Ariel Poets on Twitter

Ariel Poets is a Twitter Poetry and writing account that was created by Alexandra Meehan and myself. We run the account and help writers and poets around the world by inspiring them with our tweets. Twitter has sone phenomenal poets and writers. We have writing prompts that we are featuring on a monthly basis. Use the hashtag #arielpoets and write a poem about betrayal. For the month of January, betrayal is the theme. Follow us on Twitter @ArielPoets to read our daily inspirational writing tweets. Our inspirations are Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.

This tweet on Ariel Poets is our most popular one yet. Take a look https

You can also find Ariel Poets on Instagram.

Take a look at what we are doing there too.

Thank you,

June second

the lights are red, but i want to go up

into the sky. drive right through

the pink and purple all night long.

this is my porn. you text me

your naughty, i’ll dream

in the fucking clouds. it’s june

second, two thousand and fifteen,

remember the 80’s? i relive them.

another full moon? do you

really care all that much? stop

howling. i feel it in every cell.

you’re fucked up.

I think my imagination

is so wild

even you

would run away.

but, you stay, you

make me believe

that the sunset

was a masterpiece

and the darkness

its palette.

the moon controls us

like love, we’re


to its pulling effect.

catch me tonight at

nine pm…its’ my son’s

award ceremony,

but i’ll still be falling

from the sky.

don’t forget to look up

and extend your arms,

even if you don’t see me.

Sunday morning portrait, 2015

You may wonder

who I am

or who you are

or who we are together.

or apart?

leading highway lives

from the end to the start.

I saw you first

you were talking with friends

embarked on your high horse,

the room was hazy,

smoky, jazzy, of course.

Did you forget your desire?

At first glance,

was there a burning fire?

Were you in a poetic trance?

or a real life dance?

I am no one you want to love

been there and done that,

let my need float up above

blend with the sky

I fall out from

like a gift from the Greek gods’ nectar pie

here to ease your numb

feelings from life,

the blended coffee strife…

which to choose?

I forgot, you take no cream,

you never lose,

you are high above all the sports’ teams

the judgement call

you like to watch me fail, fall –

admit it –

nothing would please you more

than to hear me


like a paid whore

You do not have to put

your hands in your pockets,

I am free, I need no wallets,

no words of lies

please wear your secret lockets

and cover my eyes

in seductive disguise.

I should be asleep

but the words are heavy, knee deep

in your sweet-smelling mud.

I like it

when I am drowning

in my own flood.

Not any closer to who I am

just take my fucking hand

eventually we will land.

Everybody loves my baby

Once you told me keep on running baby

break on through

with your words, your drive, your sexy

energy. Once you told me to stay,

don’t leave, come back from the dead,

from the people you never meet. Here I am

in all my vulnerability; everyone loves you baby,

but no one knows you. I can hold

your hair back while you let out your fears

all over the toilet. Tell me your favorite poem,

lay back and listen to the words while I whisper

them in your ear. Destroy the times of the day

with your lips. Open all my closed doors and

dig deep because the treasure is waiting. Hoping.

Caring. Singing. Loving,

No one can be as patient as I am. Flocking to

concerts, art shows, literary festivals, and

still you are not in the crowd with me. Poetry is

the destruction and motivation of our lives. Breaking

me up inside, spreading my legs wide for you,

salt sea baths under water.

It is a short song, a long sigh

a poetry book in the making

with no buyers. Who buys poetry books

anymore? It is a short poem

with tons of nuances, spices

of love to ignite some recipe

within you. I check up on nothing.

Just to see your name and how

everyone loves you. You wait for her

I wait for him. Maybe the crowd

will disappear, as it eventually does.

Valentine’s essay

When I gave you my red beating heart, I didn’t take it back. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I’m giving love lessons to young minds and making them watch Barbara Streisand and Love Story clips along with other Disney characters in romantic love scenes. Breeding young minds more about love than boxes of chocolates and flowers. What is love? Who do you love the most and why? And the reasons that a five year old gives as opposed to us is not the same at all. So simple to love and so lovely to be so simple. I wanted to write a poem, but I’m out of rhymes and free verse for the moment. There is a hole in my heart, so opted for an essay. I was always good at those. In prose form, I will tell you, my imaginary lover and friend, how I love…deeply, madly, without restraints, with my heart, my soul and truly my mind. Once you get my mind, the complexities of it, the rare forgiveness and spiritual birds it hears, then perhaps you can comprehend my misplaced anger. It can stem from love because it all stems from there. I was loved, ’tis true. I was adored, ’tis true. None of that matters though, because, when someone has the gift of seeing and writing what others are not able to, you feel alone and trapped within your own mind. NO matter how ‘normal’ it all appears to be, inside there is a volcano. A dormant one, like Mont Royal, waiting to erupt. As for love and Valentines’ s, I look at my co-worker and we’re practically in tears, over romance, love scenes, nostalgia, memories and we break into a silly laugh. It’s funny how love simply connects us all.

