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never let anyone tell you that trawling through mediocre victorian poetry isn't worth it. we just happened upon an absolute BANGER of a worm poem. go read it or else 🪱🪱🪱

The most sure sign that someone doesn’t know much about poetry is when they insist that poetry has to rhyme.

And the most sure sign that someone is a little too pretentious about poetry is when they say that they hate rhyming poetry.

“Keep fighting.

“I know you’re bruised and battered and bloody. I know you’ve been fighting for too long. I know you’re hopeless and broken and so, so tired. But you have to keep fighting. If you don’t, there’s nobody left. All this, everything you were fighting for in the first place, it’s all gone. You’re the only one left, and I’m sorry that you have to do this. I know how much you want to just surrender to that awful, bone-deep exhaustion that’s making it hard to even breathe, let alone move. But if you don’t keep fighting, you’ll die, and everyone else will die with you.

“Get up. You can’t surrender. You can’t yield.

“Get up. You can’t lose hope. Remember their faces, the ones that you’re fighting for. Remember the things you’re protecting. Remember everything you have to loose.

“Get up. Grab your weapon. You’re not dying like this.

“If we go down, we go down swinging, remember? That’s what you always said. You have to stay determined. You were always so stubborn, so where’s all that stubbornness now? Find it. You have to find it.

“If you have to die, you’re dying on your feet. You’re taking them all down with you.

“If you’re going to hell, then you’re going to fight it every step of the way. Yell and struggle and make it as hard for them as possible. Kill the goddamn devil if you have to.

“Get up. You’re not done here.

“Get up.

“…

“…Please.

“Please, get up.

“I’m begging you. Get up. Keep fighting. Please.

“You can’t die like this.”

附近30 Nearby30

Translation: Guandi Wu

Proofreading: Amir Hampel

#1,501

blistered fingertips scratch against constricting linen

i lay in a bed of moss

underneath my grandmothers afghan

and woke surrounded in mold

the clay beneath

tugs, tearing open old gashes

revealing layers of decay

interlocking rigid muscle tissue

every motion scattering spores

i find myself coughing, clenching

crawling through the colonies

for

i am not

your

host

i am only

flesh

and

blood

and yet

that flesh is powdered in mildew

that blood is blooming

i will not yield

i swear

i will taste fresh air

alongside a mushroom omelette

without an inkling of a sour memory

but i fear

i am

rotting

Poetry? More like CROWETRY!

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did you guys see the poem from a couple of days ago in poetry dot org’s daily poem it was so good and a treat to read 

--message to my therapist, 2025

having grown up doing community theatre and then some professional shows, i genuinely believe from the very bottom of my heart it is crucial that any human with the desire to perform on a stage gets the chance as many times as they like. singing and dancing are innate to humanity yet we've made it inaccessible to all but the select few we deem "good enough" to tolerate. i think people with no pitch and no rhythm and who can't remember their lines should get to be in musicals and plays and choirs and i mean that.

and community performing arts groups & venues shouldn't have to rely on ticket sales to fund their programs. they should be paid for by taxes and freed to focus solely on engaging & enriching the communities in which they exist.