Two dumb writers, is fashioned by the melding of two individuals who enjoy putting words on paper. The dumb writers are two college friends, and English majors both sharing a passion for writing but not always the talent. Each writer thinks the other is eloquent, while their own writing not so much. After the realization that an English degree will take them as far as the steps of their college, this blog has become an outlet for inspiration. We believe people’s creative expressions are necessary to season the tofu of our world. To enrich society we invite any writers out there to also put forward their creations to be featured on our blog, along with any links/emails they have. Just email anything you may have to us at email@example.com.
To introduce ourselves we each wrote a poem about ourselves and our colleague:
She is Virginia’s wolf with Audrey’s looks
Slap me with quips of stupid for such remarks.
A friend of mine and to all feline alike
Purrs out prose with senses stitching your mind
Making stars unscramble to boggle out
Words embraced in sight.
Modernity not her cup of tea.
Lady of finishing school, minding
Her curtsies with pinkies provision
Till chocolate comes to play.
Prodding squints and bubble checks,
Bulged out smiles barking chocolate beards
Till taps of napkins vanquish embarrassed feet’s.
An awkward soul, laughing as she speaks
Always splintering smiles with silent snorts.
It’s rather flattering having her self-conscious
Show. Till heaps of wine weave tanks of
Verbose affronts my way
In most Cinderellaest of ways.
As, Aryan as Hitler would like.
Just seasoned a bit kosher with
Lime sprinkled in the eyes.
Too shy to say hi, rather not
Fissure your existence and
I’ll just sit here and write.
Concoction of Gandhi, Socrates, and Marx.
Lusting to share ideas by the orchard tree
Creating daydreams with pigmented bristles
But, wedged in keg stands with nine to five
Fighting for first steps somewhere.
Rain banter of hypocritical speech.
Hiding behind snark comments, quick quips
Up-heaving your happiness forgetting mine
Because, No is absent my lexicon.
Wishing more than I let on
Picasso of personalities
Protruding potholes as they please
A polka who likes to bake and dream,
With your mirror or mine.
– by Him
She is your breakfast
untouched, omitted, idiosyncratically dished
with berries and picturesque syrup,
laboriously scrambled eggs, which you won’t eat,
because you’re late.
It’s too early.
You’re on a diet.
You’ve got to walk the dog.
You’re girlfriend left you.
Your credit card debt is piling up.
Or the dance steps left on a wooden floor,
sanded and glazed over a thousand times,
crying in silent shuffles,
1,2,3, I remember.
I am here.
Because one night some man held her hand,
and with the other, encompassed the small of her back entirely,
and swayed her beneath the moon.
He whispered ‘you’re the best one here.’
Before the liquor became too strong, and the cabs were called,
and the bridge called her home.
And that night happened again,
and a hundred times more.
Then she became the reflection
in the mirror.
The one you can avoid if you think
really hard about something else.
But the dark eyes will always find you,
because they are yours.
He stood in pages,
in rain drops,
in quiet minds.
Resting, waiting, watching.
A shadow burrowed in a single moment
as a thousand shores shiver at the taste
of salt water,
and the earth shifts,
just a morsel,
pushing two to sets of lips together
– By Her