Counterfeit Memories

"Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience" Mark Twain

[envelopeofmemories]

When I think about you and God, I think about how we sometimes pluck a flower before it’s bloomed and I think about how selfish it is to rip something from the earth just because it’s beautiful.

[envelopeofmemories]

I’ll talk to you soon.” I always say, but weeks go by and you’ve lost more weight, and I can’t find home in your face but I’m gripping your laugh between my tired white knuckles like like it can still pull me ashore. like there is strength in paper arms spotted in bruises so close to the skin that I’m worried your arteries find me intrusive. like you’re not yelling for God in your sleep. like I’ve been handed so many “I’m sorry"s that my pockets bulge and my head rattles with loose change. like The Universe is drunk and selfish and plucks the soul of the prettiest flower just to brighten up the room. But I still press my bloody palms together in prayer. And I’ll talk to you soon, too.

It was nice to see you, I’ll come back soon.

[relateforteens]

[flotsamie]

For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

Virginia Woolf (via writerniche)

[nasagal]

(not so) Breaking News: I’m sad again and everyone’s tired of hearing about it

[ceciliewriteswords]

I don’t know how to not write about leaving. A poem where we stay, living in doorsteps. Making our bed in post boxes and eating beakfast on the fire escape with the magpies. There is no ending where this ends up in a living room, on a kitchen table. Where I don’t leave (lipstick on paper cups) And you don’t leave (me wanting). Abandoning doorsteps and train stations. Any thing else Is just wishful thinking like wish you were here, even if I don’t know where to keep you.

On The Table - Cecilie K  (via ceciliewriteswords)

[vein]

[atthellolab]

[thechillhippie-deactivated20181]

“Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t. Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.”

Alan W. Watts (via purplebuddhaproject)

[twcpoetry]

Infatuation despised word whispering something less

swearing more

Love only visits once bringing a quiet certainty

[clairenorthman-deactivated20121]

[condensedchaos333]

Breath deep The gathering gloom Watch lights fade From every room Bedsitter people Look back and lament Another day’s useless Energy spent

Impassioned lovers Wrestle as one Lonely man cries for love And has none New mother picks up And suckles her son Senior citizens Wish they were young

Cold hearted orb That rules the night Removes the colours From our sight Red is gray and Yellow white But we decide Which is right And Which is an Illusion

[angelofmemories]

[purplebuddhaproject]

If you propose to speak always ask yourself, is it true, is it necessary, is it kind.

Gautama Buddha (via purplebuddhaproject)

[fyeahgabrielgadfly]

Three days after you moved out, I found a jar in the freezer labeled in black sharpie with OPEN ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY and I’m not sure what it contains or how long it has been there. The glass is frosted over and the lid is frozen shut and it is not an emergency right now but I want to take that jar out and crack it open in the sink and find out what you felt was so important it needed to be buried in the shivering cold behind the peas and the popsicles. Every so often, when I cannot sleep and I am thinking of you I go downstairs to the kitchen and open the freezer door, stand with the cold fog billowing out and I look at the jar you left for me, wondering what emergency could be greater than finding myself without you. This poem © Gabriel Gadfly. Published Sep 19, 2012

The Emergency Jar by Gabriel Gadfly (via fyeahgabrielgadfly)

[purplebuddhaproject]

[washingtonpost]

“How do you become a journalist?” “What’s it like to report on this election?”  “How do you break into the industry?”

We’re answering these questions and more on Thursday, June 30, at 1 pm EST – live on Tumblr.