Spider's Poetry Journal


I'm starting a poetry journal here. Not full poems, not most of the time, but unedited snippets floating in my head that I need to record somewhere.

July 24, 2:16 am

My dream girl / looks nothing like how I dreamed her. / Her hands are small and delicate / and yet I always dreamed them wide / and rough, / callused in a way that speaks / of hard work. / I know how hard she works. / The freckled face that danced in my dreams / is no where to be seen. / Instead, her freckles spread / over her shoulders / and are so endearing that I can't help / but try to kiss each one. / I dreamed she'd have long hair, / long, long, contrasting my own short. / Her hair tends to rest between / her jaw and her shoulders, / I have never seen it cropped short. / It was long when we first met / but it was short when I fell in love. / She looks nothing how I dreamed her, and yet. / And yet. / And yet I know she is the girl of my dreams.


July 29, 2019 2:51 am

My head is an empty room. / The door is always locked, / but the windows are blown out. / The lights are never on / but someone is home. / I'm not sure who.


August 30th, 9:22 am

burn your lungs / and boil your eyes / and maybe then / you'll feel alright


November 21st, 2:08 am

the burning / of soft flesh / hard bone / rich blood / the sharp knocktapstab / in joints theoretically / young. / the delightful pull along a spine / so frigid. / the steady creaking / of hips and knuckles alike. / the dull smooth throb / inside a skull / so bleak. / the gentle scream / of a soul trapped / inside the body it stole.


teach me how to look at myself and not feel regret
and i'll teach you how to be a kid after growing up quickly

we'll start at dawn
and when the afternoon fades to cotton candy sky

you'll call me a liar
and i'll call you correct

you'll call me simple
and i'll call you predictable

you'll call me damaged
and i'll call you loved

babushka(he/she, он/она/)
Time ago

summer + brown eyes for @smallest-spiderweb!


Her eyesare the colour of coming home.Earth and summer nights and the sound of bells.Somehow, my own flat greylook richin their reflection.Men have killed for such beauty and yet.And yet.She makes me wish I could be more gentle,because something as delicateas the way her eyes light upwhen she laughsdeserves the utmost care.