keyboardghost

“If we're not supposed to dance, Why all this music?” - To Be Alive, Gregory Orr The thoughts, writing, and borrowed gems of a thick-headed dreamer.

[chillxpanic]

Art by Alena Aenami on Artstation.

Music: BLANKS - HIGHER 

[different-landscapes]

[inactive987654321-deactivated20]

[wreck]

[foxmouth]

Neon Nights, 2016 | by Elsa Bleda

[keyboardghost]

time is but a concept, but you are not. you are so incredibly real. take care of yourself.

2016

1. keep working hard. you have made so much progress and will only make more. remember who and what you are fighting for. 

2. love yourself. you have spent far too much time in your life mistaking your reflection for a monster. you are a product of God, of thousands of atoms filled with light. remember that. 

3. love others. when you die, your love is the only part of you that will live on. love others, as flawed as they are. 

4. respect your body. you only have one. 

5. be more open. you do not deserve to cultivate the pain inside of your body. tell others your story and fuck those quotes that say you don’t need to share. you do. keeping things inside only leads to internal bleeding. 

6. free yourself from the past. you’ve survived things so dark and cold. you’ve made it. remember your past, respect and acknowledge it, but do not anchor yourself there. look to the future, to the beautiful present. 

7. forgive. it won’t be easy. 

8. unlearn negative habits. in moments where you have hurt yourself or someone else, reflect. how can you unlearn it? you will never be perfect, but you can always be good.

9. pray. for everyone and everything. recite your nightly prayers. rekindle your relationship with God. He has been waiting so patiently. 

10. read. you’re blessed with the ability to pass from world to world. rediscover the lands you miss so dearly. 

11. write. you’ve been much too quiet lately. unearth the poetry that you’ve tucked away so neatly. 

12. be soft. you will be the braver for it. 

13. be yourself. you are so full of light. 

14. spend more time with nature. smell the trees, the dirt. feel how soft the world is. 

15. breathe. take it one day at a time. this year will be the year of healing, of growth, and maturity. you will get tired. you will get frustrated. remember to breathe. you are so good. you’ll grow softer. trust in that. 

[vethox]

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”

[brontesommerfeld]

[ecritio]

i. it’s december. it’s not the first time we’ve met but this time is different. we sit in the back of a car with our heads close together like we’re alone even though our friends are right there. you kiss me in public and i think of you in words like want and keep and distance. unrealistic. ii. it’s january. you touch my cheek and saythis is exactly where your dimple is and i feel full of light and fervor. i tell you: don’t fall for anyone cooler than me this semester. i get on a train back to new york, a plane to heathrow. we both look back. iii. it’s february and you never call when you say you will. we talk in circles all the time about how much we like each other and how far away we are and how much we like each other. we both kiss other people and don’t mention it. i wait up for you. lose sleep. iv. it’s march, and maybe there’s nothing left to walk away from. i walk away anyway. v. april showers bring may flowers. in my sleep i start taking the petals off one by one, but it’s never loves me, loves me not. it’s always loves her. loves her not. vi. my best friend tells me the idea of having sex with strangers is very unappealing to you right now. we both come home in may and you start talking to me again. you say, i didn’t meet anyone cooler than you all semester. vii. june and we kiss all over the city. no place is safe from us. twice you tell me we should just be friends. twice it doesn’t stick. viii. in july you make plans to go halfway across the world. you say you need a break from romance. i tell you, be safe out there. i say, don’t forget to change your contacts. ix. august in china is brutal. you text me, drunk out of your mind, telling me you’re lonely. we’re friends again, so i’m not allowed to mention how i can’t stop writing poems about you. you tell me about all the american things you miss. i don’t make the list. x. once, you sat right next to me as i wrote you a postcard that said: no matter what happens, i don’t regret what we did. i still mean it.

j.c., maybe i should hate you for this (via ecritio)

[metaphorformetaphor]

My heart, the deluded admiral Who ruled a fleet of never-built ships, Followed a route Fate wouldn’t admit, In search of an impossible happiness.

Fernando Pessoa, from A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems (Penguin Classics, 2006)

[keyboardghost]

stories

(i know you don't believe it but) love, your story is a beautiful tragedy. let me hold it in my palm like a baby bird, let me coax a song from its tiny chest: a symphony of blues to sing away the aching in your heart. l.c.

[keyboardghost]

there is a space between your lips i’ve found myself enamored with there is a space between us i’m not quite sure you want to bridge green eyes, soft hands, smile that feels like breaking ocean surface and taking that first big gulp of air there is a space between your body and mine that i want to bridge, seal with a kiss. i don’t think this is love (there is a stranger in you, beautiful friend) but how I’d like lie beside you and sleep and dream that you would want that too.

the space between, l.c.

[endless-unfolding]

Our bodies              weren’t built to last. The elaborate mythologies we’d bury in each other              wouldn’t stay put, rising as bruises, as ravenous ghosts, as inadequate courtesies.

Bryan Penberthy, from “The End of Free Love,” Blackbird (Fall 2006)

[lifeinpoetry]

Artaud is mad. He stayed close to the madness. Watching it breathe or not breathe.There is a close-up of me driven to despair. His face is mad. It was something of fire on which his soul wrote. All this mental glass.Me beating my head against a wall His body is mad. Some days he felt uterine. Mind screwed into him by a thrust of sky.I run among the ruins. His mind is mad. There was (he decided) no mind. The body (hell) just as you see it.Go throw myself from the tower, gesticulating, falling. His hospital is mad. He noted in electric shock a splash state. What holes, and made of what?Falling to the beach. His Mexico is mad. There was not a shadow he did not count. No opium, no heads on the days.You see my body crumpled on the sand. His God is mad. He felt God pulling him out through his own cunt. Claque. Claque-dents.It moves convulsively a few times. His double is mad. The drawback of being mad was that he could not both be so and say so.Beautiful jerks. His word is mad. He had to become an enigma to himself. To prevent his own theft of him.You see my battered face. His excrement is mad. He envied bones their purity. Hated to die rectified (as he said) by pain.Then I fall back. His spring snow is mad. They found him at dawn. Seated at the foot of his bed. Holding his shoe.And shy away.

Anne Carson, “TV Men: Artaud,” Men in the Off Hours (via lifeinpoetry)

[poem-locker]

Rumi, “Ode #1937: Unmarked Boxes“

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form. The child weaned from mother’s milk now drinks wine and honey mixed.

God’s joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box, from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flower bed. As roses, up from ground. Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish, now a cliff covered with vines, now a horse being saddled. It hides within these, till one day it cracks them open

Part of the self leaves the body when we sleep and changes shape. You might say, “Last night I was a cypress tree, a small bed of tulips, a field of grapevines.” Then the phantasm goes away. You’re back in the room. I don’t want to make any one fearful. Hear what’s behind what I say.

Tatatumtum tatum tatadum. There’s the light gold of wheat in the sun and the gold of bread made from that wheat. I have neither. I’m only talking about them,

as a town in the desert looks up at stars on a clear night.

Translated by Coleman Barks.

[keyboardghost]

we love our skin with eyes turned in, offering empty prayers at the altar-- words stolen from diner menus lodged beneath ashen tire rims.

l.c.

[red-lipstick]

Scott Naismith (b. 1978, South Lanarkshire, Scotland) - Cumulus Consonance Study 1, 2013     Paintings: Oil on Canvas