote a novel.  You got divorced, and wrote a novel.  You drove to Denver and wrote a novel.  Now you’re living part time in New Orleans and what have you got to show for it?
     Before email, he would receive rejections in the mail.  Short, impersonal statements wishing him luck finding publication elsewhere.  Where else?  The list of literary agencies seemed endless.  He put his head down at the desk, wondering why rejection felt so alien, yet so familiar.  He laid down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.  He looked at the newspaper’s classified ads section for jobs.  The room shrank.  The future was somewhere else, a maze of choices, walls graffitied with sacred rituals no one had ever taught him, parables spoken in code, holy water burning with abandonment.  He read Jack Kerouac at twilight and his ex-wife told him to go to graduate school.  Instead, he hit the road.

(Reblogged from irrationalgraceistaken)

Rejection

irrationalgraceistaken:

     You’re a loser Robert, a voice he didn’t recognize emerged from his mind, but it sounded like it came from the walls and underneath the floor.  It wasn’t a New Orleans voice, full of raspy innuendo or loving encouragement.  No.  
    It was the voice of the critic.  You went to college, it said, and wrote a novel.  You got divorced, and wrote a novel.  You drove to Denver and wrote a novel.  Now you’re living part time in New Orleans and what have you got to show for it?
     Before email, he would receive rejections in the mail.  Short, impersonal statements wishing him luck finding publication elsewhere.  Where else?  The list of literary agencies seemed endless.  He put his head down at the desk, wondering why rejection felt so alien, yet so familiar.  He laid down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.  He looked at the newspaper’s classified ads section for jobs.  The room shrank.  The future was somewhere else, a maze of choices, walls graffitied with sacred rituals no one had ever taught him, parables spoken in code, holy water burning with abandonment.  He read Jack Kerouac at twilight and his ex-wife told him to go to graduate school.  Instead, he hit the road.

(Reblogged from irrationalgraceistaken)
(Reblogged from vintageanchorbooks)

Rejection

irrationalgraceistaken:

     You’re a loser Robert, a voice he didn’t recognize emerged from his mind, but it sounded like it came from the walls and underneath the floor.  It wasn’t a New Orleans voice, full of raspy innuendo or loving encouragement.  No.  
    It was the voice of the critic.  You went to college, it said, and wrote a novel.  You got divorced, and wrote a novel.  You drove to Denver and wrote a novel.  Now you’re living part time in New Orleans and what have you got to show for it?
     Before email, he would receive rejections in the mail.  Short, impersonal statements wishing him luck finding publication elsewhere.  Where else?  The list of literary agencies seemed endless.  He put his head down at the desk, wondering why rejection felt so alien, yet so familiar.  He laid down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.  He looked at the newspaper’s classified ads section for jobs.  The room shrank.  The future was somewhere else, a maze of choices, walls graffitied with sacred rituals no one had ever taught him, parables spoken in code, holy water burning with abandonment.  He read Jack Kerouac at twilight and his ex-wife told him to go to graduate school.  Instead, he hit the road.

(Reblogged from irrationalgraceistaken)
(Reblogged from abigailmott)

Rejection

     You’re a loser Robert, a voice he didn’t recognize emerged from his mind, but it sounded like it came from the walls and underneath the floor.  It wasn’t a New Orleans voice, full of raspy innuendo or loving encouragement.  No.  
    It was the voice of the critic.  You went to college, it said, and wrote a novel.  You got divorced, and wrote a novel.  You drove to Denver and wrote a novel.  Now you’re living part time in New Orleans and what have you got to show for it?
     Before email, he would receive rejections in the mail.  Short, impersonal statements wishing him luck finding publication elsewhere.  Where else?  The list of literary agencies seemed endless.  He put his head down at the desk, wondering why rejection felt so alien, yet so familiar.  He laid down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.  He looked at the newspaper’s classified ads section for jobs.  The room shrank.  The future was somewhere else, a maze of choices, walls graffitied with sacred rituals no one had ever taught him, parables spoken in code, holy water burning with abandonment.  He read Jack Kerouac at twilight and his ex-wife told him to go to graduate school.  Instead, he hit the road.

Neil

irrationalgraceistaken:

Robert was an outsider from Florida, couldn’t identify night blooming jasmine or name any krewes from Carnival season, but New Orleans seemed to welcome all kinds of outsiders.  He had met Neil by chance at a poetry reading in a run down theater on St. Claude a year ago.  They were both trying to impress the same lady, an emotionally scarred, racially mixed songstress who could see two overzealous, emotionally stunted sexaholics coming a mile away.  She casually dismissed them both.  They bonded over shots of whiskey and plotting the demise of social media.  They recognized the significance of the Internet as a tool, but the egalitarian frothing over the latest faux hipster iPhone was baffling to them.  Buying a smartphone doesn’t make anyone free, Robert had argued to more than one random female in a bar, buying a smartphone makes you a slave.

(Reblogged from irrationalgraceistaken)

Neil

Robert was an outsider from Florida, couldn’t identify night blooming jasmine or name any krewes from Carnival season, but New Orleans seemed to welcome all kinds of outsiders.  He had met Neil by chance at a poetry reading in a run down theater on St. Claude a year ago.  They were both trying to impress the same lady, an emotionally scarred, racially mixed songstress who could see two overzealous, emotionally stunted sexaholics coming a mile away.  She casually dismissed them both.  They bonded over shots of whiskey and plotting the demise of social media.  They recognized the significance of the Internet as a tool, but the egalitarian frothing over the latest faux hipster iPhone was baffling to them.  Buying a smartphone doesn’t make anyone free, Robert had argued to more than one random female in a bar, buying a smartphone makes you a slave.