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clare | michigan

a simple blog full of beautiful writing
(possibly other things too)
“So wherever you are I hope you’re happy
I really do
I hope the stars are kissing your cheeks tonight
I hope you finally found a way to quit smoking
I hope your lungs are open and breathing your life
I hope there’s a kite in your hand
that’s flying all the way up to orion
and you still got a thousand yards of string to let out
I hope you’re smiling
like god is pulling at the corners of your mouth
cause I might be naked and lonely
shaking branches for bones
but I’m still time zones away
from who I was the day before we met
you were the first mile
where my heart broke a sweat
and I wish you were here
I wish you’d never left
but mostly I wish you well
I wish you my very very best”
Andrea Gibson (via jennacavett)


i. I count the rotations of the
ceiling fan (one, two, three)
and then the moments of
silence when the crickets
chirping inside my chest have
fallen asleep.

ii. It’s not the same as
counting the rise and
fall of your chest.

iii. I count my beating heart.
(Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.)

iv. All it screams is:
"You’re gone, you’re
gone, you’re gone.”


“People tell me just to be happy.”


People tell me just to be happy.”



The first time we met I looked at you with
flying saucer eyes and tried to apologize
for the space I took up.

I have seen your eyes stop and
wander over the mountains of me
that are really just moles and the
scars that travel down my breasts
and up my thighs like evidence
of a lightning…



I sometimes write
your name in my tears

to remind myself even tears
can be things of joy,

that every time I yawn
and my eyes water

it means that soon
I will be dreaming of you,

that at my lowest,
I still have you to get high off of,

that if I’ve nothing else
I’ve your name to keep me company,

and your name alone
is enough to so brighten my heart

that it will be a beacon
guiding you home, to me.

I would never stop smiling if a guy looked at me that way…




mmsksksksskidj ahh

Jean-Baptiste Maunier (thank you google)

I would never stop smiling if a guy looked at me that way…




mmsksksksskidj ahh

Jean-Baptiste Maunier (thank you google)

“I mistook the butt of a joint for your mouth last Saturday and you’re all I can taste since then. You’d kept me drugged for a year on sleepy morning kisses and the rut and grind of pitch-black midnights, and I was so damn happy with you that it was hard to breathe. Now it’s the smoke I’m choking on, not soft I love yous murmured after dark, and, God, this was never where I wanted to end up, baby, not this frigid silence and hazy heartbreak. I’m making love to the phone now, holding it like I used to hold you, murmuring things like please, please, I goddamn miss you to your empty voicemail inbox. I’ve already forgotten what your voice sounds like, the only noise I know when someone says your name is the click of a door locking the day you left – for the last time. I wish your last word wasn’t ‘goodbye,’ not when I was still hoping to fall asleep next to you every night.
You were always jealous of my past lover – you couldn’t curl through my lungs like she did – but you shouldn’t have been, because you were the one I was planning the rest of my life with, and I’m fucking sorry that I kissed her again last week, just one more time, because you caught me with the lighter in my hand and I have never heard uglier words than ‘How fucking dare you’ and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Come back, baby, please. We’ll open the windows to air out the smell of smoke and make love on the worn wooden floor and I promise I will never look at a joint like it is something to be loved again. I’m getting delirious in my withdrawal, and last night I dreamt you were never coming back to me. I nearly burnt the house down with my careless fingers and lonely death lust – come back, baby, I need my fix. Come home.”
I’d Rather Kiss You Than This Broken Smoke | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

Don’t do what all the other little buggers are doing.

Don’t try to make the poem look pretty. You’re not decorating 
cupcakes, Cupcake.

Don’t think you’re the only bastard who ever suffered — just write as if  you were.

Don’t eat someone else’s lunch. For eat read steal. For lunch read wife. For wife read style.

Don’t be any form’s bitch.

Don’t think if  you cheat on form or slip the meter, no one will notice. They’ll know and think you a fool. Don’t think it impossible to cheat on form. If you do it well, they’ll think you a genius.

Don’t think if  you declare yourself avant-garde, your sins will be 

Don’t blubber if  you never receive prizes. Look at the poets who won the Pulitzer fifty years ago. See who’s there. See who’s not.

Don’t think you’re special. Stand in a library amid all those poets who thought they were every inch the genius you think you are.

Don’t double-space your lines and think the poem better. It just takes up more room.

Don’t think regret is 20/20. Regret is myopic. Hope is astigmatic. Trust is blind.

Don’t think what you have to say is important. The way you say it is what’s important. What you have to say is rubbish.

Don’t think you don’t have to read. You read in order to steal. Read more, steal better.

Don’t think your poems are good because they sound good read aloud. Get your hearing checked.

Never write poems about poetry.

Don’t play to the audience. Your audience is full of dopes, cheeseballs, and Johnny-come-latelies — besides, they’re laughing at you all the way home.

Don’t think you’ve been anointed by early success. Look at the critical darlings of a hundred years ago. Look at the darlings of twenty years ago.

Never wish you were there. Wish you were here.

Don’t think you can ignore grammar. You need grammar more than grammar needs you.

Never eat the pie if  you can own the fork.

Don’t think new is better. Don’t think new is not better. Don’t think, read. Don’t think, ink.

Poetry is the nude that stays nude.

Never write the first line if you already know the last. The best poem is the unwritten poem.

Don’t break the window before you look at the view.

Don’t think that if you have two manuscripts, you have two manuscripts. You have one manuscript.

Don’t eat jargon, because you’ll shit jargon.

Don’t think poetry is a religion. It’s more important than religion.

William Logan, “The Nude that Stays Nude” (via larmoyante)
© MS