She had a big love inside her, and she needed to give it.
Author: meredithlmm
Entrepreneur • Writer • Poet • Lover of Great Wine, Food, Cocktails, & Brewed Beverages • My best friends are feline 🐈🐈⬛🐈⬛
Don’t be morbid. Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
i am
afraid
that if i
open
myself i will not
stop pouring. (why do i fear
becoming a river. what mountain
gave me such shame.)
When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.
Praise God for those two insomnias
and the difference between them.
You can abuse my emotions and toss them aside,
but like the masochist I always am,
I may still find a way to love you.
hozane, To the memories of my childhood (via wnq-writers)
Il est moi, aussi, je ne sais pas pourquoi.
She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by-
And never knew.
To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man’s-land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh. To live is to be willing to die over and over again.
Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.
Defy Nothing
It is no wonder you struggle with me:
Your life is so many rules,
Never to break.
You would not come back to this place where we met,
Where I am now,
You would be aghast at my sitting so close,
In casual defiance (not “belligerence”),
To your friends.
Do not think that it is in defiance of you,
For you do not embody these rules,
These conventions that say I must not.
I am looking for something,
I realized:
I am looking for me, for my place in this world.
I am looking for my freedom from you.
I am looking for the place where joy exists without your face,
Where my every thought is not consumed by you.
And, yes, as you are in my bloodstream,
I wouldn’t mind seeing you.
But I haunt the places where I’ve loved,
My body an apparition of its own
Seeking solace, seeking reason
Defying death.
We are Phoenix, do you remember?
Dying and living time and again;
We are who we are without each other,
We are who we are with each other;
We are who we are regardless of each other,
In every time and place.
The challenge, my dear, is the remembering –
Not everything else
But ourselves, regardless of everything.
That, my love,
Is The Game:
Remember-and-Forget
Live-and-Die
Love-Others-and-Oneself;
It is The-Impossible-Made-Real,
The-Primordial-Paradox-Eternal…
The thing I love most
That you love most
And that, my dearest one,
Is what drew you to me
Is what pulled me to you
Is the soul-searching habit we always are.
“Sometimes, I can’t believe it,
I’m moving past the feeling
Again…”
We are all homeless, my love,
And carry our home everywhere we go.
We are all loveless, my dear,
And carry all of our love within.
We are all empty, my sweet,
That we may breathe the world every day.
We are all unsure, my darling,
And learn forever as we go.
We are all shy, my eternal one,
Kissed by the world for reaching out.
We are always together, always apart,
‘Tis the paradox of life, made whole by love.
I have found myself again, in my defiance.
May you find yourself wherever,
However you go.
*Credit to Arcade Fire for lyrics from The Suburbs
Song for a Sultan
So,
You think that it is ended,
That it is all my fault.
I can bear the weight of our responsibilities,
I can bear the weight of the pain of our unborn affair,
Trapped within my belly like this wound that now ails me.
I can absorb it,
Heal these wounds in me
Because I still love.
I walk around our city,
Streets from where we met and fell in love –
Whether you choose to acknowledge the truth of that or not –
And I still fall in love –
But not with you –
With city streets and the dim grey light of an autumn day
Upon tall brick walls holding in the greenery, the ancient stones of the dead;
With the tall spires of obelisks and mirrored skyscrapers miles beyond;
With the kindness of strangers who, in an innocence you covet, connect.
I can fall in love with everything,
Remaining lovely through waves of quiet grief that spill my loss…
Yet you, in handsome suit and cuff links,
Cannot admit the truth of yours,
Cannot admit the truth of ours,
Cannot admit the truth of us;
Your face, your eyes darkened in unclaimed grief;
Your lips snarled in bitter, unspoken and mis-directed self-reproach;
Your fingers curled in hated agony that I yet see…
Can you not?
Will you deny what is so obvious to me?
Will you continue to believe your mass of Sultan’s Men and Girls
Who bow so eagerly before their master,
And call them “friend” who abets your lies?
I am the child who is too innocent to lie;
I am the child who cares not for your throne;
I am the child who points, incredulous, and cries:
“The man wears nothing but skin upon his bones!”
Will you banish me from your sight, ashamed to admit
That you were not even duped, but did cowardly concede
To ideas sold at the price of life and love and dreams;
Will you ask me to pluck my own eyes out so I may never see?
The pain I bear of My Love’s distance,
Of unjust banishment hanging upon his brow
And he pays, though I would not have it,
With his beauty even, with his consciousness,
And calls it “progress,” thereby forsakes his very name.
Woe does not become you, my dear; you wear it poorly.
For me, it is a veil I must occasionally wear.
I fear it not: I love too well beneath;
It guards love, beauty and my life
As your ways, you – and others – would try as well to do
Yet fail, so terribly, and miserably too.
You do not look. You will not see:
Not me; not yourself, your friends, anything.
