Starlight seeker, jackhammer goddess. Whiskey heart & back alley daydreams. Alive in the shatter. Courting the muse. Seducing the paradox. Blessed be.
  • "God probably made you and said ‘Yes. She’s what I meant to do.’"
    Azra T., 5000letters  (via 5000letters)

    (Source: alonesomes, via lifeinpoetry)

    • 1389
  • "Next year I will not be the self of this year now. And that is why I laugh at the transient, the ephemeral; laugh, while clutching, holding, tenderly, like a fool his toy, cracked glass, water through fingers. For all the writing, for all the invention of engines to express & convey & capture life, it is the living of it that is the gimmick. It goes by, and whatever dream you use to dope up the pains and hurts, it goes. Delude yourself about printed islands of permanence. You’ve only got so long to live. You’re getting your dream. Things are working, blind forces, no personal spiritual beneficent ones except your own intelligence and the good will of a few other fools and fellow humans. So hit it while it’s hot."
    • 1085
  • "Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism — to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea."
    Georges Bataille, from Death and Sensuality (via violentwavesofemotion)

    (Source: ljosio, via lifeinpoetry)

    • 1227
  • today: work. dark chocolate with coconut. grooving with #misterwives. TGIF

    (Source: Spotify)

  • atmagaialove:

    Dance, when you’re broken open. Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you’re perfectly free.

    ~ Rumi

    (via soulerpowered)

    • 206
    • 206
  • "

    Do you remember the first
    lightning bug
    you accidentally killed?
    How you squeezed it too hard
    in your fist because
    you wanted to keep it long enough
    to show us?
    No one knows what you did with
    the light, or where your hand
    has been since it happened,
    but they’re all curious.

    When did it get bad?
    When did your voice turn into an
    answering machine?
    There’s a man at the door who wants
    to save your soul. Says he’s been
    looking for you,
    that God sent him a message telling
    him you needed his forgiveness.
    The act. The circus of it all.
    I’ll tell him to come back later.

    Do you remember when you cracked
    open by accident,
    spilled your firefly sun all over my floor
    like it was wine?
    I do. I saw it. Proof that you
    were still here,
    glowing somewhere that you
    forgot you could reach.

    Tell me about everything you buried
    and how it came climbing out of
    you with a vengeance. Tell me about
    beauty and the beast, the hand and
    the fist,
    how you remembered you could be
    both the thing that opens and the
    thing that closes.
    Come to me.
    Forgive yourself for the things
    that turned you into a ghost.
    Let me watch you love yourself
    solid again.

    Caitlyn Siehl, Phantom Hand (after April Sanger’s “The Light Inside Us”)

    (via alonesomes)

    • 2655
  • longing for:
    open roads
    setting sun
    wind tangled hair
    salt on the breeze
    this voice filling the air

    once again the ocean sings her siren song. it’s always just a matter of time before i return.

    (Source: Spotify)

  • "

    These girls aren’t wounded so much as post-​wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They’re over it. I am not a melodramatic person. God help the woman who is. What I’ll call “post-​wounded” isn’t a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect: These women are aware that “woundedness” is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama, so they stay numb or clever instead. Post-​wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-​wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: Don’t cry too loud; don’t play victim. Don’t ask for pain meds you don’t need; don’t give those doctors another reason to doubt. Post-​wounded women fuck men who don’t love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blasé about it; they refuse to hurt about it or to admit they hurt about it—​or else they are endlessly self-​aware about it, if they do allow themselves this hurting.

    The post-​wounded posture is claustrophobic: jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick on the heels of anything that might look like self-​pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-​wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, jaded, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-​pity might split their careful seams of intellect, expose the shame of self-​absorption without self-​awareness.

    • 2942
  • "

    is not pretty

    but I don’t care
    about looks.
    Set the dumpster

    on fire. Break
    the windows.
    Don’t kiss me

    like they do
    in the movies.
    Kiss me

    like they do
    on the emergency
    broadcast system.

    Daphne Gottlieb  (via 5000letters)

    (Source: kdecember, via contramonte)

    • 4858
  • "Love happens
    and all you’re left
    with is aftershock
    after aftershock
    There’s the heartache
    the stomach ache
    your muscle-so-sore ache
    Love finishes
    and you divide your body
    into two segments:
    the one which must continue,
    and the one which pauses,
    struggles to heal.
    The stars subside.
    The stars will forget you.
    Water droplets roll
    over knots in your spine
    as I kiss secrets
    off your lips"
    jessica therese, “Love Happens” (via contramonte)
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