sunshine

"Ever since I met you, I feel like I've lived just to meet you."

[aseaofquotes]

Anna Quindlen, Being Perfect

[s-t-u-p-o-r-e]

“Most of the time the universe speaks to us very quietly: In pockets of silence; In coincidences; In nature; In forgotten memories; In the shape of clouds; In moments of solitude; In small tugs at our hearts”

— Yumi Sakugawa (via fotoartiste)

[persephomia]

the well by mia morgalla

[aavillainess]

water as an entity, water as singular;          two streams forms a river           & feeds the ocean, an embittered yielding. fury in waves.           a gnarled elder tree unfolded, emptied. plundered.           exhaustion, a theft scooped out of your chest. light exposes everything.          so you hide under darkness.                the whites of your eyes; your only tell. you, switched. a two panelled mirror.     finger-pressed into divergence;           face indistinct, morphed. you’re a void force-fed into           human body. skin-changer, tender for a day but renewed until new moon.          nightshade flower tipped back. you swallow & lungs bloom violet-indigo,          night garden. honeyed peach like the colour of your tongue.     innocuous poison, fed           through white lies. chess master & chess piece;           the board a battlefield under your spell. each step, a mine threat.           half a smile,          shadows masks the other half. conformity synonymous to resentment;          human until necessary. - aquarian changeling for @flowercryptid (aavillainess)

[cannulatedencores]

I am made of

ruptured muscle

and charred bone,

half formed poetry and

anatomy that misfires,

always subsisting on the ichor

drained from another’s vein

because my own has never

flared gold enough.

*

I once recreated wings

of wax and feather,

flew to Helios and

begged him to let me fall,

he lifted his hands and told me

that hope is the armour

of fragile things,

sent me tumbling back to earth

with sunlight flooding through

my brittle skeleton,

I crashed and the rays

radiated out

from my splintered form,

I watched in awe as woven gold

grew over every fracture.

*

I had never shone bright enough,

a dulled soul, always reticent.

But I almost perished

in the space

where ocean meets sand,

and learned great wisdom from it.

*

All these things

that make me

fragile and flawed

have also turned me

to golden light.

*

And this darkness can

hold me no longer.

*

—l.j.h

[poeticallyemm]

From sudden beginnings, I was the fire in the moon’s bitter blood. Each breath enough to tear through the sky.   I am a crimson body of thunder, born skinless And thrown into the earth’s fevered womb.   An uninvited dawn: bold and effervescent, Forcing starlight to take shelter.   I like to imagine my fingertips Spreading life along the muted sky, Delivering virtue in droplets of morning dew.   Instead, I scorch the very sanctity of sunrise, And she perishes beneath my feet. The calm of the morning fades in my throat— Bitter, burning, never to return.

poeticallyordinary, On my scorching existence (via poeticallyordinary)

[7l7l7l7l7l7l7l7]

[the-radical-buzzard-of-discourse]

I used to cringe so hard at my “I’m not like other girls” phase until I realized that most girls have this phase and what we actually mean is, “I’m not a thoughtless one-dimensional caricature of makeup and boobs, which is all I’ve been taught to believe girls are.” How can women be viewed so poorly that little girls everywhere all think they’re unique just for having independent thoughts and interests?

[randomslasher]

oh shit

[aninactivebloggfgfgf]

how is it put so perfectly just into words like that, like, just

how

[natalieweepoetry]

I’m not trying to say I love you, but once upon a time I was not afraid of car accidents. Played Tasmanian devil to the speed limit’s mile count & flung traffic tickets like summer sparklers. But when you get in the next seat my brake pedal stops working. This metal bullet caging our soft bodies becomes an electric tableau of desire. I’d halo the earth ‘til meteor arrival to prove you are beautiful under any light, anywhere in the world. You smile & the equator shrinks to a gold ring the size of a shared life. You smile & suddenly the highway merges lanes between does he & love me. Suddenly there is nothing holding my body except the thought of your hands in my hands. Suddenly my hands are not hands but precise apex of thumb & knuckle seatbelting our heart lines in case this collision proves fatal. I’m not trying to say I love you. All I’m saying is, forget the stick shift. We are not bound to gravel or gravity. Forget the space ship. With just our bodies we can head off the highest cliff on the furthest moonlit valley. I will keep you safe with every part of me that exists, & when all else fails, I will keep your heart safe with nothing but my fingers around it.

“What They Won’t Teach You in Driving School”, Natalie Wee

Find my debut book, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines, on Amazon / Goodreads.

(via natalieweepoetry)

[natalieweepoetry]

On the way back, you asked why it took me so long to say I love you. Well, have you ever broken a bone? I mean an arm, a leg, a finger. You know that second right after impact? The snap. The sickening lurch of a missing stair & the perfect enclosure of shock after. How, in that instant, there’s no discomfort. Hurt hasn’t yet arrived, but vows a stay so exquisite you’ll bite clean through your tongue. Your heart’s already prepared for this. Exiles itself from that landmine body, burns an effigy at the roof of your mouth. Mind follows its lead, plays dead possum. It doesn’t work. It refuses to & then the ice pick’s twist. Fleet as a showfighter’s left hook. In the moment it is purest, pain denies speech. Teeth turns on tongue. Nails on knuckle. Body unmakes itself. It’s the first time you realize what it means to be flesh. All this time, I was living inside that moment. I couldn’t talk about it. I was waiting, but the shaking didn’t pass. I don’t think it will.

Natalie Wee, from ‘Cartilage’, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines (via natalieweepoetry)

[natalieweepoetry]

                        It is not the moon’s light that demands our praise      but the distance it travels                                      to reach us.

Natalie Wee, “Asami Writes to Korra for Three Years” in Wildness Journal

[metaphorformetaphor]

This heart, my heart, is small and the love, my love, is large. It travels in the wind, descends, loosens a pomegranate then falls in the wandering of two almond eyes, then ascends in the dawn of two dimples and forgets the way back to house and name. This heart, my heart, is small and the love is large …

Mahmoud Darwish, from “Tuesday And The Weather Is Clear,” If I Were Another (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011). (via existential-celestial)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Don’t you agree with me that there exist special, chosen people who have been endowed with the power and faculty of desiring a thing, craving for a thing, willing a thing–so persistently and so–so inexorably–that at last it has to happen? Don’t you believe that?”

Henrik Ibsen, from “The Master Builder,” written c. January 1893

[naive-personality]

[storiavitali]

at the subatomic level

every thought

is passing waves,

penetrating silence

with a blink,

moonstruck words

cling like cobwebs

of the throat,

moments felt

as seasons

slow and rustic

[thebluesthour]

“flowers I wanted to bring to you, wild and wet from the pale dunes and still smelling of the summer night…” (Mary Oliver)

Vincent Van Gogh: Flowers + Blue

[regdavey]

Sunset

Under a setting sun the colour of buttermilk The green horizon becomes turquoise hued As delicate clouds as fragile as ripening fruit Deepen to succulent cherry red and purple grape

Before the cerulean sky of day is bruised And verdant fields become blackened Like charcoal left over by a roaring fire, A brief gold like the final glorious trumpet And then nothing but drifting embers.

O! What colours there are here Painting this infinite canvas of the sky

Infinite hues, infinite shades More brilliant, more vivid Than all the television sets In all the living rooms Of the cold grey towns and cities.

© R.J. Davey 2018