Escapism

You are the sun that blinds the stars,
you are the glow that dances across the sky
in blues, and pinks, and purples — the colours,
upon scenic winter views of snows capped
pine trees and pine cone mountain peaks.
You are here, always, reflecting the warmth
of your smile upon the surface of the moon,
and letting the milky waves wash on shores.

You are breathtaking, just as you fall asleep
and just as you wake up, and every moment
that fills the seconds in-between.

You are, you are, and you may never believe me,
so I’ll write, and paint, and collect images and ink,
until my bones wane to dust, and my hands become the earth,
and my heart, becomes less and less, and into the air.

I’ll make your beauty undeniable with time,
and against time, and for time, and you’ll last,
forever, and ever more.

Source: my-dear-haphephobic-heart

Breast to breast her weight,

pressed, to rest upon and in

my own; feather-light but firmly

rooted by heartstrings.

Nose to nose, eyes transfixed

on melded reflections of

enchanted souls; united

without knowing why but knowing,

they fit perfectly.

Lips suspended, linger, hesitant.

Warming breath greets warming

breath; birthing tension, creating

energies that reach with unseen

hands, to caress, to kiss

though lips remain parted.

- graciouswords

(via graciouswords)

Source: graciouswords

Her porcelain face

the perfect back drop to eyes

of the bluest skies,

where it kissed the horizon

in misty autumn.

Binding the glistening

Inky blackness.

All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.

George Orwell - Why I Write

(via home-for-writers)

Source: wholesomeobsessive

How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep.. that have taken hold.

J.R.R. Tolkien

(via yourealiveinme)

Source: venebelle

February 7, 2012 35 notes

It’s not always that romantics are loved. They are usually the ones who give and give until there’s nothing left to, usually the ones who love and love until it hurts. It’s not always that their words are returned and they are fine with that. They are the kind who are wont to writing love letters to no one. Some scribble poem, soft tangents on notebooks and coffee shop tissue papers. And upon realizing that the lines are to cheesy, they usually crumple it,and they are fine with that. Write, crumple, keep some, crumple more. It works like messages in bottles drifting with the current, not like boomerangs on tracks that return to its thrower’s hands more often than not. And it’s not always that romantics find another romantic, get a chance to love and be loved in return.

One of the best writer Tumbr has ever had, my bestfriend, my west coast alter, my muse, my cosmic significant, my eternal salvation. It’s not everyday that I get to tell you how special you are but I hope my actions suffice. I am your Sol and my love for you is like the sun— mighty, vibrant and constant. You know it’s there behind the clouds on rainy days, and the light reflected by the moon illuminating the earth during nightime is a reminder that I am there, just there and will always be there.

It’s not everyday that someone calls me the best “photographer” in the world. And not everyone has the ability to call me it without me insinuating otherwise. Not only because I don’t think I am already there, but because I hate labels— specially that label. It’s not everyday that someone writes about me carefully crafted words. Words making intricate details about how disheveled my hair is and believes that I really do not intend it to. Or how I make goofy faces in front of the camera— because that’s how I hide my discomfort. And make vivid descriptions about the color of my eyes, or the way I smile. And it’s not always that someone has me fascinated about how she can sense that I’m sad when I am sad, or troubled when I am.

Because baby, you’re a walking cliche of those first times, a resemblance of rarities and everything in between. It’s not always that I wear this heart on my sleeve. I am not sure about anything to anyone but apparently you got me.

You are such a sweet exception.

Source: pseudoperfection

The Stigma of Romantics

His words, the ones he writes for me, and sends to me — I rarely reblog them, and I don’t often write them somewhere else. There’s this undefinable quality that comes when I read them from where he placed them, like when one first hears their lovers heartbeat, thud, thud, thud, as if a timid child is knocking on a door, bursting with joy and excitement, and nervous energy— it’s beautiful, and no words explain why. It’s authentic, like the taste of dust upon ones tongue when they open a book from a library that hasn’t been looked at before, and when the promise of ‘forever’ felt comprehensible in scheme of things. It’s sweet and warm, like sips of comforting tea on cold winter nights, when it’s past three am and sleeping feels far away, and those first few bites of pancakes dribbled in syrup, the kind that are exactly how mother makes them. It’s a memory that blurs at its edges, the kind one reminisces on while using words that taste like they’ve never reach their tongue before. To take them, to move them from where he left them, I worry they will lose that—that heartbeat, that authenticity, that sweet and warm taste—and may be it’s the romantic in me, but I wish to keep that. I wish to see him like that, every time, for I get a timid drum in the ribcage, butterflies frantic in my chest, a stupid and sloppy grin on my face — being around him is the highest I can get; I’m floating on the peripheral of space, out of oxygen and smiling like a fool.

I don’t want to come back down just yet.

Source: my-dear-haphephobic-heart

3 months ago > my-dear-haphephobic-heart
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The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.

Margaret Atwood

(via cattyeyes)

Source: 4mbivalent

The Right Word

Coarse and ink-stained hands reach once again for the pen. Scattered over the desk, torn and crumpled, are the remnants of the words he couldn’t write, the room bestrewn with the corpses of words sentenced to death. He longed for the black stains to arrange themselves into words worthy of her beauty. Why did the thoughts that knifed his conscience and brought white light to his eyes slip away with such ease? Perhaps he could not bear to be so naked, so open and vulnerable to the world and those sorry creatures that walked its plains. But she was different. Her voice had brushed his heart with the delicate strokes of a master painter, and he could no longer maintain his crumbling defences. For her he would tear them all down, lay bare emotions unfettered to unwrap themselves and stretch themselves awake.

He would, but the English language seemed to falter when it came to expressing exactly how he felt. Lust seemed to him overly limited to carnal desires. Crush, though perhaps adequately describing his sense of being overpowered and reduced to but fragments of his former self, was the word of adolescent emotion, the word of boys not yet become men and girls who fell apart at the softest word; she was not so weak. An infatuation was too ephemeral but the intensity of passion the word connoted came close to what he was feeling. That left love.

Love. It was on the tip of everyone’s tongue, it was scrawled across the walls of every dark alleyway, it was flying on flags from every hippy’s balcony rail. He would hear people say that nothing compared to love; it touched the depths of your soul, could force you across any boundary, broke you inside and out. It made you smile in your sleep, filled your heart with helium, lifted you up and carried you through any tantrum that the world could throw. Then why was it so simple a word? Why was it so common? He had heard the word love used by a pre-adolescent girl to describe her pet pony; he had seen boys proclaim its intensity when discussing their local football club. ‘Love’ meant nothing to him anymore. It was the plaything of children and the dream of the drowned.

Collab with littleliongirrrl

Night

When night has settled itself to sleep beside her, she lies naked upon her sheets and in the darkness, traces her humanity; the braille on the curves of her ribs, their lines swearing faith to her vulnerable skin, as her fingertips sketch his in the shallow pools nestled under the shadows of her hips and tiptoe their prints across the fragile spaces between, until she begins to feel the decay of his breath in the hollow on her collarbone, slow and deep, and faltered at the corners. These are her secrets, folded under the morning as it breaches the layers of her curtains and wanes the blackness into the space of her eyelids — she never forgets them when they hide there and no one can see them, dangling on the tips of her eyelashes.

Source: my-dear-haphephobic-heart

4 months ago > my-dear-haphephobic-heart
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Poetically Profound: The Anatomy Of Your Poem

Words penetrate
Reverberate
Into each and every one of your vertebrae
Assimilate
Combined with your shoulder blades
Make their way
Across to your chest plate
Clavicle and ribcage
Coagulate
Integrate
Veins and arteries
Frayed like fingertips
Poetry drips
Off your anatomy
Pressed lips
Caressed hips
Arrive at thighs
How it feels
To graze knees and heels
I see the syllables in your eyes
Vowels in your bowels
Consonants on your tongue
Sentences meet
At your cheek
Trickle down your neck
Tremble at the touch
Word is flesh
Etched on skin
Felt within
Tears appear
Each stanza reaches to retrace your ears
Replace what you hear
With what you expect
Prose
Flows
Out of your nostrils but you never cover your nose
You sneeze these
Bleed these
Poems
And when they escape
They evaporate
Disintegrate
They go mostly unread and unknown
But I know that they are sacred
And I cherish how they leave you naked
The vulnerability should be celebrated
So you can tell how much your words have resonated
When I see you, I don’t see any body
I see your soul
The Anatomy Of Your Poem

Source: poeticallyprofound

Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.

Mark Z.

(via piuttosto)

Source: slekes

I want to chart the topography of your anatomy
and be fluent in your body language.

Tyler Knott: Shape Shift

I want to be the book that sleeps beside your bed,
the one you reach for when you cannot find the
backs of your eyes and paint with your own ink
to highlight the sentences that highlighted
something inside you. The bent pages and
water damaged spine and the ring of brown
where your coffee mug couldn’t help but sit
when the skin on your fingers couldn’t handle
the heat any longer…

Source: tylerknott.com

"Poets to Come"

Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater
than before known,
Arouse! for you must justify me.

I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back in the
darkness.

I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping,
turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.

Walt Whitman

Source: sharingpoetry

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Page 1 of 11

Escapism

The Stigma of Romantics

The Right Word

Night

Poetically Profound: The Anatomy Of Your Poem

Tyler Knott: Shape Shift

"Poets to Come"

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