Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.
Quotes
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.
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.
So I’ll drink my coffee until my teeth are stained yellow and my tongue is burnt raw. I will nibble at my toast until it’s too hard to even look at. I will look out the window of the coffee shop and stare into the world. I will try to write my feelings down, but won’t utter not a word. And I will write about how I miss you and how I can’t eat or sleep anymore. And then the waitress will bring my check and I will sign away, no matter my debts. I will leave the coffee shop late, into the polluted streets of your favorite city. And I will walk till I reach the end of the sidewalk and my mind finally stops bugging me. I will. I promise.
m.j.w., “my promise to you” (via wnq-writers)
keep calm child,
the waves that are threatening to swallow you,
are just darker days that have yet to catch up.
you are faster than light, than a thousand hearts racing,
I am trying to tell you that
we all sputter a little trying to break the surface
skin
bone
air
anything,
do not fret
we are all endlessly swimming
you are not alone in this. K. Kazik. (via these-chains-are-daisies)
this is not a love story.
this is a broken wine bottle and dripping red on counter tops,
different sized socks scattered on the floor
and left over tears still
longing to dry.this is me telling you the history of us;
10 fingers, 10 toes
curled up limbs and
fogged up windows.3am and I try not to miss you.
3am, I am sorry that monsters don’t write love stories,
they write eulogies.
these are the words we wish from ourselves. K. Kazik. (via these-chains-are-daisies)
The scariest thing about distance is that you don’t know whether they’ll miss you or forget you.
I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.
James Michener
(via nothingwithoutwords)
(via nothingwithoutwords)
Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possible have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possible work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, than you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint.
Always worth it to have tried, even if you fail, even if you fall like a meteor forever. Better to have flamed in the darkness, to have inspired others, to have lived, than to have sat in the darkness, cursing the people who borrowed, but did not return, your candle.
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless,—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves (via wordsnquotes)
Love never gives up, but passion must be fed to last….
MzP
(via soul-and-blues)
(via soul-and-blues)
Old love is always as good as new love. Sometimes better.
MLM
Once in a while it really hits people that they don’t have to experience the world in the way they have been told to.
Why is self confidence arrogant? Why is self-depreciation considered modesty? I worked my [butt] off to be able to have a high opinion of myself. It took a long time and many, many years, and I’m never going to tell – let anyone tell me that I should think less of myself.
Ronda Rousey (via wnq-anonymous)
The opposite of Loneliness is not Togetherness, It’s Intimacy.
Why didn’t it happen between us? Why did I fail? Why did you come close enough… and no closer ?
The most important thing is to be true to yourself, however you feel, and not try to feel or behave differently because you think you should, or someone has told you how you must feel. But do think about it. Unexamined feelings lead to all kinds of trouble.
Oceans of Mine 