I read. I write. I still dumb.
“Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.” — Edgar Allan Poe
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I went off to think. No, to sulk, under the blazing eye of the relentless sun.

Never had I felt so alone. So distant.  And so misunderstood. I began to drift deeper into the recesses of my mind when suddenly, loud and obnoxious, my inner thoughts shouted at me in a language indecipherable.

"What do you want from me?" I called back, 

But only to the wind. 

I could tastes the staleness of want like dry air and dust it had collected in the corners of my mouth,

It had chapped my lips.

I wanted someone to love me—I’d never been in love. I wanted to love someone. The weight of my words were dragging me deeper in thought.

With a sigh and longing, I brought back that loud indecipherable babble. 

I choked back my tears, “Why are you here?” 

A silence hushed even the beating of my heart, and as if by some way of alien mimicry my thoughts cried out….

"Why are YOU here?" 

I could smell the foulness of despair, it was starting to leak from every bodily orifice. “What is that?”

"Loneliness," My inner thoughts screamed "Now, answer us!"

I wondered, was it going to kill me, this loneliness? 

After all, I wasn’t really alone. I was with my thoughts.

"Why are you here?" they howled, a blinding epiphany, it was not some philosophical question posed—No, not even they wanted me around. 


They Wanted Me Angry

I would have never been good enough for them even on my good days. My best days. My purple and royal blue days. Marigold and hunter green days. 

They wanted me angry and spitting rhymes all the time. They wanted me hanging folks with hyperbolies, crucifying with conundrums, and “off —-with— their headssss”. Said in that droll drawn out way.

I just wanted to write beautifully.

Softly, sadly, full of melancholy.

They wanted me militant, a soldier ready to battle. A centurion of the cypher. A man hater, a warrior of words wounding with every verb.

I just wanted to write beautifully.

Scintillating similes twisted and tangled up in alliteration. 

They wanted me shouting from some cheap soap box reeking of vexation and down for the cause. Fist raised, collected poets praised—damn near android like. 

I just wanted to evoke something real, to write beautifully, and to move people to feel. 

I suppose that even on my good days, words perfectly juxtaposed, I would never have been good enough. Dressed for battle  with my best rhymes and turned away at the sign up line. They wanted me angry.


I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life.
Source : vaunting
Source : katelouisepowell

Where There Is Fertile Soil

I’ve held onto hope until hope took root in the moist and naïve parts of my heart.

A fungus, it grew with every thought given to you, it spread through four chambers, between two halves, and rotted as a whole

down to the most remote spaces; the fertile soils of even my hearts heart.

It crept along the dark places. Crawled into crevices boarded, chained, and locked.

A burgeoning fungus, hope spread until it had softened and spoiled my heart.

A beating drum of despair. 

Day 25


sorry I didn’t visit you yesterday

I was busy with my friend sauvignon blanc

and the smog covered sky.

Source : fulguritememories

29 or “I Practice Losing You”

Every day I practice losing you

in little ways.

I lost an old picture of my family, the only one I’ve ever had.

The gold chain my father gave me before he passed,

the earrings my mother received on her first date. I lost them all.

I started losing more precious things—too.

Like memories to the inferno of my mind.

Your laugh, your smell, the curve of your grin, the softness of your skin.

Ah, do you remember that—that—one time…. 

I lose you in prayer, in hope, and in jest.

I lose you in poetic cliches like, “every time the sun sets”.

Everyday I lose a little more than the day before

but in  truth I know I’ve practiced in vain.

Nothing could ever prepare me for this type of pain. 

25 or Homesick

"Do you know where this is?"

He showed me a picture taken a top a blue sky. Lifted clouds and peaking mountain side. 

"California." I answered with no question, nor hesitation.

"How’d you know?"

I was silent

I remembered the sea

the smell of beach in a past lover’s hair

Dry hot days questioning an endless sky

I remembered giant palms dancing 

against tequila sunrises

I could taste tastes almost forgotten:

spicy culture and cocktails

fresh cilantro and rain

avocado and the stillness of a canyon night.

I remembered the feel of a whispered breeze on the back of my neck

the hot kiss of sun between my thighs

the feel of sea foam pressing against my lips—

I smiled because in that moment I remembered you.

"Do you believe it possible to be in love with a place?"

Source : t-squarephotos


Sick with sadness—rot with melancholia —what must my wretched insides  look like?

Black and dismal? Endless pit of gloom?

Twisted tangled dendrites holding positive thoughts hostage?

The corpses of  optimism floating in the angry sea of If?

What must my wretched insides look like?

A rancid heart, weak and pummeled feeding off its other half, a bruised plum.

What must my somber sound like

echoing through these jagged jutting bones?

A carved canyon wailing with despair?

I wonder, What must my wretched insides look like?


Source : kushandwizdom

these teen quotes


these teen quotes

(via thegoodmeme)

Source : these-teen-quotes
One always has a better book in one’s mind than one can manage to get onto paper.
Michael Cunningham (via observando)
Source : observando
Source : wind-of-color



Jasmine Tookes featured in “A fashionable woman wears clothes. The clothes don’t wear her” photographed by Walter Chin for  Glass Magazine’s Spring 2014 issue. Makeup by Sarah Appleby using Chanel Beauty. Hair by Herve for Davines. Fashion Editor: Sarah Cobb

oh my gad she’s perfection!

rooneyiselsewhere Reminded me of you <3

(via modelsofcolor)

Source : blackfashion