She Wanted Storms

"We are all worms, but I do believe that I am a glow worm." -- Winston Churchill
~ Monday, May 5 ~
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1. Jump off the highest diving board and realize that fear is something your mind creates to cage itself in. Jump, and imagine you will never hit the water, imagine you will fall like that forever, imagine eternal adrenaline.

2. Do everything you can to make sure you feel like that every day. Wake up without the shrill defeating cry of an alarm clock with the intent of finding adventure. Never content yourself with an “average” day, with work and school and television. You will drown in the oceans of time you have wasted. Wake up.

3. When the doctor prescribes you pills to soften your sharp edges, throw them back in his face because you don’t need anyone telling you not to feel. Your pain is a part of you. Do not take the easy way out here – you will kill yourself in the process.

4. Realize that you will have to fight for almost everything good in life. Do not be afraid to spill a little blood, or a lot of blood, every now and then. Pacifism is not always the righteous way – some of the best things will require pain, and blood, and the kind of battle that leaves you shaking at the knees. They are worth it. Bleed.

5. You are not a tree. You are not fated to live and die on one tiny patch of dirt. Move. Wander the surface of this Earth like you are wind. Go everywhere, observe everything, reach out and touch. Do not leave this world unshaken by your presence.

6. Remember to defy labels, to transcend the social norms that are really just shackles dead people claim make society function. You are not a résumé, you are not your credit score, college debt, or yearly income. Remember to breathe fire like air and drink earth like water. You are the child of this universe; you are stardust and moon beams. Do not let them tell you otherwise.

7. There will come a day when they will ask you to hand over your dreams in exchange for logic and responsibility. Do not accept this. They will do everything they can to destroy the romantic in you – and if you know what’s good for you, you will fight. You will spill blood, and you will not mind that you cannot wash the stains from your clothing. Dead men fear the living – don’t let them kill you too.

8. All limits are illusions, fabricated by the fearful, pitiful part of the human mind that would undermine your spirit if you let it. Run towards the edge, and then jump. Jump, and imagine you will never hit the ground, imagine you will fall forever, drenched in eternal adrenaline. This is the truest way to live.

9. They will not understand you. They will do everything to stop you. They will do this because you threaten them, you threaten the deepest assumptions of their way of life, and they are scared. Their fear has already killed them – but it won’t kill you. Keep moving, running, jumping. Keep dreaming. This is what freedom feels like.

— How to Exist Without Suffocating - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)

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~ Wednesday, April 23 ~
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We are not tragedies,
just stories that have not found
a happy ending,
hiding our faces from street lamps and moonlight,
hoods obscuring all but the smoke
we puff like slow suicide.
We are not so much lost
as restless, struggling to fathom
a destination that does not feel so much
like a death to all we find Holy.
We are not doomed,
we just haven’t managed to pull ourselves
up from the wreckage
we created when we fell from grace.
And we are not hopeless,
although on certain nights
we howl from our soul-sick bellies
and sob the fading fire of our hearts.
We have not abandoned ourselves,
we are just conflicted
trying desperately to either
feel less or to feel anything at all,
waging chemical warfare against our own minds,
still children trying to recapture
the halos we burnt out so long ago
cynics wishing we remembered
how to dream.
We have not failed,
we are just growing weary
of the same mutilating fight,
seeking refuge
from our own personal raptures
in anyone’s arms but our own.
Despite our destructive natures,
we do not want to die,
we just don’t know how to live
a life that doesn’t feel like suicide.
So we wander, and destroy, and howl,
and hide our aching hearts.
We vacate our skin, leave home,
push off from harbor in a broken ship
and cling desperately to any reason we can find
to not grab hold of the anchor
and drown.
— We Are Not Tragedies - S.w.S. (shewantedstorms)

