I found I could say things with colour and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way - things I had no words for.
— Georgia O’Keeffe. (via martyr-windsor)
Throwing them Back
I found pieces of you
in my hair,
in my skin,
in my memory.
I found pieces of you
in my room
in my mind
in my life.
I found pieces of you
and you refused to take them back,
and I no longer want them.
Topography
lead me somewhere ive never been,
she murmured as his hands
found space
between her lungs & ribcage,
cupping the bird in her heart.
take me where i dont have to
feel anymore.
& so he did just that.
he spread her legs
like
a map,
sinking beneath the folds
tracing veins like roads
taking paths
like the miserable take wine
& she fell into each moan
the way we fall into poems;one
line
at
a
time.
the bird fluttered
once more in her
chest
before it died.
People who talk about their dreams are actually trying to tell you things about themselves they’d never admit in normal conversation.
— Chuck Klosterman
Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth-but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
— ‘The Great Gatsby’ by F. Scott Fitzgerald
My advice to young poets? Devastate me. That’s the only thing poetry is for.
— Richard Siken
a type of euthanasia.
put the fire out, you wrote.
i will
i will
before i close my eyes,
i will, i promise,
before i go to sleep.
the flicker, though,
it warms me.
it catches fire inside,
and crawls up my skin,
it chases away the chill.
even dying embers
are beautiful, aren’t they?
even dying embers have breath,
have life,
until they run out of air.
put the fire out, you wrote.
i will
i will.
i never did, i forgot.
you wrote on paper,
paper i burned.
nocturnal.
we creatures of the night,
we children of stardust,
drawn out
like moths to the moon;
to explore the oceans
of mist and shadow,
to dance
in the wet grass
with naked feet,
warm and alive.
yes,
we were alive,
we inhaled the night
and savored the taste
of it
on our lips
and tongues
and deep down
in the caverns of our lungs,
we lived
and breathed
while the rest of them
could only dream.
People fall so in love with their pain, they can’t leave it behind. The same as the stories they tell. We trap ourselves.
— Chuck Palahniuk (via infatuatedwithimagination)
