there is something hollow in my chest

can you feel it, the empty space where a heart should be? j.d. / xxii. kind of sick of existing, kind of desperately craving for it to never stop.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Her emotions rose like foam on the crest of a wave, were battered against the rocks of experience and subsided once more into the water.

Amrita Pritam, from “Pinjar: The Skeleton & Other Stories,” publ. c. 2009

[edatheowlmilf]

"You can't change nature." "Change is nature." is kind of a raw line to be from ratatouille

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I felt more and more distanced from my own life,

Meena Alexander, from “Fault Lines,” originally published c. 1993 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[huariqueje]

The Sower (Sower with Setting Sun)  Detail   -     Vincent van Gogh , 1888.

Dutch, 1853-1889

Oil on canvas,  204.5 x 162.5 cm

Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo, Netherlands

[obligeme]

gown bodices, 1840s-1860s

[finelythreadedsky]

top 12 savage things Medea says in classical literature

featuring Euripides, Ovid, and Seneca

ὡς τρὶς ἂν παρ᾽ ἀσπίδα/στῆναι θέλοιμ᾽ ἂν μᾶλλον ἢ τεκεῖν ἅπαξ (Euripides Med. 250-1)

for I would rather thrice stand by the shield/ than once bear a child

καὶ σοῖς ἀραία γ᾽ οὖσα τυγχάνω δόμοις. (Euripides Med. 608)

I am a curse unto your house as well

καὶ μανθάνω μὲν οἷα τολμήσω κακά/θυμὸς δὲ κρείσσων τῶν ἐμῶν βουλευμάτων/ὅσπερ μεγίστων αἴτιος κακῶν βροτοῖς. (Euripides Med. 1078-80)

I know what evils I dare to do/ my heart is stronger than my plans/ and great is my blame for the blood

dum ferrum flammaeque aderunt sucusque veneni/ hostis Medeae nullus inultus erit (Ovid Her. 12.181-2)

as long as I have iron and fire and poison at my disposal/ no enemy of Medea’s will go unpunished

viderit ista deus, qui nunc mea pectora versat/ nescio quid certe mens mea maius agit! (Ovid Her. 211-2)

the god who twists my heart will witness these deeds/ for surely I know not what vast act my mind devises!

tum me de tigride natam/ tum ferrum et scopulos gestare in corde fatebor (Ovid Met. 7.32-3) 

then I will be called the daughter of a tiger/ and they will say I carry iron and stone in my heart

maximus intra me deus est (Ovid Met. 7.55)  

the greatest god is within me

et vertice sidera tangam (Ovid Met. 7.61)

and I will reach the stars with the crown of my head

Medea superest, hic mare et terras vides/ ferrumque et ignes et deos et fulmina (Seneca Med. 166-7)

Medea stands alone, here you see the sea and the lands/ and iron and fire and gods and lightning

si placet, damna ream;/ sed redde crimen (Seneca Med. 245-6)

condemn me if you like;/ but give me back my crime

invadam deos/ et cuncta quatiam (Seneca Med. 424-5)

I will invade the gods/ and shake all things

Medea nunc sum; crevit ingenium malis (Seneca Med. 910)

Now I am become Medea; my nature has grown amidst evil

[xshayarsha]

yes, my, voices, my, dreams, I am a poet, and I have been sacrified in order.

Alice Notley, from Iphigenia. (via xshayarsha)

[weltenwellen]

What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness. Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded… sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.

George Saunders, Congratulations, by the way: Some Thoughts on Kindness

[blissies-deactivated20240301]

what was heavy and tender and alive

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I’m beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me.

Hermann Hesse, from “Demian,” originally published c. May 1919

[crashart26]

@talbertart su @crashart26 e @crashart31

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

…how I feel autumn’s ache.

Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Violet Dickinson written c. September 1907

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Chelsea Wolfe, from Birth Of Violence; “American Darkness,” released c. 2019

[belovedhestia]

i finally wrote something

[lifeinpoetry]

I always walk behind men who feel like my father — my hands know anger but they’ve been cut to the bone. I wonder what it’s like to be a body left alone; I don’t mean to be bitter, but I’ve been chewing on rotten fruit since birth, turning myself pulp before they can tear me to shreds.

— Kanika Lawton, from “On Political(ized) Life,” published in Poets Resist

[wulfhalls]

Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles

[weltenwellen]

“How light the raindrop’s contents are. How gently the world touches me.”

— Wisława Szymborska, from “Water”, View With a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems