My Cross, Your Road
I would tear down these voiden laden Walls of inescapable inextricable nothingness With these all too heavy hands Laced with the bad blood of yesterday’s tomorrows. If I could only with bloodied hands Seal this note of indebted forgiveness I would bid you with love My slighted kiss But would you meet grief with your orange-tipped softened side you Fiery creature of she The...
There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store with a gallon jug of...– “There Is No Word,” Tony Hoagland (via highwayaisle)
TRADING MY SORROWS: Midnight →
shelhevet-yah: I’m not a writer it’s not in my blood. I’m not a writer, it’s not in my blood though they speak with their lips and I hear with my heart. I’m not a writer, it’s not in my blood. Hello for those I love, never goodbye to part. It’s not in my blood, from amidst bright yellow the alphabets…
He would wake from sleep to miss the weight that never depressed the bed next to...– Everything is illuminated, Jonathan Safran foer
I Need to Know
mikefrawley: I need to know who we are some omnipotent dreamer’s grand design an angry god a loving mind on this battered tattered little orb of broken hearts and hollow words I need to know we’re something more no bought sex or drugs for me tonight no quick fix to make me feel I’m OK and all is well are we innocent are we love I need to know this frightened child’s woeful cry will it be heard...
Things that matter are not easy. Feelings of happiness are easy. Happiness is...– David Levithan (Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List)
Unutterably perfect. In another life, maybe.
It's a terrible love
and I’m walking with spiders.
On nights like these
I allow my mind to wonder. I dwell upon what I once forcibly ousted from this new person. I think about how it could have been, and how it might have ended differently. I always end up asking you, figment of a face in my fading imagination; how now, did we lose it all?
Her lucidity was no protection against the inevitable tragedy of her existence.
Enough - Heart, Calm down now. Stop your incessant acrobatics. There is no room in this diaphragm. (my breaths, too, take space) - Stop your fluttering, and doubting, your half-selved vacillating, your chatter, like indistinct blaring from a two-stand radio. Stop, now, for there is no blood left in this beat. - Heart, now, be still, be quiet. Settle in and hide within the confines of my...
TRADING MY SORROWS: It is better for my heart to... →
shelhevet-yah: It is better for my heart to be alone, sworn to secrecy in tomorrow and yesteryear - never to speak of secrets unknown . It is better for my heart to be alone . Before the dusk where no one speaks Crashing silence crawls over Mountains and valleys and lonely peaks, For a pat, a treat…
Worded Past (Me)
Your words slide; cold and casual; Down the surfaces of my overheated skin; eventual Confirmations of my guilt-ridden, self-trodden suspicions. They weren’t unfamiliar altogether, foreign perhaps From the lips that once traced with heat on heat; a relapse of -cold, cold, cold desolation; eleven empty consolations. I try to catch with helpless, futile naivety The fallen letters in my memory ...
Wooden Inches (4 x 4)
Where is all that now? - the foolish grins of recollections; losses, those which we partook in defiant stout-firm stand against the glaciers of cold scrutiny; Where is, now, the icy pool we so eagerly plunged; in one magnificient arc- the acrobatics of fluid currency? With the taste of primal fury we conjured whirlpools of immovable droplets; battled, cold with warmth and stillness with...
Who am I to say?
I don’t know anything at all.
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t...– Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum (via bookmania)
In Your Shoes
I guess, I’m happy for you too.
Love is a bargain.– Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing directed by Nick Perry
She may not be the prettiest, nor the smartest, nor the most charming or...– Tom Stoppard’s “The Real Thing” directed by Nick Perry
I had to choose who to hurt, and I chose to hurt you, because I… Well,...– Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing, directed by Nick Perry
We loved with a love that was more than love.– Edgar Allan Poe (via electrec)
My Days and Nights are One
My days and nights are one; continuous sheet of gray like the black that puffs overtly strong and unstoppable, white cowers, waves one flag in defiance (a white flag). Hollers might you be the dusted chalk that dances the air? the wind that caresses and licks through my hair? desperately oh please, please, give me one formidable piece of substantial something, you undiluted piece of...
As for my confused impressions they will never be written. There are blanks in...– Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea
It was all very brightly coloured, very strange, but it meant nothing to me. Nor...– Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea
The lighted flint of my tobacco wrap flares up for lunch; occassional sparks for tea, consuming; the air is thin. - My eyelids rest heavily, like the balance of night on day; calendar blocks that my limbs drag and trudge on through - While happy bottles line up waiting to be drunk in rows, columns and ambitions sunk; the day caves in as light and light reach an impasse. - The night...
All You Left Me With
A darker past, a weaker heart, a timid love and a thinner frame.
If you were a face Soon you will be faded Fuzzy and gradually blank In my head. Your voice Will be muffled After echoing through the distance of our years; Your colours Will eventually dissolve in a slighted patch On this kaleidoscope of velvets; The backdrop of my life.
It is 4am. I lie awake; eyes wide open, looking into darkness. I am not confused. There is no sadness really, but I cry. For nothing do I shed these non-existent tears; I bleed; and the darkness bleeds me. They trickle down the sides of my face; a faint drip-drip-drop that is silenced before contact with my bedsheets. A quiet conversation; “…” “…” “…” The walls spoke the language...
Once tortured, all your life you remain tortured– A Jewish survivor on the holocaust
Worded Past (Me)
Your words slide; cold and casual; Down the surfaces of my overheated skin; eventual Confirmations of my guilt-ridden, self-trodden suspicions. They weren’t unfamiliar altogether, foreign perhaps From the lips that once traced with heat on heat; a relapse of -cold, cold, cold desolation; eleven empty consolations. I try to catch with helpless, futile naivety The fallen letters in my memory But...
Yellow Banana Magpie
Through glass I believe my view did possess, Orange leaves in the chilly autumn air, Beauty I sought with fleeting happiness, Palettes of pastels; a messy affair. - In person beheld a similar sight, Yellow magpies frolick all too gaily, Their chirping ballads of painful delight, In winds too strong; a shivering valley. - But embers extinguish, the sun recedes, Trunks stoop in a screaming gale;...
This frosty space between my ears
I take a seat at the highest row of this lecture theater in a prestigious institution, it is pleasantly cold as the temperature of the room drops with the amount of warmth within this space, the scratch scratch of cheap ink prancing across these rows of white bound between thin lines of black, re-reading the ambiguous words of the lecturer (he dyed his hair in many shades of different...
Today I realized just how much I meant to her.
It broke my heart.
My Parted Lips; A Wavering Note
I am no stranger to these lines of reason, (their hue-vivid markers of demarcation) nor of the right’s; the wrong’s; the must-be-done’s (those neither present nor absent; the in-between ones). - I am no intruder past these walls of morality, (I put into practice but every man’s faithful infidelity) for one half’s truth lay the other’s blind-sight, (shame...
Essentially, the idea of a “slut” is a myth told to women to keep them in their...– The Slut Myth (via seancing)
But the thing is, it’s hard to let go of that fairy tale entirely, because...– (via eletheowl)