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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Source : kushandwizdom

(via lbyo)

Source : milanesaspuke
Source : kushandwisdom
Source : kushandwizdom
Source : kushandwisdom
In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown. And, in between, there are doors.
William Blake (via libraryfortress)

(via journalofanobody)

Source : libraryfortress
Source : e-stocado
Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.
Langston Hughes, The Collected Poems (via kushandwizdom)
Source : kushandwizdom
Source : weheartit.com

Alone

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. 

#personal

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.

#personal

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

fulguritememories:

sorry I didn’t visit you yesterday

I was busy with my friend sauvignon blanc

and the smog covered sky.

Source : fulguritememories