You will not love, and cannot, thus, connect with reality.
Be true, my love.
Rest, breathe, connect.
Become yourself, and swim back to me.
I have not left your lands,
Have not left you,
Have not left me;
Connect with me, not after another year,
But now, and soon,
Before your guilt catches and strangles your given name.
You have not wronged me, my love.
Your lies do not wrestle me.
I only miss you, as I’ve always said,
And your heart knows you love me.
Why else the greyed face?
Why else the sunken cheeks and blackened eyes?
Live, my love.
Forgive yourself; let go of me.
See, then, if we are drawn still –
As we still are, through our own friends and chance acquaintances;
As we still are, through our respective lives;
As we still are, through promises once made
From your heart and soul to mine
From my heart and soul to yours
When we were He and She, in flesh, for some few days.
“I think we just missed each other,” she said. “You fell in love with me too late. I loved you prematurely.
"And don’t you think it’s a terrible joke that the universe is playing? Do you suppose we can reverse the clocks?
I’ll walk a little slower this time,” she said, “I’ll give you a chance to catch up.”
Excerpt from a story blossomfully will never write.
This is so lovely. Honestly. Gosh.
So you win. You forgot about me while I was still saying your name in my sleep. Even now, I wake up in the middle of the night and it’s still about you. Look, I can’t forget it. I won’t forget it. You don’t forget the people you love, you just learn to live with them somewhere still inside of you.
2 years // thewordsyouneverunderstood (via thewordsyouneverunderstood)
It’s not been two years… But I feel the same, and I suspect I always will.
Translation: There is no love without fear of love.
Traducción: No hay amor sin miedo al amor.
Still Saturday
I don’t know why you had to leave
But you left.
I can’t believe the words you spoke,
Except as filtered flickers of the truth.
It’s ok.
The rain still falls and the leaves still wave on a Saturday.
The music we love still plays,
Still stirs my heart on a lazy day
Even if you are not here,
Even if you are somewhere miles away.
I will not follow anyone’s rules on love.
I will not follow anyone else’s heart.
I will lay here and heal
I will remember you, feel you here
I’ll let the stealthy rain cry my eyes’ tears
Imagine they kiss your lips, cheeks, hands, hair
As I still wish to do,
As I still love you.
Look, people forget their dreams before they go to rub their eyes in the morning. You’re a dream that never stops no matter how many times I rub my eyes.
(via sexsesh)
Take pictures for me, okay? Wherever you are, I want to know what the sky looks like.
I’ll take them for you too; of the streets, of the clouds; of the people who smile and frown as they walk. I’ll capture freeze frames of stray cats and pruned dogs and monkeys at the zoo. And the sunset, and the sunrise, and the rain as it falls and makes the ground shiny and wet.
Take pictures of your hands, the veins in your arms, like blue railway lines. Take me to your heart and don’t ever let me leave. Photograph that sapling tree, and the cherry blossoms that float down past your window. Show me the mess that the petals make on the pavement, like a crime scene in the park. Mother nature can be deadly too.
Some wise guy once said that a picture was worth a thousand words, and I know that you’re not much into poetry. So I’ll get started on a sonnet, and pick up metaphors and diction and syntax as I go.
And while I’m doing all that, send me a picture, okay? I’d like to see the sky, and the bakery at the end of your road. Show me everything, or anything. I want to see it all. I want to see it wherever you are.
S.Z. // Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #187 // A picture a day. Send me a picture a day. (via blossomfully)
Moi aussi.
Please, this is why I beg you,
Why I’ve begged you
Always
To take pictures for me.
And you take pictures for you,
For your vanity,
For your myriad of friends and lovers and adoring fans;
But I alone
Love you.
I wrote a poem about you once.
I was lonely one Tuesday night,
And instead of going straight to having conversations with the cracks in the walls or the creaks in my bones
I decided to pour the thoughts of you into ink
And immortalize you on paper instead.
You see, there’s a saying I read once that claimed that if a writer falls in love with you,
Then you could never die.
And if that’s true, love, then you’ll live on forever
Because I lied just now.
I didn’t write a single poem about you.
You are the kind of person who can’t ft into one poem.
You, you are worth odysseys, and stories, and grand myths
I could write novels about how your name fills my lungs like smoke.
And how my pulse seems to scream when your mouth hangs like a crooked painting.
I could write novels about how my hands will always search for yours in complete darkness, how you seemed to split open my heart
And I can’t stop the hemorrhaging of affection as it runs red rivers towards my fingertips.
My love, my dearest, my friend,
I could write hundreds of novels about you.
Just…You. And you’re magic ability to make me feel like my pieces aren’t just stitched up with trite promises and scotch tape.
This novel isn’t the biggest, and it won’t affect thousands of people,
But I’ll tell you right now that it affected me a thousands different ways.
A thousand different times.
Oceans of Mine 