Julia Smith on Making profit off of poetry
2 hours ago
gracefully i perch on the edge of the bus seat,
so as to convey my feminine, my eyelashes.
each time the doors open my posture rushes to fix itself,
my fringe blown out by my hands running through it.
when i'm most worn out,
on the days when the world is dragging its feet,
when my joints tingle with pins and needles.
to look pretty on the edge of a bus seat is a fufillin...
Saturday 2nd July 2022 10:10 pm
floating in that acrid pool of nothingness,
a feather kissed the tip of my nose and whispered softly over my face.
in that moment, decided.
i watch the village of women who surround me each day,
awash with a soft awe at their mossy eyes and woolen hands.
i link arms with the girl i love most on a late night walk,
running from the boy who asked me to give apart of myself.
Monday 20th June 2022 3:08 pm
she died on the bathroom floor you know.
a cut on her ribs.
the rib borne from man,
killed the girl on the bathroom floor.
no one had kindness. no one had words of condolences.
only four pictures and a note,
only they proved someones love for her.
the things that made her beautiful,
an innocence lost,
a bleach blonde tangle,
and a vicious lover from a doomed...
Monday 6th June 2022 6:36 pm
on the day i decorated one side of my wall,
there was a statue that fell with a crash,
and cratered the ground.
a statue whos golden plaque was read aloud to me as a child.
and on the day i decorated one side of my wall,
with the movie quotes,
and the pretty people,
on that day my eyes bruised themselves silly.
my pockets full of hours, and grief.
non violent pu...
Friday 3rd June 2022 11:16 pm
i'm choosing to forget the stick and poke image,
of myself in my head.
my likeness is one i want to be liked.
the stick and poke is immature and elementary.
think your high school aquaintance,
who always wanted a tattoo.
but 15 was still too young.
so they mutilated the innocent skin of their thighs.
the mutliated image of my body, my face, my ugly wretched soul
Thursday 2nd June 2022 3:42 pm
to feel as if one has emerged from a cloud of dust each time they wake, has to mean a great deal.
it's what's on your mind, as you duet with the girl on the other side of your headphones.
it must feel like the brightening of the day, the singing of the earliest bird, the sweat after the fight.
at least this is what you think to yourself.
for you it means to be able to run two steps ...
Sunday 29th May 2022 9:29 pm
who wants the teenage girl
sitting on her rustled bedsheets.
stained tshirt, stained tear tracks.
smiling, cooing and ooing at the people on the tv.
blushing when he kisses the girl she wants to be.
or when she sits alone in the cinema, grinning.
toothy smiles, outrageous laughs
too loud even for the rest.
seeing the best film in the world.
then another best film in the world.
Saturday 28th May 2022 10:34 pm
love feels like cold jealousy.
sitting across from one another.
the table could be worlds and oceans.
i sting with furious stomach churning envy.
snakes and beetles scurrying between my legs.
closed and rotten now i know what i do.
she is so much younger than i,
the times my time was always first,
no longer exists.
she broke a cycle as old as i, and therefor
as old as my time.
Saturday 28th May 2022 10:30 pm
teeth whitening strips.
water on a bathroom floor muddied with muttered songs.
cans of who and why on a windowsill.
forehead sweat. made to stick fringes.
quick to anger. founded in a parent not so unlike.
jerking awake. jolting asleep. comfort nul.
calm mornings when the sun alarms.
evil feelings when green and yellow lie dormant.
stuttered uttered eye contac...
Saturday 28th May 2022 10:26 pm
Some mornings when I write poetry I count syllables
the banal topic seeps down the page my banal
life is not earth-shaking, inspirational
What is inspirational? Traveling into space,
singing on stage, brain surgeons
making lots of money?
These things won’t happen. I continue to write
my life seeping down the page.
Sunday 10th April 2022 5:24 am
I'm a writer not a poet
Sometimes my writing seems like a poem
But that is because I have no control over my self expression
I pour my soul into words
I don't spend time observing the shape they take
Sometimes they might rhyme
Sometimes they might come as stanzas not as paragraphs
But I'm not a poet, I am a writer.
You say but a poet is a writer
I do not dispute that observation
Sunday 2nd January 2022 9:51 am