Let's go be Psychos together @hebatheawesome - Tumblr Blog

Biggest failing of the internet is that in order to be vibing with my friends I have to actually be talking to them. I socialize like a cat I just show affection by sitting next to you. Ily but sometimes I have Nothing to say. Not a damn thing going on in my head

tlirsgender

I don’t want to “have” a “conversation” I want to peel an orange and share it with you

lifeinpoetry

Wake next to you bring you coffee listen to the radio together welcome your head on my shoulder stroke your fingers Love as simple as good morning

You are here All is not lost

In front of you I am ashamed of my despair

— Abdellatif Laâbi, from Perishable Poems, In Praise of Defeat

lifeinpoetry

at the function, i feel myself splitting into too many rooms of static

you touch my hand & there i am

— Danez Smith, from “acknowledgments,” Homie

lifeinpoetry

“Night falls / and the empty intimacy of the whole world / fills my heart to frothing.”

— Mary Ruefle, from “Sent to the Monk,” Dunce

lifeinpoetry

On the third day pull yourself out of bed wake with a start Can you feel death’s bone milk? Good. This means you are among the living Good. This means your heart is yours

— Mahogany L. Browne, from “Do not make Grief your God,” published in Split This Rock

sorryish

tkkatherineblog

lifeinpoetry

“i know the tongue she speaks— grief is a kind of language you can touch.”

— Ojo Taiye, from “Is This Still What I Want?” All of Us are Birds and Some of Us Have Broken Wings

art-is-a-way-of-survival

freeartzombie

Meeting The Man: James Baldwin in Paris

(via Mubi)

flowerytale

Florence and the Machine – No Light, No Light

firstfullmoon

It is the sink of the afternoon the children asleep or weary. I have finished planting the tomatoes in this brief sun after four days of rain now there is brown earth under my fingernails And sun full on my skin with my head thick as honey the tips of my fingers are stinging from the rich earth but more so from the lack of your body I have been to this place before where blood seething commanded my fingers fresh from the earth dream of plowing a furrow whose name should be you.

— Audre Lorde, “Sowing”