Original poetry by Elizabeth K. Tate

talking is hard but we can learn to bridge the distance between sound and meaning.

if you put in the effort to speak, i’ll put in the effort to balance the girlfriend and the therapist to listen.

i feel your ocean moving

and it awakens a fear in me.

without the chart,  i can’t sail.

use morse code for all i care, as long as you keep your dots and dashes separate.

and i can beat back the waves if i have to.

i’ve done it before with one who i loved far less.

for you i’d drown.

but i don’t have to if you learn to work the lighthouse.

it’s not only when we have sex that i know you care.

that wasn’t true.

and i know it.

it’s when you smile from the driver’s seat.

when you hold my hand on the gearshift.

when you drive for two hours just to see me.

it’s when you push my bangs out of my eyes.

when you comment on the blue.

it’s when you kiss me on my nose and call me baby.

it’s when you’re angry at me

when you’re against the wall, arms crossed

no one at home in your eyes

and as soon as i start to cry and fall you’re holding me again.

it’s when you kiss my hair in the middle of the night.

it’s when you gently scrub your nails across my back, saying

“my mom used to do this for me.”

it’s when you text me goodnight when i haven’t seen you for a few days.

it’s when you tell me you miss me after one.

it’s when you try to touch me when i’m livid

when you try to talk to me when i’m afraid.

it’s when you admit i’m awful, but that i’m worth it.

it’s when you say i’m worth the struggle

that i know you love me still.

Spice up my life, my cinnamon boy.

You’re the colours of autumn but a lingering heat from summer lives in your skin.

You light me like a candle

and your light matches mine.

Cinnamon boy, your eyes give you that name.

Your eyes are the brightest auburn, containing kindness and mischief that make me stumble

skip a beat

sets me off guard.

Your eyes are dangerous.

At your age, the lines are from laughs.

Let me touch you, cinnamon boy.

Let me see if your whole body is alight like your hair, your eyes.

Let me trace you, learn you, so I can recreate you in December.

I will need you then, when red, orange, brown all fade to blues and grey.

When I am cold I’ll need you.

Cinnamon boy, can I love you?

it’s been a long time since I’ve loved someone who was depressed.

I have loved those with bipolar disorder, dysthymia, anxiety, a.d.d., aspergers, and plain old daddy issues recently

but depression is a cloud I haven’t seen someone under in a while.

and I forgot what it looked like

until you told me, with my head on your chest, that you believe no one cares.

when you talked it was like the brief glimpses of your heart that made me love you in the middle of the night

only with a weight from carrying on too long

with a fear because I’ve seen this before.

the credit you aren’t giving me is the scars on Em’s wrists, the phone bills with Cat, the tears I cried over sun boy, and the tattoo on my leg.

you are a nonbeliever to a fault but please

believe in me.

believe in you.

believe in that extra part you scoff at

watch cloud atlas a few more times because we ARE connected

and there’s something about humanity you can’t reason out

but I love you because you try.

you scared me a little.

and I only say that because I promised not to lie

so how can you say no one cares?

believe in me.

believe in you.

believe in something

and if nothing else, smile tonight.

don’t throw yourself like that

in front of me

i kissed your mouth, your back

is that all you need?

don’t drag my love around

volcanoes melt you down

and what i am to you is not real.

-Damien Rice

you want a natural disaster?

okay.

you can’t be an earthquake, because you are too constant.

perhaps a volcano, because it’s true you can erupt

in my arms, in my bed, when you want to start a riot.

yet you say you are apathetic.

burned out.

maybe you’re a volcano post-explosion.

after the lava washes away the ground is still warm,

but calm, with a promise of danger.

there is always the chance of fire.

even the strongest, highest, snow capped mountain may hold destruction and heat that can bury a city.

but how beautiful the sight must be

how fucking beautiful you are when you let go.

the ice melts and your eyes cloud with smoke

and if the heat in your voice is any indication

you are anything but tamed.

you’ve only been waiting.

