Your Writings Are Addictive

Your writings are addictive

Praying for your recovery.

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literaryvein

1 year ago

Detail of "The Garden of Adonis - Amoretta and Time" by John Dickson Batten (English, 1860-1932)

The 7 Wonders

I wonder how many more poems
are standing in the way
between now and the day I die.

I wonder if the sickness is our bodies fighting back.
Often we hear about people fighting for their lives,
but we are here too—the ones fighting for their deaths.

Room C-30. I wonder how many people have died here.
How many wept.
How many threw up on this bed.
And if this mattress is the same mattress or
if they threw that one out.

I wonder if it would be considered betrayal, to my younger self,
if at any point in the near future, I don’t kill myself.
I think this means I’ve outlived myself.
Maybe one day I’ll write something about that.

I wonder which words haven’t been put together
before I put them together and were they better off apart?

I wonder what it’s like to be there.
To be the one telling everyone that you’re gone.
To hold your hand until it grew too cold to the touch.

I wonder if I’ll ever forget you
or if I’ll die before I do.

- L. V.

L. V., i found this poem at the beginning of a rainbow

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literaryvein

11 months ago

Detail of "Next to Opera Theater, Etude"
by: Petros Malayan, 1954

There’s a street lamp in my neighbourhood that’s broken

not because it doesn’t light the sidewalk at night

but because it does so in the light of day too—

L. V., i found this poem bathing in moonlight

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literaryvein

8 months ago

stop asking the universe how somebody could possibly love you

Boulevard Montmartre Spring (Detail)
Camille Pissarro, 1897

L. V., i found this poem as i reread plath's novel for the 7th time

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literaryvein

7 months ago

“I see black light.” –Victor Hugo
“…the fog is rising.” –Emily Dickinson
“Now, I shall go to sleep.” –Lord Byron
“Goodnight, my kitten!” –Ernest Hemingway told Mary, his wife, before he, “put the end of the barrel into his mouth, pulled the trigger and blew out his brains.” When the authorities arrived, Mary was sedated and taken to the hospital. It “did not seem to her a conscious lie” when she told the press that his death had been accidental.
“I can’t sleep.” –J. M. Barrie
“…thank God it has come!” –John Keats

—found poetry, in writers’ last words
poem found by: L. V.

a frankenstein poem from writers' last words
edited by L. V.

No one told me good night would be your last words to me. If only I knew. I would have stretched that conversation longer. I wouldn’t have let you close your eyes. I would have pried your mouth open with my teeth until your blood coloured me all over and I would carry you with me everywhere for a lifetime. I will be stained with you for a lifetime. And people will look at me, and they will ask things like, where did all the blood come from? And I wouldn’t know what to say so I’ll just give them a smile or a chuckle, and a shrug. And they will say things like, it doesn’t matter. It brings out the colour in your eyes. And I’ll wonder for a lifetime what they meant by that. - L. V.

I’m drafting my last words
on a brown paper napkin at a café.
But will anyone be there to hear them?
Will you be there
to hold my hand and listen?
- L. V.

L. V., idk how to let you go

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literaryvein

1 year ago

what do you know about love

Why does this feel like an attack-

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literaryvein

3 years ago

L. V., i found this poem when i wanted to be so awfully happy that i never need to write poetry again

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literaryvein

10 months ago

Detail of "Jeanne au Jardin" ("Jeanne in the Garden, Pontoise")
Camille Pissarro

L. V., I Found This Poem In One Of The Pockets Of A Coat You Left At My Place

L. V., i found this poem in one of the pockets of a coat you left at my place

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literaryvein

1 year ago

Tell me honestly: Wasn’t life easier when we were strangers? Wasn’t life easier before we discovered poetry?

L. V., i found this poem when a stranger asked me for directions

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literaryvein

10 months ago

Detail of "Evening Landscape with Rising Moon" by Vincent van Gogh (Dutch, 1853-1890)

Strawberry Moon

On TV, a boy cries over the blood-soaked body of a 32-year-old woman.
The editors gave the footage a black and white filter
so that the only way we would be able to tell how deep the red goes
was by listening to the boy’s grief-stricken howl.

Someone changes the channel, complaining
that they shouldn’t be showing such awful things.
Children could be watching.

They don’t know that by seeing the gruesome realities of the world
do we experience life completely, which is why we should be watching.
To know what’s happening would be the first step to being able to help.
This is what we should be teaching our children;
we shouldn’t be teaching them fear.

Because imagine being that woman—to have people see your body
sprawled out on the scorching hot asphalt.
To have them hear the dreadful things that had been done to you.
It makes them sick to the stomach.
And so they switch to a different channel.
Because they can.
Because your body in a strange position makes them sick to the stomach.

Imagine if the story makes you sick to the stomach.
Imagine if you were part of the story. If you were the boy, howling.
Imagine if you were her mother. Or her child. Her friend.
Imagine if it was you lying there on the ground.
Someone changes the channel.

- L. V.

L. V., i found this poem staring back at me from across a busy road

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literaryvein

8 months ago

there are approximately 382 kinds of love

L. V., i found this poem bathing in neon lights

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literaryvein

Original Writings by L. V.

Poetry. Prose. Free Verse. May explore dark/sensitive themes.

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