garden of words

lélek lép a lajtorján

[heavensickness]

Best way to start a new Is to fail miserably Fail at loving and fail at giving Fail at creating a flow Then realign the whole And kick into the start hole.

Björk, Moon (via star-eaters)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Yesterday is just a number. All of its winters avalanche out of sight. What was, is gone.

Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems: “[The Division of Parts,]” (via provst)

[lifeinpoetry]

I wane and wax into something unignorable

Sonya Vatomsky, from “Bathymetry,” Salt Is For Curing  (via mercurieux)

[midsumner]

left unattended, what is there to do but stitch constellations into your soul

short thoughts in the night (y.)

[wordsnquotes]

I knew that I was dying. something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as them, accept. then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest bit. it needn’t be much, just a spark. a spark can set a whole forest on fire. just a spark. save it.

Charles Bukowski (via wordsnquotes)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

This is a seasick way, this almost/never touching, this drawing-off, this to-and-fro.

Adrienne Rich, The Demon Lover 

[lifeinpoetry]

Poetry, the permanent mystery into which all mysteries enter,

Edmond Jabès, from “The Man with the Secret,” The Book of Margins tr. Rosmarie Waldrop (via lifeinpoetry)

[acknowledgetheabsurd]

If you must die, I’ll envy even the earth that wraps your body.

Albert Camus, State of Siege (via mirroir)

[darksuspension]

And so, being young and dipped in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.

Edgar Allan Poe, Romance (via loveage-moondream)

[naturaekos]

The sea is nothing but a library of all the tears in history.

Lemony Snicket (via naturaekos)

[nemophilies-deactivated20190428]

I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

Czeslaw Milosz, from Esse 

[watchoutforintellect]

This is the last leaf in the year’s book. Now I come to grief.

Anne Sexton, from “Eighteen Days Without You” (December 5th) in The Complete Poems  (via watchoutforintellect)

[luthienne]

I do not speak of certain things. All talk would be the scuffed air we shovel over the dead. Sometimes the air is a grave on which no words will tread, and language stands speechless on the edge, vivid with silence.

Fred Dings, from Eulogy for a Private Man; “Words” (via luthienne)

[inkmagician]

january yawns into existence, tender-mouthed & raw at the edges. teach us how to unravel these tangles with careful fingers, how to bury our wounds and stitch ourselves anew.

— arlen c. | check out my chapbooks!

[laraiara]

I wanted nothing but silence, black woods, decay, cold winds; to lie twisted and turned as a serpent, to be in unison with a dying earth.

Segovia Amil (via laraiara)

[wordsnquotes]

Who speaks of love? I am cold and I want to be December.

Luis García Montero

original:“Quién habla del amor? Yo tengo frío y quiero ser diciembre.”

(via it-just-doesn-t-matter)

[antigonick]

Our hands touch, our bodies burst into fire. The chair, the cup, the table—nothing remains unlit. All quivers, all kindles, all burns clear.

Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via antigonick)