Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
“We have to get on the floor.” I said, “When this song comes on, we have to stop what we’re doing and get on the floor.” . It was Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. I can’t listen to it standing up. I have to lay down and let the floor hold all of my body. I laid down on the rug. . An invitation: come this way. there is something this way. leave the water boiling on the stove. come to the floor. . The “something this way” is likely as simple or as complex as a feeling. If you let me, I will hold open the door, for you too, to spill through. . come this way I’ll hold your hand so what if we miss the dinner reservation you are radiant in the light of your own vulnerability in the seat of this car stay here a moment say more or less come home let your skin make contact with wonder sadness joy let the feeling come. . Perhaps I don’t want to be alone here. Perhaps I lack the dexterity to leave. One might say, stubbornly, I choose not to. . . A July night in the desert. A decade ago now. The sky, a bounty of stars, I stumble out of an airstream to find two friends laying in the dirt weeping. “Come here,” they said. I did. Now three heads nestled in the dirt. . “I think we don’t spend enough time looking up,” one said. They’d taken some mushrooms. But that didn’t matter. She was right. I don’t know how long we laid there watching the sky breathe. How long we allowed the earth to hold us. How long we marveled at the certainty of how much we do not know. . There are no chairs in my living room. I have decided to keep it this way. . A plea: surrender convention and get down on the floor with me. . . . (Continued in comments or swipe —>) . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #fathersday #writinglife #artist #poetry #love #queerwriter #queerpoet #actor #queer #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writingcommunity #lgbt #poem #poet #poetrycommunity #pride #words #writers #writersofig #writing #lgbtq #poems #poetry #poetsofinstagram #writer
do you remember the ghost deer when we were so high out of our damn minds coming off that sunset hike in Zion. we couldn’t tell if they were real, the deer, so silent. . you were one of those deer in my dream last night. like I could touch you. . see those deer, they were real. captured on your cam-e-ra. . they didn’t make a sound but we could feel their breath on our sleeves as they past us. . quivering shapes of grey. fearless. maybe they thought we were trees. . and that lady— do you remember that lady? she was singing, maybe, outside our cabin and the Mexican restaurant where it all hit in a THC capsule. . by the time that lady was singing I had to turn in, lay my head on a pillow and digest it. . but you— you blew out of the room, out the door. had to go. go photograph the stars in that dark. . to photograph. like you always do. a need. an action. . I lay under sheets hiding. typing words. what we’d seen. the same thing but a different fraction. . and in my dream, we were somewhere. somewhere different than the one where you died in my arms because no one was there to catch you. . in this dream, I think you’d lost yours shoes and you were holding a camera like it was attached to you and you told me you loved me and your eyes were all glassy. we embraced. . I woke up crying. . I miss you. . scratch that. I miss who we were. just two friends laughing in the dirt. . dragging our city asses up angels landing rinsing our sweat in a stream like a dream we were a team then. . we scarfed hot dogs nearly missed our flight from Vegas and it didn’t matter. . we shared a life. dunked our heads in the same bucket. . fuck it. . I wouldn’t say that I forgive you. but I’d say I’d like to. . I’m all out of excuses for you. but I believe you thought you had to later, when you abused your power and I let you. . (Cont in comments or swipe) . . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #filmmaker #queerfilmmaker #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
do you remember the ghost deer when we were so high out of our damn minds coming off that sunset hike in Zion. we couldn’t tell if they were real, the deer, so silent. . you were one of those deer in my dream last night. like I could touch you. . see those deer, they were real. captured on your cam-e-ra. . they didn’t make a sound but we could feel their breath on our sleeves as they past us. . quivering shapes of grey. fearless. maybe they thought we were trees. . and that lady— do you remember that lady? she was singing, maybe, outside our cabin and the Mexican restaurant where it all hit in a THC capsule. . by the time that lady was singing I had to turn in, lay my head on a pillow and digest it. . but you— you blew out of the room, out the door. had to go. go photograph the stars in that dark. . to photograph. like you always do. a need. an action. . I lay under sheets hiding. typing words. what we’d seen. the same thing but a different fraction. . and in my dream, we were somewhere. somewhere different than the one where you died in my arms because no one was there to catch you. . in this dream, I think you’d lost yours shoes and you were holding a camera like it was attached to you and you told me you loved me and your eyes were all glassy. we embraced. . I woke up crying. . I miss you. . scratch that. I miss who we were. just two friends laughing in the dirt. . dragging our city asses up angels landing rinsing our sweat in a stream like a dream we were a team then. . we scarfed hot dogs nearly missed our flight from Vegas and it didn’t matter. . we shared a life. dunked our heads in the same bucket. . fuck it. . I wouldn’t say that I forgive you. but I’d say I’d like to. . I’m all out of excuses for you. but I believe you thought you had to later, when you abused your power and I let you. . (Cont in comments or swipe) . . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #filmmaker #queerfilmmaker #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
