Stevie Scared by Richard Edwards
Stevie Scared, scared of the dark, Scared of rats, of dogs that bark, Scared of his fat dad, scared of his mother, Scared of his sis and his tattooed brother, Scared of tall girls, scared of boys, Scared of ghosts and sudden noise, Scared of spiders, scared of bees, Scared of standing under trees, Scared of shadows, scared of adders, Scared of the devil, scared of ladders, Scared of...
The Night Is Darkening Around Me, a poem by Emily...
darksilenceinsuburbia: The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow, But a tyrant spell has bound me, And i cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow; The storm is fast descending, And yet i cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me: I will not, cannot go.
chapter-eight: Here is a fire, Impossible to see, Fire in the space between who I am And who I want to be.
The question of us, always heavy on my mind like a weight, burdened with timely revelations of your true colours, has finally lifted. And I Am free.
In a Time by Maya Angelou
In a time of secret wooing Today prepares tomorrow’s ruin Left knows not what right is doing My heart is torn asunder. In a time of furtive sighs Sweet hellos and sad goodbyes Half-truths told and entire lies My conscience echoes thunder In a time when kingdoms come Joy is brief as summer’s fun Happiness, its race has run Then pain stalks in to plunder.
They Went Home by Maya Angelou
They went home and told their wives, that never once in all their lives, had they known a girl like me, But…They went home. They said my house was licking clean, no word I spoke was ever mean, I had an air of mystery, But…They went home. My praises were on all men’s lips, they liked my smile, my wit, my hips, they’d spend one night, or two or three, But…
You will get little or nothing from the printed page if you bring it nothing but...– Walter Pitkin (via libraryland)
Unpolished Skills: my tumblr tuesday... →
myblisslikethis: is YOU. if you write, write from the pit of your stomach and in between the beats of your heart and write to please yourself above others. learn that it’s okay to let syntax take a backseat to sincerity. forgive yourself an uncrossed T or a spelling error and instead revel…
A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like...– Marcus Garvey (via libraryland)
vy: I am your moon and your moonlight too. I am your flower garden and your water too. I have come all this way, eager for you, Without shoes or shawl. I want you to laugh, To kill all your worries, To love you, To nourish you. -Rumi
I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I have just lived the...– ~Diane Ackerman (via afterrains)
Our footprints always follow us On days when it’s been snowing They always...– Winnie the Pooh, A to Z book. (via libraryland)
pseudopoetry: i was lucky to have come out unscathed by the truth you have trivialized love at least my faith came in like a parachute
The purpose of freedom is to free somebody else.– Alice Walker (via aphoenixrising)
Ten Thousand Things: Poetry boring? →
millet: Poetry boring? THESE ARE ENTRIES TO A WASHINGTON POST COMPETITION ASKING FOR A TWO-LINE RHYME WITH THE MOST ROMANTIC FIRST LINE, AND THE LEAST ROMANTIC SECOND LINE: 1. My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife, marrying you has screwed up my life. 2. I see your face when I am dreaming, that’s why I always wake up screaming. 3. Kind, intelligent, loving and hot, this...
When You Come by Maya Angelou
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an attic, Gatherings of days too few. Baubles of stolen kisses. Trinkets of borrowed loves. Trunks of secret words, I CRY.
…here she is, all mine, trying her best to give me all she can. How could I ever...– Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun (via pseudopoetry)
I believe in poetry as a way of surviving the emotional chaos, spiritual...– Gregory Orr, The Making of Poems : NPR (via mooochelle)
In My Country by Jackie Kay
walking by the waters, down where an honest river shakes hands with the sea, a woman passed round me in a slow, watchful circle, as if I were a superstition; or the worst dregs of her imagination, so when she finally spoke her words spliced into bars of an old wheel. A segmet of air. Where do you come from? ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Here, these parts.’