moved

out here in nothing, engulfed by the sea

[fuckyeahrudyfrancisco]

When you choose to be a poet, when you choose to spill like this, bleed like this, cry like this, your pain becomes an exhibit. A place for people to walk through and then leave when they are ready. No one ever asks a museum if it’s okay.

Rudy Francisco, “Museum”

[daedrickittenn]

Visit Original Link

[archiveofawhile]

mother weep the years i’m missing all our time can’t be given back

[soracities]

I found the rooms between / the violence of comets. I threw myself into anything’s path. Even the sky / bent around me. How lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill.

Jeremy Radin, from ‘So I Locked Myself Inside a Star for Twenty Years’

[mysteriuminiquitatis]

Visit Original Link

[archiveofawhile]

nobody here 'cept these fishes and me

[archaeologicals-deactivated2016]

You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing.

Hélène Cixous, Laugh of the Medusa

[stunningpicture]

[endless-unfolding]

God is not death, God is what survives.

Mark Jarman, from “[God does not know, God is what is known],” in Unholy Sonnets

[glitterdeathgrip]

[abunchofreallytinycircles]

Visit Original Link

[watchoutforintellect]

In my end is my beginning.

T.S. Eliot - from East Coker

[weltenwellen]

Sometimes it feels good to take the long way home.

Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home

[stars-open-among-the-lilies]

Visit Original Link

[archiveofawhile]

ten feet away my daddy buries me

[sneziano]

R.I.P. Shannon Hoon

[rabbitinthemoon-blog]

All through the dark the wind looks for the grief it belongs to.

W.S. Merwin, Night Wind

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

My heart has been stabbed by grace.

Arthur Rimbaud, from Selected Poems & Letters

[likeafieldmouse-deactivated2015]

We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good; we do the best we know.

Voltaire

[endless-unfolding]

And yet I swear I love this earth that scars and scalds, that burns my feet.        And even hell is holy.

Gregory Orr, from “Tin Cup,” in The Caged Owl: New and Selected Poems