do you remember the ghost deer when we were so high out of our damn minds coming off that sunset hike in Zion. we couldn’t tell if they were real, the deer, so silent. . you were one of those deer in my dream last night. like I could touch you. . see those deer, they were real. captured on your cam-e-ra. . they didn’t make a sound but we could feel their breath on our sleeves as they past us. . quivering shapes of grey. fearless. maybe they thought we were trees. . and that lady— do you remember that lady? she was singing, maybe, outside our cabin and the Mexican restaurant where it all hit in a THC capsule. . by the time that lady was singing I had to turn in, lay my head on a pillow and digest it. . but you— you blew out of the room, out the door. had to go. go photograph the stars in that dark. . to photograph. like you always do. a need. an action. . I lay under sheets hiding. typing words. what we’d seen. the same thing but a different fraction. . and in my dream, we were somewhere. somewhere different than the one where you died in my arms because no one was there to catch you. . in this dream, I think you’d lost yours shoes and you were holding a camera like it was attached to you and you told me you loved me and your eyes were all glassy. we embraced. . I woke up crying. . I miss you. . scratch that. I miss who we were. just two friends laughing in the dirt. . dragging our city asses up angels landing rinsing our sweat in a stream like a dream we were a team then. . we scarfed hot dogs nearly missed our flight from Vegas and it didn’t matter. . we shared a life. dunked our heads in the same bucket. . fuck it. . I wouldn’t say that I forgive you. but I’d say I’d like to. . I’m all out of excuses for you. but I believe you thought you had to later, when you abused your power and I let you. . (Cont in comments or swipe) . . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #filmmaker #queerfilmmaker #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
do you remember the ghost deer when we were so high out of our damn minds coming off that sunset hike in Zion. we couldn’t tell if they were real, the deer, so silent. . you were one of those deer in my dream last night. like I could touch you. . see those deer, they were real. captured on your cam-e-ra. . they didn’t make a sound but we could feel their breath on our sleeves as they past us. . quivering shapes of grey. fearless. maybe they thought we were trees. . and that lady— do you remember that lady? she was singing, maybe, outside our cabin and the Mexican restaurant where it all hit in a THC capsule. . by the time that lady was singing I had to turn in, lay my head on a pillow and digest it. . but you— you blew out of the room, out the door. had to go. go photograph the stars in that dark. . to photograph. like you always do. a need. an action. . I lay under sheets hiding. typing words. what we’d seen. the same thing but a different fraction. . and in my dream, we were somewhere. somewhere different than the one where you died in my arms because no one was there to catch you. . in this dream, I think you’d lost yours shoes and you were holding a camera like it was attached to you and you told me you loved me and your eyes were all glassy. we embraced. . I woke up crying. . I miss you. . scratch that. I miss who we were. just two friends laughing in the dirt. . dragging our city asses up angels landing rinsing our sweat in a stream like a dream we were a team then. . we scarfed hot dogs nearly missed our flight from Vegas and it didn’t matter. . we shared a life. dunked our heads in the same bucket. . fuck it. . I wouldn’t say that I forgive you. but I’d say I’d like to. . I’m all out of excuses for you. but I believe you thought you had to later, when you abused your power and I let you. . (Cont in comments or swipe) . . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #filmmaker #queerfilmmaker #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
do you remember the ghost deer when we were so high out of our damn minds coming off that sunset hike in Zion. we couldn’t tell if they were real, the deer, so silent. . you were one of those deer in my dream last night. like I could touch you. . see those deer, they were real. captured on your cam-e-ra. . they didn’t make a sound but we could feel their breath on our sleeves as they past us. . quivering shapes of grey. fearless. maybe they thought we were trees. . and that lady— do you remember that lady? she was singing, maybe, outside our cabin and the Mexican restaurant where it all hit in a THC capsule. . by the time that lady was singing I had to turn in, lay my head on a pillow and digest it. . but you— you blew out of the room, out the door. had to go. go photograph the stars in that dark. . to photograph. like you always do. a need. an action. . I lay under sheets hiding. typing words. what we’d seen. the same thing but a different fraction. . and in my dream, we were somewhere. somewhere different than the one where you died in my arms because no one was there to catch you. . in this dream, I think you’d lost yours shoes and you were holding a camera like it was attached to you and you told me you loved me and your eyes were all glassy. we embraced. . I woke up crying. . I miss you. . scratch that. I miss who we were. just two friends laughing in the dirt. . dragging our city asses up angels landing rinsing our sweat in a stream like a dream we were a team then. . we scarfed hot dogs nearly missed our flight from Vegas and it didn’t matter. . we shared a life. dunked our heads in the same bucket. . fuck it. . I wouldn’t say that I forgive you. but I’d say I’d like to. . I’m all out of excuses for you. but I believe you thought you had to later, when you abused your power and I let you. . (Cont in comments or swipe) . . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #filmmaker #queerfilmmaker #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