I never post anymore. I am so sorry. I have been writing, it just hasn’t transferred from the page to the screen yet.

There may be a bit of series that I am tentatively calling “the reluctant revolutionary.” It’s all poems about the same group of people. It may alternately be called “loving a depressed anarchist.” This week/weekend I’m going to post a few things that I’ll tag with that series title (mostly for my own purposes.)

In other exciting news, I have a poem in print. LIPS, a zine dedicated to expressions of female sexuality, has a chapter at my college campus and I submitted a piece to their issue on the prude/slut dichotomy. I’m pretty proud to see something I wrote on paper and I’m glad it could be for a feminist, personal cause.

To sum up, I’m writing a lot, and I promise it’ll all show up on here sometime soon.

Thanks for following, liking, and reblogging, and I always welcome criticisms and love if you want to leave them. <3

peace.

elizabethkate:

obliteratedheart:

where can i download a 6’2” and slightly tousled literature enthusiast 

go to college, they roam around looking for food (and occasionally coffee.)

they’re often found in the company of their best friends, so be sure to befriend as many interesting people as you can. these tousled literature enthusiasts have good taste in friends, i promise you, and you’ll gain so much more than a connection to another person in their friendship.

you can also find these people in the library, towards the top floor usually, not for the books so much as a quiet place to nap. the books are just an added bonus to the peace.

yet, though the library may be their second bedroom, they certainly are attached to literature. they’ll have david foster wallace and tao lin on their desk and the john green book you lent them will be right there too. their computer will be open, probably to a page on some aspect of astronomy or language they’ve suddenly become interested in. or, just a picture of the community cast. either would not be a surprise.

you might find one outside your door one night, going to eat with you while their friends get in place for something grand behind your back. they might wait for you in their room for an hour while you trek across campus finding the clues they placed for you. you might find that they sent a friend after you, making sure you were on track in the great scavenger hunt they orchestrated. you might find them hiding in their closet when you open the door. and then they might kiss you.

and then you’ve found one.

at least, that’s how I found mine.

(Source: bessmertny)

The trouble with storm clouds is some people find ‘em beautiful, so they keep watching.

And when you’re watching a storm, it consumes you.

I’ve said that for years but no one hears.

You make noise long enough you get ignored.

Sob stories have no pull in today’s world.

Don’t matter how you say it, plain or poetry, nobody gives a shit about you.

It’s all just a joke.

I’ve been punching knives and yeah, it was pretty funny for a while

But I stopped laughing when I started seeing blood.

I guess you didn’t see it.

That’s okay, no one really does

From dance floor bones to siren wails, my signals don’t show.

I’m a dead zone.

Nothing to see here.

I’m a woman sewn shut 18 years long.

I forgot how to talk.

So listen now when I say that hurricanes have got an eye

The rain stops for a sec and you think it’s over

But this is the weather and who the fuck knows what it’s going to do today.

Professionals try to categorize

I’m a category five

It’s going to tear you up and I’m sorry.

Hey you, you didn’t see me

not in the football crowd

not on the green

but I saw you.

You look good in solitude

you look comfortable.

I saw you today and I might have spoken

but you moved too fast.

(not for the first time.)

You moved too fast and I stayed still.

You moved too fast and found me too soon.

Now you moved too fast and I got caught up

caught up and tossed/turned.

I’m blaming myself for a blameless maybe

and it’s all because you move like a man who doesn’t want to breathe.

You move like a man who doesn’t like waiting

“when I want something, I make it mine.”

Then you think and start to question speed

and something gets lost.

gets lonely.

Gets to wondering if you wanted something else all along.

I’ve got negative wrists just itching to scratch

and a projection on that screen.

and a voice in my head says “What did you expect? have you ever been worth it?”

Truth is, yeah, I’m probably not worth it

but I still want to hold his hand.