what the arms could not hold
lonelyandlistless: We did not always feel such insistent tugging on the sleeve and so we did not remember to cherish time until the moment had passed, the memory marooned, its breath grown short within the parentheses of its existence.
the higher you build the walls around your heart,...
To delight the ear and the eye is a mere sensual indulgence;—true poetry strikes...– Egerton Brydges (via bookoasis)
Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is...– Leonardo da Vinci (via absynthe-words)
PolyesteRiot: A letter. →
polyesteriot: I told you I was scared and you said “There are worse things than being alone.” But I know all about your fear of inadequacy Of turning into your father And going out the way he did. afraid of the inevitable. Ever since that night months ago When we both had a little too…
No More Poetry
lookingforwisdom: no more poetry not for me i’m so fatigued by seriousity broken hearts wounded dreams misery everywhere so it seems dark confessions angry words are all your boyfriends a bunch of turds find some humor get some sleep write me something not quite so deep keep it short take some time to make it fun with silly rhyme
goodpoetry: Even if I now saw you Only once, I would long for you Through worlds, Worlds. Izumi Shikibu
goodpoetry: Love is not the last room: there are others after it, the whole length of the corridor that has no end. Yehuda Amichai
Like standing in front of a woman who says thank you when you tell her you love...– Bob Hicock, Empty Similies (via mirrorsandmirages)
Every moment is a fresh beginning.– T. S. Eliot (via nathanielstuart)
goodpoetry: it is so long since my heart has been with yours shut by our mingling arms through a darkness where new lights begin and increase, since your mind has walked into my kiss as a stranger into the streets and colours of a town— that i have perhaps forgotten how,always(from these hurrying crudities of blood and flesh)Love coins His most gradual gesture, and whittles life to...
Libraryland: "From Childhood's Hour" by Edgar... →
libraryland: From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then—in my…
literarycollective: (the way that people don’t recognize apparent vanity as deep-seeded, denied insecurity)
Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching… I have been bent and...– Charles Dickens (via episkeyy)
And think not you can Direct the course of love, For love, If it finds you...– Khalil Gibran (via pinksubmergence)
Come, see real flowers of this painful world.– Matsuo Basho (via libraryland)
"Hope" is the thing with feathers by Emily...
“Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all— And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard— And sore must be the storm— That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm— I’ve heard it in the chillest land— And on the strangest Sea— Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb—of Me.
Live to the point of tears.– Albert Camus (via libraryland)
pinksubmergence: easy to be mistaken bitter for wanting something better easy to be thought of envious for wanting the chance to choose easy to be called deprived for wanting to be alive easy to be misunderstood fighting for something good.
Creativity comes from trust. Trust your instincts. And never hope more than you...– Rita Mae Brown (via libraryland)
Sparks (Darrell Epp)
mirrorsandmirages: stupefied ex-beauty queens facebooking old flames. husbands, freshly neutered, mowing america’s lawns. the unspeakable realization of futility, the superstitious rabble with their pitchforks. have a beer, read the paper. circular logic, like after a layoff. sweaty comedians dying for a laugh. photons like a shower of sparks, jolting the extras back...
Hard work is a prison sentence only if it does not have meaning. Once it does,...– Malcolm Gladwell (via mirrorsandmirages)
pinksubmergence: i linger only with a few which by experience had stayed when I had not asked them loyalty - stitched together realities readily available through sense and some sanity the obvious and the unclear merge into a funny film about how shy I was and lonely in a crowd how I prefer quietude and wandering over frail logic and the loud.
a flight somewhere
pinksubmergence: a plane riding thin white feathers and piercing cotton grey must speak of a distant farewell at the departure lanes at the other end of the world the sound of jet throttles and the sight of contrails must speak of eager anticipation to touch again.
ruin-me: …and there it goes again while I am stuck at the start line still tracing hearts with my pen while they rush towards finish; and I can see them smiling and I can see them kiss; and now a line that had been drawn is finding itself thoroughly crossed & the piece of paper I’ve scribbled on is crumpled up, shredded, and tossed;
Pavlovian Responses by decla.blogspot.com
Psychic secretions manifest physically, tracing a path I long for him to explore. My Pavlovian responses startle even me. Fantasy intertwined with reality - both jostling for control over the conscious My sub-conscious already lost. My Pavlovian bell - a simple beep from my phone. Message in, flights of fantasy quicken my reach. My psychic secretions a dam of fluid emotions threaten to...
Talking in Bed by Philip Larkin
Talking in bed ought to be easiest, Lying together there goes back so far, An emblem of two people being honest. Yet more and more time passes silently. Outside, the wind’s incomplete unrest Builds and disperses clouds about the sky, And dark towns heap up on the horizon. None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why At this unique distance from isolation It becomes still more...
Prejudices are what fools use for reason.– Voltaire (via pinksubmergence)
She was like the moon—part of her was always hidden away.– Dia Reeves (via sandysays)
Fling but a stone, the giant dies.– Matthew Green (via libraryland)
Perhaps there is a solid bottom to my life beneath which I will never be allowed...– from Success by Martin Amis