Recovery

[archistratego]

“you begin to practice longing / (migration) as a form of prayer.”

— Leslie Harrison, from “Self-Portrait as an Eastern Hardwood Forest,” Displacement (via lifeinpoetry)

[archbudzar]

(C.B)(5.24.18)

[marisatomay]

me: if youre dead you dont have to do homework or get stressed over school so it would eliminate anxiety

my therapist:

[fyeahcats]

[januaryhoney]

i am going to unzip my skin and step out of it and then run away.

[lifeinpoetry]

“Hold on / to my wreckage or, please, let me go.”

— Eileen G’Sell, from “Beauty-Polluted,” Portrait of My Ex with Giant Burrito

[authorityissues]

i ghostwrote this poster

[dearhummingbird]

“I choose to love / this time / for once with all my intelligence.”

— Adrienne Rich, from ‘Splittings’, in The Dream of a Common Language

[goodreadss]

“And it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.”

— Sylvia Plath

[alonesomes]

“—I felt it shelter to speak to you.”

— Emily Dickinson, in a letter to T.W. Higginson, c. 1875 (via marxferatu)

[anancientheart]

“Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,”

— Sylvia Plath, from The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath; “Birthday Present,”

[camelliapollen]

“When I stand alone with the earth and sky a feeling of something in me going off in every direction into the unknown of infinity means more to me than any thing…”

— Georgia O’Keeffe, in a letter to William Howard Schubart, from Georgia O’Keeffe: Art and Letters (via luthienne)

[nemophilies-deactivated20190428]

“Attention is the beginning of devotion.”  ― Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” — Simone Weil, from an April 13, 1942 letter to poet Joë Bousquet

[melisica]

“Time heals no wounds. My patience hasn’t healed a fucking thing.”

—

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“You have known that I love you for so long. I love you. Why do you torture me?”

— Anton Chekhov, from The Complete Works of Anton Chekhov; “The Two Volodyas,”

[existential-celestial]

“Forgive me that I ignored the sun And that I lived in sorrow.”

— Anna Akhmatova, from “Broad and yellow in the evening light,” in The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, 1997, tr.  Judith Hemschemeyer

[lifeinpoetry]

Sometimes I forgot to be empty, a thing to fill.

Monet Patrice Thomas, from “Substitution” published in The Shallow Ends (via lifeinpoetry)