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Записи с темой: spoken word poetry (список заголовков)

laughs but is really sad inside.

lock Доступ к записи ограничен

laughs but is really sad inside.
Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра


laughs but is really sad inside.
я криворукий, кособокий
ни танцевать, ни петь, ни быть
я не могу
но эти строки
хотели жить

They said every admission of failure was a salvation from future breakdowns, but I've been broke for whole eternity and a few years after, and no one has told me that I was too young to be broke, to be down or to be sad, because nobody saw me. Every significant action makes you more visible, like helping local shelter is a code with opacity level, and you are a web designer developing a beautiful page for an advertisement campaign. As if you stole the cloak from poor Harry and he got punished for actions he didn't do. Society taught him how it works very early. It's that simple - be broke or broke someone else. Nobody cared if you were broken before. Nobody cared if your fists were red and bled. Red is a colour of the wine, and wine is a drink of winners, but you'd get only torn grape. Sometimes I scroll down my news feed and see how depressed everyone is over some silly things - wrong smartphone colour, or wrong chocolate flavour. I get up, forced, every morning to make sure I'll get worse at the end of the end. I am the cuts you leave on yourself so you could see that your body has some pigment inside it, it's not pale and monochrome, I am the whisper wrapped rapidly in a sort of prayer, so you could ask God about something without being forced to look in his eyes - surprisingly humanlike. '... And God made the beast of the earth after his kind and every thing that creepeth...' and them he made Adam and Eve, and Eve rebelled because that's what an enraged woman would do if you'll try to lock her up. I am the fist you thrust into the wall in a deliberate attempt to calm yourself; I am the blood running down your wall and living marks on all of the white shirts in your wardrobe as if those shirts were angel wings. But they are not, and you've got a geometry class to be on, so you change syllables and you get 'angle' because being sharp has always saved you from being hurt. I never was neither a product of bad parent care nor half care nor non-care, because I cared about myself, I cared to be dead and long gone. A hug is just an another attempt to hide your face, 'cause, really, 'liar, liar, cheeks on fire.' They said history is written with failures, but I didn't believe them. Because history is written with words, and I've become perfectly good with making them up from nowhere.

Yesterday I felt this strange half pain inside my stomach. It felt almost like someone stabbed me in a belly and then watched, calmly, how I bleed. Like every drop of my blood was a treasure and this someone needed to be sure I won't gave it all up to a stranger. As if my blood meant something. As if I meant something. Time is a suicide-bomber with whom you sit near in a subway. He trusts you with his dynamite, and you betray him because that's all you do - betray those you care about the most. He gave you his gun and asked 'Wouldn't you rather be dead?'. And then his bag, filled with explosives, detonated. You probably would rather be dead, but that's not your decision to make. You are a student loan given to your family, and you have no freedom whatsoever. Bled almost to death, I wore your skin yesterday. Sore skin, swallowed ankles, I wore your skin for the longest time. You had green eyes, so I wanted to beg your forgiveness. You had none. A fake clown's nose flowing red, feeding lies to those he welcomed in his house, learned to laugh and then tricked. I wore your skin yesterday, purple bruises flecked with yellow, filled with purity. I had no skin of mine, so I wore yours for the longest time. The feeling of safeness is measured not by how many police officers are outside your house watching the perimeter, but by the amount of numbers in your phone book you can call late night and ask to come, whatever the reason is. And by the amount of hands you can try to reach for silent support, but you rejected the first one and had no latter. I wanted to scream for you, to ask for one final look on me thrown rapidly in the dark, but I bled in the light of day, and you lived in another time zone. I spurted silently, while butterflies in my stomach hatched. They were spotless, and I was not.


@музыка: Somewhere Only We Know by Keane

@настроение: Every single one's got a story to tell, everyone knows about it from the Queen of England to the hounds of hell.

@темы: spoken word poetry, добро пожаловать на дно, литературщина, ноа купил себе маяк и остался там жить


laughs but is really sad inside.

lock Доступ к записи ограничен

laughs but is really sad inside.
Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра


laughs but is really sad inside.
я криворукий, кособокий
ни танцевать, ни петь, ни быть
я не могу
но эти строки
хотели жить

третий день слушаю песни Насти, потому что Настя прекрасна и это еще одна причина наконец-то вырваться в Питер. надеюсь, в этом году таки выйдет. Несколько дней назад Вита наконец убедила меня, что, возможно, мне нужна публикация. По крайней мере, хуже от этого точно не будет. наверное.

вроде бы столько лет уже пишу стихи, но на создание паблика мне понадобилось около полутора лет, на умение признаваться - еще семь месяцев, а теперь я, вот, учусь рассказывать людям, что, возможно, скоро выйдет мой сборник и люди, уезжая из Украины, смогут забрать с собой частицу меня.


почему я не могу нормально это сделать, почему мне обязательно нужно ебать себе самому мозг, а.

х х х
они привыкли смотреть на все сверху,
мол, вот он мой глаз, и он драгоценен,
и каждый мой "тык" он, конечно же,
пальцем в небо,
но от него на озере расползутся круги
и от них разойдется по лесу эхо.

дичь не гонится за охотником
в поисках страшной мсти,
хвост не рвется обратно
к оторванной ящерице,

все в природе находится в равновесии,
кроме людей.

кроме людей.
ведь эти люди давно мертвы.

@темы: лехаим, конфликт отцов и поколений всегда был развит у тюленей, добро пожаловать на дно, spoken word poetry, литературщина, ноа купил себе маяк и остался там жить


laughs but is really sad inside.
It's 'Just A Phase'.

I still do not understand Tumblr.

@темы: синематека, саймон говорит, копипаста, spoken word poetry, in vino veritas


laughs but is really sad inside.
это пост любви к такому чудесному человеку, музыканту и spoken word poetry исполнителю - George Watsky.
x x x

дедлайны: у тебя 27го числа презентация проекта, иди пиши (переписывай сначала) работу.
я: а может?
дедлайны: даже не думай!
я: *пишет фичок*.
я: *смотрит финалы кубков по скалолазанию*.
я: *смотрит 3 сезона готэма залпом*.
я: *ночами задротит в интернет*.
я: *откапывает очень много поетри референсес*.
я: *разыскивает все эти референсес по просторам интернетика*.
я: *спит по пятнадцать часов в сутки*.


@темы: синематека, саймон говорит, литературщина, копипаста, без заглавных букв, spoken word poetry


laughs but is really sad inside.

х х х

я из самого южного города, где путь к себе
обретается в понимании, что ты есть единственно лишний
гость на этом празднике жизни.

@темы: сидирум, литературщина, копипаста, без заглавных букв, spoken word poetry


laughs but is really sad inside.

An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It's thinking of love.
It's thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.

Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover's face into the motel wall. I like him
and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
I'm sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.

He had green eyes,
so I wanted to sleep with him
green eyes flicked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool.
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
The fact of his pulse,
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire
not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.
You could drown in those eyes, I said,
so it's summer, so it's suicide,
so we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

It wasn't until we were well past the middle of it
that we realized
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
far from being subverted,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
replete with tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes
and not the doorway we had hoped for.
His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker that before,
scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.

We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
as the road around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass
already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of
But damn if there isn't anything sexier
than a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills.

What would you like? I'd like my money's worth.
Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this--
swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
We pull our boots on with both hands
but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do
is stand on the curb and say Sorry
about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

['Richard Siken].

@темы: саймон говорит, ноа купил себе маяк и остался там жить, литературщина, копипаста, без заглавных букв, spoken word poetry


last night another soldier.

laughs but is really sad inside.

laughs but is really sad inside.
опубликованный вчера вечером стих уже набрал 18 лойсов.
восемнадцать лойсов, карл.
у меня в паблике самые удачные редко когда набирают по 15, да и не гонюсь я за лойсами - не для этого пишу, но сам факт! понимаете, я немного, кажется, учусь мочь в рифму и у меня получается, впервые действительно получается и нравится самому себе.
стоило, блин, три с лишним года тратить на поиски своего стиля, если вот, он, совсем рядом, и за ним вообще никак бегать не надо, нужно лишь словить за юркий хвост мысль, нужное настроение - и пальцы сами знают, какие именно клавиши на клавиатуре им нужны.

@музыка: зимовье зверей - снова в космос

@темы: литературщина, лехаим, добро пожаловать на дно, spoken word poetry, ноа купил себе маяк и остался там жить


как перестать форсить бо бернема и начать жить.

laughs but is really sad inside.
I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,
the point is I hanged myself today and I'm still

I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that
someone will come home and cut me down
but then I keep remembering that if I knew
someone like that I wouldn't be up here. Bit
ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read
somewhere that, like, anything funny is,
in some way, ironic. But I don't know if it's
funny or not. I don't think my brain owns
"funny", you know?

I feel taller. I like that.
I've never been away from my shadow for
this long. It had always clung to my feet,
parting momentarily for a quick dive into
the swimming pool. But never for five
hours. I like it. There's three feet of space
between my two and the floor.
I wanted something this morning. I may be
stuck. But at least I'm three feet closer to it."
- Bo Burnham, Egghead: Or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

x x x

@темы: саймон говорит, в нашем шапито страшно и темно, spoken word poetry


laughs but is really sad inside.

x x x
i think about the meaning of my life again
i'm trying to do right but hey
something is lost.
х х х
я написал черным перманентным маркером на своих запястьях "помогите, я задыхаюсь",
надеясь, что кто-нибудь это увидит, что кто-нибудь это заметит, что кто-нибудь мне поможет.

я стал совершенно непризнанным мастером в скрывании от себя же своих проблем, я каждое утро пытался
собрать это чертово слово "счастье" из бросивших меня людей, но каждое утро я продолжал утыкаться в
заколоченную, запертую на ключ и все замки, дверь, но каждое утро я продолжал спотыкаться об угол
табуретки, оставленной посреди кухни как напоминание

о том,
что пора бы что-нибудь сделать, перестать жить по шахматной системе,
надеясь, что троекратное повторение одного и того же хода поможет мне завершить игру.

как бы не так.

я стал совершенно не тем человеком, которым мечтал стать, которого описывал во всех
своих "письмах в будущее" и "ту-ду-листах", мне кажется, мой безмолвный друг, я совсем-совсем
перестал чего-то хотеть, о чем-то мечтать, даже углы моей комнаты
разочаровались во мне.

мы сидели впятером, но четверо из нас мечтали
бы в это время быть где-нибудь в другом месте.

да что там, я и сам бы, пожалуй, не будь я вынужден,
бросил бы самого себя, ведь все рубиконы пройдены,
оставлены позади, остался самый последний - оставить тебя,
кажется, даже не подозревающего о моем существовании,

одного в этом мире.

я не был способен на этот шаг, увы.

@темы: в нашем шапито страшно и темно, копипаста, spoken word poetry

a place to stay.