RAIN

dumping the burden in disguise

[academia-lucifer]

@academia-lucifer

[petaltexturedskies]

Mary Oliver, from “On Meditating, Sort Of” in Blue Horses: Poems

[radioactivebirdman]

I don't think existence wants you to be serious. I have not seen a serious tree. I have not seen a serious bird. I have not seen a serious sunrise. I have not seen a serious starry night. It seems they are all laughing in their own ways, dancing in their own ways. We may not understand it, but there is a subtle feeling that the whole existence is a celebration.

[remanence-of-love]

[chicklashae]

[poemwav]

– Jamie Oliveira | from "Erosion"

[icantbearitanymore]

am i the only fool here?

[internetagepoet]

The Best Thing For A Woman To Do Is Die

by sajah francesca

And there lies Ophelia, floating

amongst the flowers. In the slow

moving stream, her garb is pulled

up past her pelvis, revealing her

knees, both bruised and dedicated

to her lover. Her mouth is resting

open, and the wind and river collect

willow leaves to fill up her throat.

Her eyes are glassy, like her porcelain

skin, and they are rolled back into her

skull, looking where her mind was,

before she lost it.

And the forest still echoes

Ophelia’s song: The melancholy

chorus of “hey nonny nonny” pushes

past the brier and the farmers to

tell her story, but the farmers have

much work to do, and no time for

feminine whims. Her final verse of

teenage heartbreak and unrequited love

is still sung by the robins in the wood.

But did anyone search for her body?

Did Hamlet rally the guards to

look with lanterns in the night?

But no, Ophelia is the punchline

to Gertude’s gag.

But no, her final moments are

mocked by a royal court.

And, now, her suicide is seen

by museum-goers fascinated by

oil paints and vivid greens.

And they all talk of her beauty,

in front of her misery,

and all they see is beauty.

And there floats her cadaver

two centuries post mortem-

And all they see is beauty.

[ithinkiwishedonamirage]

[carmenred28]

A

Five years you fucking fool,

I was in love with you.

Now I feel like the fool

The poet trying to confront the muse

Like I broke an unspoken rule

But you broke it too

It was August when you met her,

Yet in November I was your muse?

~Carmen

[thehopefulquotes]

“I’ve spent so much time in my head and in my heart that I forgot to live in my body.”

— Tara Hardy, Bone Marrow

[kaffeinatedghost-deactivated202]

autumn academia — oblivious to love, study partners to lovers

[mournfulroses]

Kim Addonizio, from What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems; "''Round Midnight,"

[bl0odshed]

and i’ll miss the warmth of the burning home

even though it was suffocating, it’s all i’ve ever known

[icantbearitanymore]

happy fking bday to me

worst fking bday to me.

[weltenwellen]

Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1931–1934

[icantbearitanymore]

I am not afraid of being ripped apart by love. What I fear is that my lover might find the sight of my fillings hideous. ~ RAIN

[icantbearitanymore]