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reblogged via shewantedstorms
~ Tuesday, April 22 ~
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Laying in your bed, crying. Turned on my side to face the wall. Arms bunched against my stomach. Letting the air come in quick gulps so you will see it. I am not proud, I am human and I am weak.
Warm hand on my shoulder, light touch. “Why are you crying?” – bewildered.
“I don’t know, I guess I’m just…” unable to finish, ashamed of these feelings. I know they are childish.
“What are you saying? I can’t hear you.” Confusion, frustration.
“I –“ realize that I do not know. Am just crying. Am just sad. “I’m sad”
Arms around me, familiar warmth pressed to my skin. “Why?” breath tickles my neck, raises hairs. I am breathing normally.
“I don’t know…” Is that the truth? I fumble for words, fabricate some reason that may or may not resemble the truth. I don’t know the truth. Arms hold me tighter. I begin to sob silently again, my belly shaking against your arm.
I probably just felt lonely. Wanted affection. Felt neglected. Became petty, childish, cried like an infant for its mother’s attention. I am not proud.
You do not respond. I am ashamed, unable to face you. You unwrap your arm from around my belly. The warmth of your hand on my shoulder as you shake me gently. I whimper. I am not proud. I do not turn to face you. A moment later, a sigh. The bed creaks as the warmth recedes from my back. I shake and hold the sadness close to my heart. I feel defeated – I do not know why I cradle this misery.
Frustration and self-loathing. Why why why why WHY? I need to let this go. Stop. I cry harder. Stop. Stop. Stop!
I force myself to turn. I reach for you. You reach back. Your eyes are so bright in the darkness. How are they so bright? It is a mystery. Small smiles. I press my lips to yours, soft and full. I slide my arms around your neck, skin sliding on skin, fingers finding hair and burying themselves. The edge of my frustration and sadness fades into your warmth, your love. The point of my self-loathing dissolves in your instant forgiveness, is lost in the “welcome home” of your arms.
I never want to stop kissing you. I never want to leave that soothing darkness. You always pull away too soon – I will never feel that it is enough. I will always want more of you. I whisper this to you in the dark. My voice sounds small and babyish. I am vulnerable, you hold me. Whisper back – “I love you”
“’Til the day I die”
“Forever.”
I drift to sleep holding you, a thin film of dry tears covering my dreaming face.
— You love my at my worst - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)

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reblogged via shewantedstorms
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We are not tragedies,
just stories that have not found
a happy ending,
hiding our faces from street lamps and moonlight,
hoods obscuring all but the smoke
we puff like slow suicide.
We are not so much lost
as restless, struggling to fathom
a destination that does not feel so much
like a death to all we find Holy.
We are not doomed,
we just haven’t managed to pull ourselves
up from the wreckage
we created when we fell from grace.
And we are not hopeless,
although on certain nights
we howl from our soul-sick bellies
and sob the fading fire of our hearts.
We have not abandoned ourselves,
we are just conflicted
trying desperately to either
feel less or to feel anything at all,
waging chemical warfare against our own minds,
still children trying to recapture
the halos we burnt out so long ago
cynics wishing we remembered
how to dream.
We have not failed,
we are just growing weary
of the same mutilating fight,
seeking refuge
from our own personal raptures
in anyone’s arms but our own.
Despite our destructive natures,
we do not want to die,
we just don’t know how to live
a life that doesn’t feel like suicide.
So we wander, and destroy, and howl,
and hide our aching hearts.
We vacate our skin, leave home,
push off from harbor in a broken ship
and cling desperately to any reason we can find
to not grab hold of the anchor
and drown.
— We Are Not Tragedies - S.w.S. (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilled ink TWC writing original work shewantedstorms
13 notes
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I am in love with dark things

like the sky on stormy nights,

and your heart beat slow

with sleep.

I am held captive by the way

your silhouette moves

in the thick air of your room

in the earliest hours of morning,

the soft way your shadow

brushes the wall as you dress.

Your ceiling fan blows circles on my skin

through the semi-darkness,

and I breathe in your ghost beside me.

You think I am asleep and I feel you

watch me, my heart thrilling with

each silence-muted footstep you take.

You lean in close and lay gossamer lips

on my forehead, and I do not know how

to speak with the darkness in my mouth,

so I lay still with goose flesh raised

along my naked arms.

I am so full of darkness that I feel

I must glow with it.

Your hand is a feather pushing the hair

from my face and I cannot help but shiver,

the way I cannot help but smile.

I am in love with dark things

like the pull of my heart as the door

closes behind you

and the note on the bedside table

that I will hold off on reading

until the morning.

I am in love with mysteries

like a moment frozen in time

without context, without past, without future,

in which I exist as nothing but

the swirls of darkness in my lungs

and the heavy sound of my heart

as I melt into your empty room.

— I am in love with dark things - S.w.S. (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilled ink TWC writing original work
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I’ve been standing on dirty street corners

with my hair in knots and

dirt on my jeans,

looking for a glimpse of green eyes,

that I will immediately know to be yours.

Or maybe they’ll be caramel brown,

or milky-way blue,

or winter-wolf grey,

either way they’ll be glittering,

two stars in a face I have yet

to figure out.

But your hands,

your hands I know.

