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claire Apr 2015
i. Allow yourself to be clichéd. Forgive yourself the comparison to phenomena like stars, tsunamis, volcanoes, and the end of the world.  There is no shame in depicting the galaxies you see in your irises or the seas crashing in your lungs. Don’t for a minute diminish your words because you’re afraid of seeming larger, lovelier, or grander than you really are. Keep writing huge. Keep writing splendorous.

ii. Destroy the anxiety gap between you and your work. Sit down and write whatever’s filling you in that moment. When stupidity comes, embrace it. When unoriginality comes, offers it your deepest welcome. When panic comes, give it a wink and keep dragging your pen across the page. There is no wrong, no right. There is only Something. Do not label the Something in such stark, dull terms as good or bad. If you must label it, label it burning, label it victorious, scarlet, howling, fresh, moving, disastrous, gleaming, but never reduce it to success or non-success. Who are you to determine these things? How can you take what streams out of you and cram it into a superficially constructed box? Would you degrade any other kind of natural release? Would you relegate blood flow or shouting or tears to a simple one-word title? This is your time to glow in full vulnerability, to fall head over heels for every blundering, beautiful thought within you, so build a bridge between you and the paper that will be strong enough to bear your weight. Then cross it.

iii. Know who you are writing for. It should be yourself, not the one who holds your heart or the fire-faced figure in the park at dusk or people who make your soul twist. Write for brave, bruised you; wondering, powerful you. Always you.

iv. Rise above the need to match your creation to a preordained image in your mind. The two will never be the same and this is fine. Accept whatever you produce with tender detachment, then move forward. Remember that every literary icon has felt the same pounding dissatisfaction, and walked about tugging at their hair, frustrated and abashed. Remember they are no closer to divinity than you. Ultimately, we are all just shells through which a greater ocean sings, so let yours wail its melody as it likes.

v. Write without the tight egoic fist; write without a blueprint; write without fear. Write like it is your first day on earth and you are stunned with awe. Write like the caterpillar bursting from its cocoon, transformed, breathless. Write like that.
Thomas EG Apr 2015
I'm no good at this...
No good at this at all.
I'm not ready,
I never will be.
I wanted independence,
Not neglect.
I feel really, really alone tonight...
Vulnerability at its finest.
Sweet, sweet pain.
Salty, salty tears.
1 year, 178 days sober.
I congratulate myself.
Last night was great,
In the glow of the moonlight,
To the rush of the waves...
The ocean waved at me...
And she smiled.
What a smile she has.
I need to quit,
I never will quit.
With a sigh,
I disappear into myself.
Who knows when I'll come out?
Who knows when I will be okay?
I better be okay, one day...
I'm sad :)
Isabelle Perla Mar 2015
Like a child's first steps, I begin to trust, rely and give in.
Later on there will be hard times; I will fall on the ground.
I'll become vulnerable and childlike,
and need the assurance of a helping hand.
We need those first steps,
while it's exciting and new,
before we are jaded and unwilling
And we sit down.
Javi Claycombe Mar 2015
The man with the hand that is uncomfortable to hold
It is rough and sharp with no feeling really at all
Except for that spot where he trimmed at the nail
Not again he says, no no, not my nail

The clippers he used that went too deep
He only intended to keep appearances neat
To be seen like the man with the hand of a soldier
Broken and beaten, but with a veil placed over

So no one will know that he still feels pain
He grabs course rock and weilds hot flame
Forging the hand that belongs to a man
To be hard and tough this is his plan

But in that spot where he trimmed at the nail
The fire is too hot and the rocks painful
They scratch and burn at his sensitive skin
He stares at the spot where is nail should've been

Its the first true pain since he scared his skin
Remembering the hand that belonged to a boy
Comfortable to hold, gentle to touch
Able to feel every tickel and rush

His hand is too rough to touch the skin
The skin of a boy that once had been
Afraid of the pain before he hardened
He stares at the boy he cannot uncover

Unable to sooth
Unable to love
This hand is uncomfortable
Too hard and too rough

The hand of man that can't feel enough
I find myself stuck.
Unsure if what I told you
Was a mistake.
Unsure if you really don't
Think less of me.
If you're just saying that so as not to upset me.
Oh well.
I can't change what I've done.
Aseh Feb 2015
she's not perfection
she's big lips and eyes and sometimes people thin theirs at her in skepticism and dislike because of how she moves and smirks but
she's not perfection
she's awkward inside and self-deprecating
she's always afraid she's not quite right, off-kilter, buried far too deeply in her own misperceptions
she's not clean
she's tried every dangerous experiment offered to her, and
sometimes she feels like she's given too much of herself away,
because she wasn't sure what was important
enough to keep.

she's far from perfection, she's tainted
and she feels
a deeper emptiness than anyone could guess,
even though she will take the time
to heat her hair in perfect curls
and pick out the outfit that fits just right so that no one notices
the hurt inside and if she layers on the makeup to look natural so her eyes don't look so tired, she'll look brighter and smarter and less fazed and then maybe she'll appear to be closer to
the perfection that she's not,
cause she's a wounded deer, vulnerable and broken apart
and longing for the happy family she never had
trying to create her own reality
amongst all this vast and amazing
chaos....
aren't we all?
Lia Feb 2015
her eyes look small and watery red
now without the thick black eyeliner and false lashes
she seems so naked
Aria of Midnight Jan 2015
Do you miss me?

An absent voice, a faded smile,
two red-rimmed eyes
that avoid your own;

A heart that once opened,
a beautiful, elegant vulnerability,
now solidified into stone.

Or maybe
you haven't noticed
anything wrong.
This one semi-rhymes with the last verse of each stanza. Not going to lie, I'm quite proud of that. ;)
Jeff Holland Jan 2015
When I stood behind her
In that mirror in her room,
We made a handsome coupling,
Just to us, or one, or two.
I loved her quiet beauty
And how she held herself.
I loved how she was whole,
And how she walked
With an unsure ease.

I miss her.
Sombro Jan 2015
Hello again.
Oh god, not you.
Me, but does it matter. Do you still care?
No.
Walk with me, lend me your thought.
Very well.

I am born again and you feel the same as past days.
I do.
Vulnerability is a new form of life.
For you.
And you are scared again.
And you are with me.

Does it frighten you, how far you've come?
Yes, where has time gone?
Into me, I am always with you.
My one friend,
Together* Together.
Shall we sink as one?
Of course.

How many days lost into your huddled fear?
Enough to make me strong.
And you are here to tell me all is lost?
I am here to offer you that choice.
I don't want it.

I have come too far for you, I have grown too tall, seen too much, outran you more times than you let on, you are no longer a match for me.
Do you feel brave?
You know I don't, ever,
But I feel ready.

You will need me
When you lose all
And truth is laid bare
You will need me
And I will be here
To **** you in
To steal you back,
Mine,
My very own

Property.
A conversation with a past me, a side I like to avoid. This poem may seem a little insane, sorry about that :)
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