Perhaps it's because of the Snow

I'd like to think that I normally avoid eating half a gallon of White Christmas Coffee Ice cream, that the snow outside made me do it, but I'd probably be acting in bad faith. Regardless, the cold weather gives us a chance to pause a bit, to think a little deeper, and relax. Hope everyone's finding a bit of relaxation today, whether it be through ice cream or sledding or poetry.

[sugar cubes]

i hope i sleep alone tonight
and i hope it's
cold.
it gives me time to think.
about you,
and the posters you've hung on my
wall.
too many of them,
taking up space like ants on a
sugar cube
and covering the person I want to be
with propaganda
and time management plans.
i'm grabbing at them,
thick skin on the edge of my fingers
too dull  to make any
difference,
so I go back to staring at them.
taunting me,
because they know
I know
how thin they are.
they know
how easily
I could rip them into tiny little pieces,
pale squares on the floor
if I could just
grab hold of the edges.
But my thick fingers can't,
Not tight enough to tear them
down
and i have plenty of papercuts
to show you how hard I've tried,
but they're only paper cuts,
so you don't sound an alarm.
and friends walk into my room at nighttime,
telling me about how pretty
it all is
Covered in posters.
and I smile,
because i know you like when i smile.
there's not much else
to do.


-Maddie-


And as always, send us your stuff. Keeps everyone connected and inspired.

Monday.

Once upon a time, this blog was a vibrant and prosperous place where only the coolest thinkers would hang out. Sadly enough, life has this way of the hindering the creative process and has recently completely paused progress on the blog. This is super ridiculous because creativity should not be something with an on/off switch. But that is simply where we are. Anyways, here's a small bit of inspiration and hopefully the first of many posts to follow soon. Keep it real out there, folks!

[untitled]
sometimes I feel it burning burning burning inside of me
threatening to spill over and out and 
boiling boiling boiling
I choke

the rocket's full of fuel and
well oiled and
the peices function like
clockwork
and I know.
I've checked ten thousand times
because it's the only thing i care about
the sole piece of light crawling through the cloak
of apathy that consumes me
in the dark galaxy of emotions i cant escape

and daily i feel the explosions inside of me
more than neurons firing on a tuesday
and im shaking with the strength of a stampede
dark stallions lost in the night,
choosing to tear me apart

i just want to write to you
and explain how much it hurts
and medicate the botomless void that's grown deeper
since that wednesday

and ever still im burning burning burning white hot inside
simply waiting for ignition to provide release
what an elementary job, maybe one for
a cigarette butt or candle's glint
but a task so large for my trembling hands

so i'm waiting wating waiting
refusing to believe it's all i'll ever do

-Isi

remember when we posted things?

We do too! It's been around a week since Maddie or Isi or I have been together, so this post is in honor of them. Just kidding, they're part of the blog so that'd be weird. Here's a piece I wrote a while ago. As always, keep things groovy! (And send us your stuff)

a cathedral shoots sky high
and cranium wide
reverberations of hydraulic proportions
echo
thumping
thumping
thumping
an afrolatinamerican beat
drums
idea feet stamping
protesting
as they are folded into new information
creviced carefully and haphazardly
into the chaise lounge of my grin
i see the whip of a jacket around a corner
and chase hopelessly after
what could have been such an excellent work of art
maybe it was a masterpiece
maybe it was a misunderstanding
maybe it was nothing at all
there is a desert of blank things stretched out in front of my eyes
yawning
red curtain
sand from the bottom of my bikini
halfwritten poems
a few splotches of poorlyplacedpaint
lipstick stains for miles and miles and miles
i try to ignore all the words
but they flash lightningfast
across the garden of irises as i’m sleeping
reminding a drowsy dreamer that

Xmarksthespotafterall

Bum Blues in A Minor

Here's just a little something cheerful on this rainy almost-summer afternoon. Written by our talented friend Brian, thanks dude.



Bum Blues in A Minor

Theres a bum pantin down the street,
Bouncin along hittin concrete
The people a'starin
The bum not carin
Whos this man with the goodwill wearin
So he takes a rest
just to listen
Pops off his hat, face a'grinnin
"she did what?"
"that fools lost her mind!"
Bums just gaze, their the listnen kind
So he gets up
and keeps on walkin
turns to the sky while the people talkin
He's hopeful and he's happy
Everything's ok
He just stares at life In his bum kinda way

-Brian Ker

Happy summer! Enjoy yourselves. And as always, keep exploring. (send your stuff in too)

the back of the bus

In case you didn't know, Friday, May 3, was the anniversary of the day that Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus in Birmingham, Alabama. It was a revolutionary refusal and one that sparked the fire of peaceful protest within the oppressed throughout the nation. The fight against racism has been one of my passions for as long as I can remember, and I wouldn't even exist as a person if the Civil Rights movement hadn't happened. On Friday our English class (finally) did a poetry writing assignment in which we received a list of all of the major words in Sylvia Plath's "The Applicant". Of course, my poem turned into a poem about racism and injustice. Here it is.

Bad black boy.

Brace yourself, black boy.

Bury yourself in bombs, black boy.

They don't care if you're crying, black boy.

They want you to dissolve, black boy.

Your emptiness is everywhere, black boy.

You are neither silver nor gold, black boy.

You are a headache, black boy.

You are a shatterproof, waterproof bunch of holes, black boy.

They do not notice if you are missing, black boy.

They fill your space with rubber soles, black boy.

They will collect your teeth and feed them to the dogs, black boy.

There are fifty of you, black boy.

You are nothing at all, black boy.

You were created wrong, black boy.

They want you to be right, black boy.

They want you to be gone, black boy.

They want you to give up the fight, black boy.

They want you to be white, black boy.

There is nothing you can do, black boy.


What are you passionate about? We'd like to know. Send us an email at
{wrotewritewrit@gmail.com}

great expectations

These days, fine art is widely inaccessible. We have to pay money to go see a concert, watch a movie, visit a museum. Free galleries and venues are rare, and we have to work hard to find a writer who wants to make his or her e-book free. We're so tired of this, and have been for a while. That's why we love street art and spoken word so much. They bring the message to the street, broadcast beauty to the populace. All over the country and the world, artists are striving to give beautiful things back to those who need them. One of these projects is known as Poets in Unexpected Places. Check this out.

We want your voice to be added to the disruptive pandemonium. Send us an e-mail, please. We're begging you.

{wrotewritewrit@blogspot.com}

the electric city

As you may have gathered, the three of us bloggers come from the small town of Franklin, Tennessee. While the people are wonderful and the place has so much to offer, life can seem a little slow sometimes! For this reason, 1/3 of this blog has taken to the streets. That's right, Isi Beach has gone to Chicago and she's never coming back (actually she is, but let her think that for now). The hustle and bustle of the big city is thrilling and Isi feels that she has come alive. So, while the city never sleeps, Isi stays up all night and writes about it. She can feel the electricity of the windy city coursing through her- and she hopes that with this poem, you can too.


City Mouth

My mouth, the revolver
Runnin round the city like it knows somebody
Or is somebody
Spitting rhymes like bullets
Speed of light can't keep up
Flying high on crack, speed, with ecstasy
With power
Shooting down anything like "move bitch, you're in the way"
Fits in, in this city
Pizza mouth lipstick mouth power mouth M79
My mouth,
The revolver.


by Isi Beach


There you have it. On another note, we welcome blog submissions of all shapes and sizes and we strongly encourage/dearly beg all of you lovely readers to show us what you've got! Submit your stuff to wrotewritewrit@gmail.com. Please. Thank you!
Peace.