They’ll be slender and careful,

calloused spindles of the finest silk,

that compose symphonies and build houses,

harsh and powerful as Shiva,

gentle and tender as Parvati,

whose love saved the universe,

or so they say.

My fingers know yours intimately,

though they have never touched,

and within your commanding arms,

I will follow you anywhere.

We will leave the city,

full of dust and air that

chokes,

and live among the cosmos,

swinging in hammocks hung between

constellations,

hiding in the curve of the big dipper,

shushing our laughter so the

Gods won’t know we’re there.

My pulse will jump and shiver,

my blood itching in my veins,

to fuse with yours,

because close is never

close enough.

The nerves along my spine

will know the sound of your voice

before you even speak,

by the way you draw breath,

unhurried so you can think about

what it is you want to say.

You will be careful where I am wild,

slow where I am moving too fast.

Your arms will hold me close,

and I will be still for the first time

in years.

But you will know how

to let me go,

how to let me

fling about the stars,

Swim up to the moon and nose dive

back into the ocean,

where I will live as a fish

for a day or two,

before I return, hair dripping,

naked as a mermaid with legs,

to my home in the center of your beating heart,

curled up like a baby in my mother’s womb,

because even wild things,

need to be protected.

And every night,

we will fall asleep in our safe-haven among the stars,

my body fitting perfectly in the crooked spaces

of yours,

and I will murmur love poems

into the crook of your elbow,

as you pretend to be asleep.

My heart already has the verses

memorized, imprinted deeper

than my mother’s face.

I whisper them now,

on dirty street corners,

my clothes ripped and my

lips bloody,

waiting for you

to take me home.

— Dirty Street Corners - S.w.S. (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilled ink TWC writing original work
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Let me make you holy.

Tonight, I want you to drink

the tears I shed for you.

My sweat is blessed

by the divine rituals

of human desire.

Let’s discover fire together,

feel the exquisite burn of playing

with Eve’s temptation. I want you

to lick the forbidden fruit, and then

kiss me with it’s juices on your lips.

Slice me open with your hungry breath

and drink the blood that beads

along the incision. I will make you

forget your own name, and then I’ll

rechristen you with something a bit more

majestic, so that when I whisper it

in the dark, warm space of your neck,

it turns both of us into dark and rushing

waves as we clash like a hurricane -

a miracle, of sorts.

And I can be your holy ghost;

I’ll have you speaking in tongues

by the end of the night. We’ll be

the holy trinity baby, just you and me

and the electric spirit between us.

We’ll build God in the pull of our breath

and the rush of adrenaline as we

exhale, completely as one.

I’ll build us a temple and we can

worship ourselves together -

I’ll offer myself up, a human

sacrifice, and you can do with me

what pleases you most.

Drink my wine and eat my bread,

everything I have is yours.

The world never had

a religion like ours.

— Let me make you Holy - S.w.S. (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilled inc TWC sextry writing original work holy religion sex
27 notes
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1. Jump off the highest diving board and realize that fear is something your mind creates to cage itself in. Jump, and imagine you will never hit the water, imagine you will fall like that forever, imagine eternal adrenaline.

2. Do everything you can to make sure you feel like that every day. Wake up without the shrill defeating cry of an alarm clock with the intent of finding adventure. Never content yourself with an “average” day, with work and school and television. You will drown in the oceans of time you have wasted. Wake up.

3. When the doctor prescribes you pills to soften your sharp edges, throw them back in his face because you don’t need anyone telling you not to feel. Your pain is a part of you. Do not take the easy way out here – you will kill yourself in the process.

4. Realize that you will have to fight for almost everything good in life. Do not be afraid to spill a little blood, or a lot of blood, every now and then. Pacifism is not always the righteous way – some of the best things will require pain, and blood, and the kind of battle that leaves you shaking at the knees. They are worth it. Bleed.

5. You are not a tree. You are not fated to live and die on one tiny patch of dirt. Move. Wander the surface of this Earth like you are wind. Go everywhere, observe everything, reach out and touch. Do not leave this world unshaken by your presence.

6. Remember to defy labels, to transcend the social norms that are really just shackles dead people claim make society function. You are not a résumé, you are not your credit score, college debt, or yearly income. Remember to breathe fire like air and drink earth like water. You are the child of this universe; you are stardust and moon beams. Do not let them tell you otherwise.

7. There will come a day when they will ask you to hand over your dreams in exchange for logic and responsibility. Do not accept this. They will do everything they can to destroy the romantic in you – and if you know what’s good for you, you will fight. You will spill blood, and you will not mind that you cannot wash the stains from your clothing. Dead men fear the living – don’t let them kill you too.