do you remember the ghost deer when we were so high out of our damn minds coming off that sunset hike in Zion. we couldn’t tell if they were real, the deer, so silent. . you were one of those deer in my dream last night. like I could touch you. . see those deer, they were real. captured on your cam-e-ra. . they didn’t make a sound but we could feel their breath on our sleeves as they past us. . quivering shapes of grey. fearless. maybe they thought we were trees. . and that lady— do you remember that lady? she was singing, maybe, outside our cabin and the Mexican restaurant where it all hit in a THC capsule. . by the time that lady was singing I had to turn in, lay my head on a pillow and digest it. . but you— you blew out of the room, out the door. had to go. go photograph the stars in that dark. . to photograph. like you always do. a need. an action. . I lay under sheets hiding. typing words. what we’d seen. the same thing but a different fraction. . and in my dream, we were somewhere. somewhere different than the one where you died in my arms because no one was there to catch you. . in this dream, I think you’d lost yours shoes and you were holding a camera like it was attached to you and you told me you loved me and your eyes were all glassy. we embraced. . I woke up crying. . I miss you. . scratch that. I miss who we were. just two friends laughing in the dirt. . dragging our city asses up angels landing rinsing our sweat in a stream like a dream we were a team then. . we scarfed hot dogs nearly missed our flight from Vegas and it didn’t matter. . we shared a life. dunked our heads in the same bucket. . fuck it. . I wouldn’t say that I forgive you. but I’d say I’d like to. . I’m all out of excuses for you. but I believe you thought you had to later, when you abused your power and I let you. . (Cont in comments or swipe) . . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #filmmaker #queerfilmmaker #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
do you remember the ghost deer when we were so high out of our damn minds coming off that sunset hike in Zion. we couldn’t tell if they were real, the deer, so silent. . you were one of those deer in my dream last night. like I could touch you. . see those deer, they were real. captured on your cam-e-ra. . they didn’t make a sound but we could feel their breath on our sleeves as they past us. . quivering shapes of grey. fearless. maybe they thought we were trees. . and that lady— do you remember that lady? she was singing, maybe, outside our cabin and the Mexican restaurant where it all hit in a THC capsule. . by the time that lady was singing I had to turn in, lay my head on a pillow and digest it. . but you— you blew out of the room, out the door. had to go. go photograph the stars in that dark. . to photograph. like you always do. a need. an action. . I lay under sheets hiding. typing words. what we’d seen. the same thing but a different fraction. . and in my dream, we were somewhere. somewhere different than the one where you died in my arms because no one was there to catch you. . in this dream, I think you’d lost yours shoes and you were holding a camera like it was attached to you and you told me you loved me and your eyes were all glassy. we embraced. . I woke up crying. . I miss you. . scratch that. I miss who we were. just two friends laughing in the dirt. . dragging our city asses up angels landing rinsing our sweat in a stream like a dream we were a team then. . we scarfed hot dogs nearly missed our flight from Vegas and it didn’t matter. . we shared a life. dunked our heads in the same bucket. . fuck it. . I wouldn’t say that I forgive you. but I’d say I’d like to. . I’m all out of excuses for you. but I believe you thought you had to later, when you abused your power and I let you. . (Cont in comments or swipe) . . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #filmmaker #queerfilmmaker #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
