𝓝𝓳𝓮𝓻𝓲 𝓟𝓪𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓪𖣂

Poet🪾🤎

[onthelearningtongue]

[onthelearningtongue]

[angeldevil11]

[angeldevil11]

[ritikajyala]

And I sit by my grief and nurse it like a sick child. The days are grey and the nights long, and the inside of my body aches- with people and places and childhood, an amalgamation of a life lived. There is grief where there is life, there is grief where there is love. It’s a reminder, a keepsake, a fridge magnet. There are boxes in my heart which I open on rainy nights; there are gorges where my grief runs swift, meadows where it’s quiet. It comforts me and chokes me- dichotomy of a life lived, of love. It rains a lot now and I sit by my grief.

-Ritika Jyala, an excerpt from the Flesh I Burned

[wordsintheattic]

“I look for the stars even in daylight. I can never be fulfilled with what my heart wants.”

—wordsintheattic, Anish KC

[astriloquum]

[manicpixiepoetry]

On my worst days, nostalgia hangs over my body like dead weight. I carry it with me everywhere, close my eyes when it whispers in my ear and I think this must be what rotting feels like.

Nothing will ever feel like home the way that it did back then. There are pieces of you buried in your childhood, things you did not- could not carry with you into adulthood. And you can’t ever go back.

Sometimes I feel the first warm, unsteady breath of spring and I’m staring at the promise of new flowers through the eyes of a pre-teen girl who so easily forgets the bite of winter. Who can’t fathom that there are entire years of frost ahead of her. And I can’t ever go back.

What is nostalgia, if not the quiet grieving over the loss of something you did not know you could lose?

[manicpixiepoetry]

I see my mother’s dreams behind my eyelids, watch it all play out like an underfunded film every time I close them. I wonder if she can see it too, if she looks at me and sees my father’s eyes staring back at her and I wonder which one of us she regrets more.

[njeripatricia]

[mournfulroses]

Tove Ditlevsen, from a poem featured in There Lives a Young Girl in Me Who Will Not Die: Selected Poems

[thoughtkick]

“You know how every once in a while you do something and the little voice inside says ‘There. That’s it. That’s why you’re here’ … and you get a warm glow in your heart because you know it’s true? Do more of that.”

— Jacob Nordby

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

“No matter how good you are with words, it's inevitable that meaning is lost between your mind and someone else's. Trying to communicate is like throwing a cup of water at a thirsty person's face. It's better than nothing, sure, and a teaspoon of water might hit their lips, but oh, God, there's just so much water in the grass.”

— Jacqueline Novak, How to Weep in Public: Feeble Offerings on Depression from One Who Knows

[mournfulroses]

Albert Camus, from a letter to María Casares featured in Correspondance, 1944-1959

[njeripatricia]

Every night I collapse and break. Every morning I pick up the pieces and carry them on my back. I suppose this is what they call hope, heavy and torturous. And it hurts, oh, it truly hurts!

—Patricia Njeri

[mournfulroses]

Alfred de Musset, from a translated letter to George Sand, featured in «Ô mon George, ma belle maîtresse...»: Lettres

[njeripatricia]

Every time I look in the mirror, I am met with a familiar grief. The eyes of that 16 year old girl still asking the same questions, dried tears on her face, and a tragic, profound emptiness in her glossy eyes.

—Patricia Njeri