8. All limits are illusions, fabricated by the fearful, pitiful part of the human mind that would undermine your spirit if you let it. Run towards the edge, and then jump. Jump, and imagine you will never hit the ground, imagine you will fall forever, drenched in eternal adrenaline. This is the truest way to live.

9. They will not understand you. They will do everything to stop you. They will do this because you threaten them, you threaten the deepest assumptions of their way of life, and they are scared. Their fear has already killed them – but it won’t kill you. Keep moving, running, jumping. Keep dreaming. This is what freedom feels like.

— How to Exist Without Suffocating - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry prose spilled ink twc writing original writing list poem
31 notes
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Laying in your bed, crying. Turned on my side to face the wall. Arms bunched against my stomach. Letting the air come in quick gulps so you will see it. I am not proud, I am human and I am weak.
Warm hand on my shoulder, light touch. “Why are you crying?” – bewildered.
“I don’t know, I guess I’m just…” unable to finish, ashamed of these feelings. I know they are childish.
“What are you saying? I can’t hear you.” Confusion, frustration.
“I –“ realize that I do not know. Am just crying. Am just sad. “I’m sad”
Arms around me, familiar warmth pressed to my skin. “Why?” breath tickles my neck, raises hairs. I am breathing normally.
“I don’t know…” Is that the truth? I fumble for words, fabricate some reason that may or may not resemble the truth. I don’t know the truth. Arms hold me tighter. I begin to sob silently again, my belly shaking against your arm.
I probably just felt lonely. Wanted affection. Felt neglected. Became petty, childish, cried like an infant for its mother’s attention. I am not proud.
You do not respond. I am ashamed, unable to face you. You unwrap your arm from around my belly. The warmth of your hand on my shoulder as you shake me gently. I whimper. I am not proud. I do not turn to face you. A moment later, a sigh. The bed creaks as the warmth recedes from my back. I shake and hold the sadness close to my heart. I feel defeated – I do not know why I cradle this misery.
Frustration and self-loathing. Why why why why WHY? I need to let this go. Stop. I cry harder. Stop. Stop. Stop!
I force myself to turn. I reach for you. You reach back. Your eyes are so bright in the darkness. How are they so bright? It is a mystery. Small smiles. I press my lips to yours, soft and full. I slide my arms around your neck, skin sliding on skin, fingers finding hair and burying themselves. The edge of my frustration and sadness fades into your warmth, your love. The point of my self-loathing dissolves in your instant forgiveness, is lost in the “welcome home” of your arms.
I never want to stop kissing you. I never want to leave that soothing darkness. You always pull away too soon – I will never feel that it is enough. I will always want more of you. I whisper this to you in the dark. My voice sounds small and babyish. I am vulnerable, you hold me. Whisper back – “I love you”
“’Til the day I die”
“Forever.”
I drift to sleep holding you, a thin film of dry tears covering my dreaming face.
— You love my at my worst - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)
Tags: prose spilled ink freewrite twc writing love original work
14 notes
~ Wednesday, March 5 ~
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If you were to love me,
you should have to know
that I would look at you
with a writer’s eye -
the silent curve of your
body would mesh with the
rush of your breath and the
tiny moves you make would
keep me thinking up all night
because every little, minuscule
detail is huge in the eyes of a
poet, who seeks meaning in the
freckles in your eyes and the length
of your gaze, beneath a speckled sky at
midnight. You should have to be warned
that there may be a hundred anonymous
poems written in your image
and a thousand references to
the ripple of your stomach with your
laughter or the slight chip on your left
incisor that I never stopped inventing
a history for.
You may be surprised one day to find
a letter on old and withered paper
(because how else does a poet craft a letter?)
filled with verses written in honor
of your lingering kisses and sly
compliments that you tried to cover
with a joke and a blush.
You may be old and withered too,
the sinew and dew of your flesh turned
loose from years of touches and kisses
and holding too tight,
but you will know that somewhere,
there is a young girl clothed in the bags of age
who remembers nothing but your smile
on hot august nights beneath the stars,
and who could not forget the cadence
of your voice when you whispered her name,
or the weight of your hips or the exact places
you loved to hold.
If you were to love me,
you would have to be warned
that I would not miss the significance
of a glance or a fluttering touch,
and that I would remember the rhythm of
your heart beat until
the day I died, because
a writer loves within the details,
and a writer never forgets.
— If you were to love me - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilledink twc originalwriting love writer
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