do you remember the ghost deer when we were so high out of our damn minds coming off that sunset hike in Zion. we couldn’t tell if they were real, the deer, so silent. . you were one of those deer in my dream last night. like I could touch you. . see those deer, they were real. captured on your cam-e-ra. . they didn’t make a sound but we could feel their breath on our sleeves as they past us. . quivering shapes of grey. fearless. maybe they thought we were trees. . and that lady— do you remember that lady? she was singing, maybe, outside our cabin and the Mexican restaurant where it all hit in a THC capsule. . by the time that lady was singing I had to turn in, lay my head on a pillow and digest it. . but you— you blew out of the room, out the door. had to go. go photograph the stars in that dark. . to photograph. like you always do. a need. an action. . I lay under sheets hiding. typing words. what we’d seen. the same thing but a different fraction. . and in my dream, we were somewhere. somewhere different than the one where you died in my arms because no one was there to catch you. . in this dream, I think you’d lost yours shoes and you were holding a camera like it was attached to you and you told me you loved me and your eyes were all glassy. we embraced. . I woke up crying. . I miss you. . scratch that. I miss who we were. just two friends laughing in the dirt. . dragging our city asses up angels landing rinsing our sweat in a stream like a dream we were a team then. . we scarfed hot dogs nearly missed our flight from Vegas and it didn’t matter. . we shared a life. dunked our heads in the same bucket. . fuck it. . I wouldn’t say that I forgive you. but I’d say I’d like to. . I’m all out of excuses for you. but I believe you thought you had to later, when you abused your power and I let you. . (Cont in comments or swipe) . . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #filmmaker #queerfilmmaker #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
I woulda made a good drummer my rhythm is impeccable I can’t play the piano I’ve tried . maybe my fingers are too short maybe this makes me a bad lesbian . is it really, all in the hips? . the moon is hanging mighty fine in the sky tonight and this walk. right? cicadas buzzin and jasmine . I wore your old T-shirt to bed and— . I long for you most in the graveyard of where we used to laugh . and where the ash burned the holes in the clothes like a time stamp . your voice, a still small whisper from somewhere— yes, yes, you can when I am all sure that in fact I can’t . I wonder If ever the wind pushes its lips to your cheek and presses you to think of me . I’m still writing you love letters. . they’re all addressed to myself. . still climbing spider monkey up the shelves of the house we built . and they are full of books and letters and anecdotes modes of thinking I take with me . a frog went hopping across my street on my walk tonight like the ones we used to hear . their chirps would come through the window in that bedroom where your grandmother’s paintings live . and it felt untrue that these frogs that sound could live here too but they do it turns out they do . it’s all you it’s all for you . you took your hands and your hips and left the glances recognition of second chances . your love was a window to climb through I didn’t learn to love myself till I lost you . and see I’m still me here I am still here trying to make a laugh a sound you can hear still here trying to make you proud of me . I’m still writing you letters. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #saygay🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
I woulda made a good drummer my rhythm is impeccable I can’t play the piano I’ve tried . maybe my fingers are too short maybe this makes me a bad lesbian . is it really, all in the hips? . the moon is hanging mighty fine in the sky tonight and this walk. right? cicadas buzzin and jasmine . I wore your old T-shirt to bed and— . I long for you most in the graveyard of where we used to laugh . and where the ash burned the holes in the clothes like a time stamp . your voice, a still small whisper from somewhere— yes, yes, you can when I am all sure that in fact I can’t . I wonder If ever the wind pushes its lips to your cheek and presses you to think of me . I’m still writing you love letters. . they’re all addressed to myself. . still climbing spider monkey up the shelves of the house we built . and they are full of books and letters and anecdotes modes of thinking I take with me . a frog went hopping across my street on my walk tonight like the ones we used to hear . their chirps would come through the window in that bedroom where your grandmother’s paintings live . and it felt untrue that these frogs that sound could live here too but they do it turns out they do . it’s all you it’s all for you . you took your hands and your hips and left the glances recognition of second chances . your love was a window to climb through I didn’t learn to love myself till I lost you . and see I’m still me here I am still here trying to make a laugh a sound you can hear still here trying to make you proud of me . I’m still writing you letters. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #saygay🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
I woulda made a good drummer my rhythm is impeccable I can’t play the piano I’ve tried . maybe my fingers are too short maybe this makes me a bad lesbian . is it really, all in the hips? . the moon is hanging mighty fine in the sky tonight and this walk. right? cicadas buzzin and jasmine . I wore your old T-shirt to bed and— . I long for you most in the graveyard of where we used to laugh . and where the ash burned the holes in the clothes like a time stamp . your voice, a still small whisper from somewhere— yes, yes, you can when I am all sure that in fact I can’t . I wonder If ever the wind pushes its lips to your cheek and presses you to think of me . I’m still writing you love letters. . they’re all addressed to myself. . still climbing spider monkey up the shelves of the house we built . and they are full of books and letters and anecdotes modes of thinking I take with me . a frog went hopping across my street on my walk tonight like the ones we used to hear . their chirps would come through the window in that bedroom where your grandmother’s paintings live . and it felt untrue that these frogs that sound could live here too but they do it turns out they do . it’s all you it’s all for you . you took your hands and your hips and left the glances recognition of second chances . your love was a window to climb through I didn’t learn to love myself till I lost you . and see I’m still me here I am still here trying to make a laugh a sound you can hear still here trying to make you proud of me . I’m still writing you letters. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #saygay🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
