starcaptaincat:

Sweet perfections, enticingly moist, made of whipped chocolate and best wishes. Words like paper masks worn by monsters with wet crawling hands held through doorways, into other worlds. 

Now, is full of bubbles, they shimmer and pop and we’re here, chewing them up. Each one’s wrapped in plastic so we don’t have to taste the space between the glitter. 

Brains on fire, with will, and need, and exhaustion looming, but dumpsters full of unrecognizable trash can light up the night sometimes.

The thing we’ve got, lives under the skin.

I can feel it move when you get closer.

savageleewriting:

Drop a beat, drop an echo, drop a drop in the bucket and see what it amounts to in a few years or the end of your life.

I think about that a lot, about the last moment of my life, and what’ll make it all worthwhile. I don’t think I’ll exist after I die, unless I take off a big virtual-reality helmet and wind up saying something like, “I fucking knew there was something not-quite-right about that reality…” 

But more likely I’ll just not exist anymore, so it doesn’t really matter and all that really matters is just how I feel right now, in this moment, the only moment that’s real. We all live in together, which is kind of weird when you think about it, but what does that mean and why would anybody think about it?

Today, this moment, we’re alive. Yesterday we were too, but it’s difficult to point to. I suppose I know that our galaxy is rotating through space, so yesterday is a direction away, I just can’t see it from here in the woods, all these damn trees. 

What’s the point? If you don’t have kids? Just try to be good? It honestly doesn’t matter. Nothing we do matters. Except how we impact other living creatures. The rest is just nonsense and fictions we tell ourselves. 

We’re all trapped in a cult that is our human brain. It wants us to see the world for how it arranges things, not for what the world is. 

Forests and trees once more.

You’ll get out eventually, but then you’ll never get back in again. 

apoemaday:

by Margaret Atwood

The world is full of women
who’d tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they’d say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I’ve a choice
of how, and I’ll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it’s all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything’s for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshipers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can’t. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape’s been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there’s only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it’s the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can’t hear them.
And I can’t, because I’m after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don’t let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I’ll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That’s what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They’d like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look–my feet don’t hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn. 

me

savageleewriting:

I want to topple head over heals into some common sense. I want to make might from muck. I want, I want, I want, when oh lord will I be freed from these wants?

There’s a loose rattling at the core of reality or maybe it’s from where my skull and my spine don’t quite meet perfectly right. Is there something wrong with everything, or is there something wrong with me? What are these sounds, these sights, these spiders that come crawling in from around the back of my eyeballs?

I am my own open-mouthed shock at the disparity between my illusions and my ability to create my own reality.

I am my own pair of empty socks, left at the foot of the bed.

This is a light left on in an empty room.

(via hankpattison)

ionofalion:

thamyris

narcissus is dying/ I threw a couple rocks/ in the water/ to make sure he’d stay down/ but hyacinth/ is blooming beautifully/ for he loves apollo/ like the sunlight/ like I love him/ like an affectionate breath/ like zephyrus

mysticrosepoetry:

There are times

in life where

we feel jaded,

stuck in a feeling

of darkness that

we cannot shake,

but our lives are an

ever-changing light

filled with moments

of bleeding colors

and softer hues

to balance them out

sometimes we are

specs of moonlight

reaching through

the trees

casting shadows

of fragile leaves,

and then some days

we are the sun itself

in a cloudless sky

bold and brash

with every intention

of being noticed,

and on our best

days we share

our light from within

our hearts lanterns

aglow, simply so

the ones trapped

in darkness will

find their way home.

— M.R.

(via strengthofalonelion)

hopelessheavens:

show me who you are when I’m not looking. tell me how you say my name to those who are not familiar with me. dance with me when no one’s watching. flail your limbs. kiss my lips. grab my hips and pull me closer. closer. i want to hear every single nonsense word that comes from your mouth. and every dimension you hold inside. you are lovely. & you are mine. a beautiful enigma of a heart & mind.

(via hopelessheavens)

sweetlife-of-sugar:

It’s not like we got big plans

Let’s drive around town holding hands.

- ILYSB, LANY

(via poeticstories)

nonevernoforever: