If it's not love, then it's the bomb that will bring us together (ask me, ask me, ask me)   If you must write prose and poems, the words you use should be your own (Submit)   Other Shenanigans   

Hi, I'm Elise. I'm 16, in Sixth Form and living (or I should hope that I'm alive) in the UK. I study English Literature, Sociology and Maths at A-Level, and I hope to go on to Oxford to study English.

This blog is largely for my original work as well as thoughts (which range from the museful to the hammer-like) and I really hope you enjoy. ♥ Everything here belongs to me, unless stated otherwise. But to be fair, why would you even want to steal it.

I hope you're doing well today.

Cor, what a stanza.
(Fifth stanza of ‘An Arundel Tomb’, by Philip Larkin 1922-1980)

Cor, what a stanza.
(Fifth stanza of ‘An Arundel Tomb’, by Philip Larkin 1922-1980)

— 2 days ago with 4 notes


Burn out the day;
Burn out the night.
I’m not the one to tell you what’s wrong or what’s right.
I’ve seen suns that were freezin’ and lives that were through…

Well, I’m burning, I’m burning, I’m burning for you.

(via crasher-vania)

— 1 week ago with 3 notes
The Angel Trapped in the Klieg Lights →


Raymond Farr

We whisper through knuckles
Of two years

& return a hero to our father

Some songs
You will never hear me sing

Are obstacles
To happiness

I climb up the lip of the statue’s mouth
Holding a horseshoe

For luck
Or something just like it

The wind sputters
Adjacent to…

— 1 week ago with 40 notes
The Era of Mindless Self Indulgence

Almost like
It seems
I’m waiting
Hoping for
To see him in the back-ground
Or some-thing some-where, as if
My knowledge of —
My inside knowledge
Of that dumb infatuation
— an obsession
That has passed
Too long
Like a stream,
Bearing its way,
Finding its earthly grooves
And funk and vinyl and
Sick in Will Smith’s Mum’s house’s sink.

— 2 weeks ago with 2 notes

It used to be so high-end, bright,
Flowers and violet — now, short
Of violent — I could show you, I
I could show you all; show
As I write the world. Or,
As I try to shout in a quiet,
Boxed-in, self-centred,
Map-of-my-brain (but inaccurate)
Sorta kinda way

…though, that belief
That thoughts are special…
I read them back — and they’re not.
I swear, that I tried.
I tried. I think.

Black and blue ink
On a screen, in a pixel
In the shades of our bruised blood,
I tense up my muscles to sculpt our mud;
I welcome you…sometimes…
Confused, but at least I admit it;
And it’s bad…
I admit but deny, I admit it…

— 2 weeks ago with 3 notes

In a way the most disgusting things become the most personal — if they are a part of one’s self

— 2 weeks ago with 1 note

With no shirt, I contemplate
Is it normal or is it freedom? I
Contemplate taking of my jeans;
Think of so many things
Imagine, dinner
Wearing nothing but skin
And hair unshaved

Morals, but who’s to define
The bridge to reality from the mind?
Dinner-time, a bowel movement;
Is that, too, devine, if we
Are made in the image of our God?
Care I at all

That question must it seems
Be tattooed unto all
The simple little things
And big and made of seams —

I am
Getting closer to having
Asked it all
Even those, unborn,
Who died.

— 2 weeks ago with 1 note

But what did
I do

He said that

The line

Learn to face
The change
Or not
The change
Or not
The change
And if

We learn to read
Again would we
Be freed?

Who did this?

— 2 weeks ago with 4 notes
ceata88 asked: Big tip for writer's I learned in my group when I had it! The main one I use is whenever you plan to stop writing for the day always end in the middle of a sentence. I know it sounds weird but that way when you open up the file again you have to finish the sentence which gets you into the flow. They also suggested editing the previous paragraph and making outlines. Also mood music helps me a ton. Sad music for sad scenes, romantic music, actiony music, etc.


— 2 weeks ago with 69 notes


I try not to care too much these days
and it works at least to some extent
I can nearly say I don’t cry anymore

Still I oft lament how dear the price
I don’t love or feel, my heart is heavy
neither can I dream or fly anymore

— 2 weeks ago with 98 notes
#i feel this way........ 

Them then I
Them and
I surprise my
Goodly, or bad

— 1 month ago with 1 note

Well, I
Don’t know
What to say

The outside world
To it I am
Lead: mallible

Poison or
Some thing

Got lots of
Books now

Books thrown in
Brooke’s now
Floating here
And there
And study-centres
For the study centred, not for
Her with black

Frog feet like frogs
Freed can you turn

Left, right, down
The heat



— 1 month ago with 5 notes
#poetry  #poem  #spilled fuckinink  #spilled ink  #free verse 
"This house will become a shrine, and punks and skins and rastas will all gather round and hold their hands in sorrow for their fallen leader. And all the grown-ups will say, “But why are the kids crying?” And the kids will say, “Haven’t you heard? Rick is dead! The People’s Poet is dead!” RIP"
The Young Ones - Rik Mayall (via ohhollandhoney)

(via crasher-vania)

— 1 month ago with 15 notes