I woulda made a good drummer my rhythm is impeccable I can’t play the piano I’ve tried . maybe my fingers are too short maybe this makes me a bad lesbian . is it really, all in the hips? . the moon is hanging mighty fine in the sky tonight and this walk. right? cicadas buzzin and jasmine . I wore your old T-shirt to bed and— . I long for you most in the graveyard of where we used to laugh . and where the ash burned the holes in the clothes like a time stamp . your voice, a still small whisper from somewhere— yes, yes, you can when I am all sure that in fact I can’t . I wonder If ever the wind pushes its lips to your cheek and presses you to think of me . I’m still writing you love letters. . they’re all addressed to myself. . still climbing spider monkey up the shelves of the house we built . and they are full of books and letters and anecdotes modes of thinking I take with me . a frog went hopping across my street on my walk tonight like the ones we used to hear . their chirps would come through the window in that bedroom where your grandmother’s paintings live . and it felt untrue that these frogs that sound could live here too but they do it turns out they do . it’s all you it’s all for you . you took your hands and your hips and left the glances recognition of second chances . your love was a window to climb through I didn’t learn to love myself till I lost you . and see I’m still me here I am still here trying to make a laugh a sound you can hear still here trying to make you proud of me . I’m still writing you letters. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #saygay🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
I woulda made a good drummer my rhythm is impeccable I can’t play the piano I’ve tried . maybe my fingers are too short maybe this makes me a bad lesbian . is it really, all in the hips? . the moon is hanging mighty fine in the sky tonight and this walk. right? cicadas buzzin and jasmine . I wore your old T-shirt to bed and— . I long for you most in the graveyard of where we used to laugh . and where the ash burned the holes in the clothes like a time stamp . your voice, a still small whisper from somewhere— yes, yes, you can when I am all sure that in fact I can’t . I wonder If ever the wind pushes its lips to your cheek and presses you to think of me . I’m still writing you love letters. . they’re all addressed to myself. . still climbing spider monkey up the shelves of the house we built . and they are full of books and letters and anecdotes modes of thinking I take with me . a frog went hopping across my street on my walk tonight like the ones we used to hear . their chirps would come through the window in that bedroom where your grandmother’s paintings live . and it felt untrue that these frogs that sound could live here too but they do it turns out they do . it’s all you it’s all for you . you took your hands and your hips and left the glances recognition of second chances . your love was a window to climb through I didn’t learn to love myself till I lost you . and see I’m still me here I am still here trying to make a laugh a sound you can hear still here trying to make you proud of me . I’m still writing you letters. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #saygay🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
I woulda made a good drummer my rhythm is impeccable I can’t play the piano I’ve tried . maybe my fingers are too short maybe this makes me a bad lesbian . is it really, all in the hips? . the moon is hanging mighty fine in the sky tonight and this walk. right? cicadas buzzin and jasmine . I wore your old T-shirt to bed and— . I long for you most in the graveyard of where we used to laugh . and where the ash burned the holes in the clothes like a time stamp . your voice, a still small whisper from somewhere— yes, yes, you can when I am all sure that in fact I can’t . I wonder If ever the wind pushes its lips to your cheek and presses you to think of me . I’m still writing you love letters. . they’re all addressed to myself. . still climbing spider monkey up the shelves of the house we built . and they are full of books and letters and anecdotes modes of thinking I take with me . a frog went hopping across my street on my walk tonight like the ones we used to hear . their chirps would come through the window in that bedroom where your grandmother’s paintings live . and it felt untrue that these frogs that sound could live here too but they do it turns out they do . it’s all you it’s all for you . you took your hands and your hips and left the glances recognition of second chances . your love was a window to climb through I didn’t learn to love myself till I lost you . and see I’m still me here I am still here trying to make a laugh a sound you can hear still here trying to make you proud of me . I’m still writing you letters. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #actor#love #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #saygay🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