Weak night in February

I misunderstand the way words slide by

and land in your gut

I forget how sensitive you are

under all that armor.

You might see me

as a lost artist

(why the fuck you taking so many naps today?)

or not one at all

(you are so fucked up)

or a woman with too many books

(another one, you’re really out of control)

instead of shoes of every color.

I may appear hard


then the warmest softest glow

emanates like the moon

(you are amazing)

But what notion is this?

Why are you sleeping again?

Take some of my weakness

between your hands

and feel it

at five am

on a full moon

running from window to window

to stare at the strength

drive me to finish my other book.

So I read you, you talk to me,

you tell me you are a true artist

and I know how poets see past

the brick walls.

I repeat nothing

only to myself

over and over

like a prayer for the dead.

Pile up the outfits

give them away

delete the words

soothe the soul

with Depeche Mode playlists.

He always thinks I need to be saved

but perhaps

I am doing the saving.

So melodramatic

soap operas have nothing on us

and I have never met a therapist

I liked

so avoid the phone calls

file up my cabinets

with antique manuscripts

and a handful of pens

read me

read me not

save me

save me not

hate me

hate me not

love me

love me not.

You say too much or too little

I shut off my engine

migrating and hibernating

always doing something to stay in

the present.

Write me

write me not

I have nothing to do

with that fucked up myth

of the muse.

And I don’t believe everything I read

just the parts

that are for me.

Your version

I think your version is my favorite love poem I’ve read. I think you captured the moment far better than I ever could. I let my tears show me the way, but then the song Take Me To Church plays and I get trapped in my mind. I want to give you all of me on a silver tray and ask you to be gentle and tear away at me. I think you are a true gent from a time long gone and a lost generation. It’s not in the way you held my jacket, or the way your eyes slid up and down my body, but the way you held it in that drew me in. I can’t do justice to any of it through a poem, or a story, but I will try. I think that attraction exists to pour out the demons to one another; the dark, the light, the in-between blurry parts. I could be playful, silly, spontaneous, strong, and

you may think you have me pegged me, and that’s when

you haven’t

but it’s weird how every day I wake up and I could feel differently, except not really for you.

I sleep and wake to you.

I turn the sheets inside out for you.

I think you can meet me half/way or all/the/way or no/way; I think you have me confused with someone else, someone who you’ve met, but mostly I think you’re just as shocked as I am that we are actually kind of normal in a place where that rarely exists.

my gift

If I had a way of controlling the morning sun, I would rip it from the sky and place it just above your bed.

Upon opening your eyes, your first sight would be the colour of my love.

The Bridge interlude

The closer I come

the further you feel.

I could not tell you

because you did not want to know

then I did not want the truth
no matter its profound beauty

it is hard to look at your shadow

for so many months

hard to love you

when you put up concrete fences.

On that full moon

I would tell nobody

die with it

live with it

breathe with it

why ask at all?

I wore my high heeled blue shoes.

Someone may know more than you

and so ready to peek inside my soul

while you sleep awake

and wonder about fate.

I am starting to not trust the internet

and it all started in Soho

the information lied

your hopefulness

my mood swings

my answers

your neighborhood.

Little things tell me what you want

and it may not be

so deep inside of me

as I first thought

it could be as far away as oceans are

safe from my loneliness.

Relying on technology and shoes to get me places closer to you

when in essence
it is further away.

empty space

Woke up to your sounds
some kind of growl
similar to Ginsberg’s Howl
when magic gloves were something wacky
poetry still did not mean a thing
as the Beat Generation continued their song
except me and the few
that saw those portals open
unfamiliar senses and sounds
of lost loves and words so profound
our senses were alive
with the realization
of how tulips lived and died
and the beauty never lied.

Fancy that you, baby, can comprehend
how my love rides
on tulips’ waves
their intensity, purity
their unspoken poetry.
Every word erased
is replaced within my soul
sprouting spring seeds
in the middle of Fall.
The letters in your name
as magical as mine
are to you,
so strong, full of inner fame.

These words are from my pages,
pondered on ink
then let loose on thumbs
tiny screen aches
morning solitude
pre-dawn dates
taken from my cup
to yours.

My doubt is grand
but when you hold out your hand
my faith sees the stairs
to your magical door.

I believe every blessed word
tantalizing and pure.

I cross out and rewrite now
too much thinking
on a full moon night
now day
now mine & yours.

I sleep, I wake
I wake, I sleep
and there you are
smiling at my return
watching me
watch you
watching you
watch me
this perpetual need
to be as One
and cease this infantile run.

Montreal is the call
as you wrap yourself
around me
in this empty space.