I try to make something beautiful of my pain, but sometimes I just have to sit with it. Sometimes all you can do is sit with it.
Yeah, this is where gargoyles come from.
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@ohno-poetry
I try to make something beautiful of my pain, but sometimes I just have to sit with it. Sometimes all you can do is sit with it.
Yeah, this is where gargoyles come from.
I tell everyone this and I mean it. Buy a journal. Carry it with you everywhere you go. And I mean everywhere. Write about your favorite moments, your least favorite moments, ideas, grocery lists, people you’ve met, strangers you’ve walked past on the street, favorite quotes, words to remember, what the sky looked like at 7pm, new songs you’ve discovered and what they mean to you, your childhood, places you want to go or places you’ve been, write about your passions, how you feel in this exact moment, draw out the mountains, scribble all over the pages. And when that one gets full, buy a new one. Reread it in 2 years, 20 years, when you need a good laugh, when you’re crying on your bathroom floor, read it to your children. You need to remember these moments in your life. They are so important.
“I should like to understand myself properly before it is too late.”
— Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea
graves grow no green that you can use.
gwendolyn brooks
“Don’t give them a taste of their own medicine. They already know what it tastes like. Give them a taste of your own medicine. If they lied, let your medicine be honesty. If they played with your emotions, let your medicine be maturity. Don’t be afraid to be yourself, even if it means removing yourself from lives that you want to be in. You are, no doubt, worthy of being valued for who you are. So be who you are.”
— Najwa Zebian
“You made flowers grow in my lungs and although they are beautiful, I can’t breathe.”
— Unknown
picking up the slender smile
you dropped. and broke. and left.
pushing up your cheeks with sticky fingers
(you no longer hear your heartbeat. gravity sleeps in your bed and combs your hair
plants heavy kisses on the back of your neck.)
you tip your head back at the party
scrape your nails across the candy wrappers
and you’re gulping: electric blue, purple hot
like the heavens you pray to.
cinnamon caramel, ribbons of heavy chocolate (burdens) tangled lemon sweetness (a gift.) you’ll be sweet to the back of your throat — words weighted and
choked down like cinnamon.
love is choking on the act of breathing
but singing every prayer.
Really? I think you’re looking to shatter heaven
tender girl, lovely girl (you’d last
one day in the forest. don’t fool yourself).
The loudest voices were always your own.
you long to be held
but don’t want to be touched.
everything is right but you.
I etch myself into you like rabbits burrow deep, and reeds make lines in stones over hundreds of years. My tears, are inaugural rains at the start of each season, flooding myself with turbulence, like the wings of unsettled geese. We are new grass, buds in May, sunrays on treetops, burnt edges of fresh toast, skin rounded like comfortable corners, juice with the lid off, freesias, oh and the other night, we were a lightning storm.
(You Know Me)
If words are too much, try sensations - salt licking the crease by your mouth, the sky vacant of stars, all heart shored up inside.
If memories are too much, try tomorrow - you feared what never happened, so thrill, now, now, now, in the possibility of heat.
You tried to strand your ship, yet, adrift, cannot sleep tonight in the beacon glare. If silence is too much - is it? - try sensations.
Somewhat akin to tiredness,
this ache soaked
into my bones,
like a sponge steeped
in alcohol.
I am numb
from the lack of
sustenance,
a nice feeling,
to be emptied out.
I am elemental,
atomic,
now I am almost nothing.
Thin as a breeze,
as a nightgown barely covering,
slight like silk,
maybe even
only, a puff of air.
They describe it as gnawing,
these pains,
this deep knowing,
that I could be half
of me.
I foraged within myself,
among the new green
of budding leaves
and found the twigs of disaster
that I hung my reflection upon.
And the hoarded parts of me,
that desired more and more.
I rummaged within
and found myself
lessened like cotton candy
after one small bite.
What if I was happier to sate
this clambering hunger
with cream drunk
love.
I cannot.
My ribs rise and fall
to the beat of denial
and dissolution,
evaporation,
as though
we are
only clouds.
Get ready with me
On a subatomic level
Let’s follow the trail of wild flowers
Desiccated and forgotten
In the pages of time
Tearing through us
Until we get to the good bit
The end bit
Where you tell me that I’m loved
And it finally sinks in
And no longer will I be
The plastic dancer in your jewellery box
But a fully realised human being
With a backstory
And motives of my own
And I’ll start doing skin care
And I’ll start planting flowers
In the misbegotten garden
Which isn’t choked by weeds
They are holding space for me
Which is a kindness everybody deserves
When they’re moving forward slowly
Like I’m moving forward slowly
Cautious as a secret
Each day a doll step more
🫵 it is your obligation to read more poetry & create more poetry 🫵
Tony Hoagland, from Application for Release from the Dream; “The Complex Sentence”
Astronomers Locate a New Planet
Matthew Olzmann
“Because it is so dense, scientists calculate the carbon must be crystalline, so a large part of this strange world will effectively be diamond.”
—Reuters, 8/24/2011
Like the universe’s largest engagement ring, it twirls
and sparkles its way through infinity.
The citizens of the new world know about luxury.
They can live for a thousand years.
Their hearts are little clocks
with silver pendulums pulsing inside,
Eyes like onyx, teeth like pearl.
But it’s not always easy. They know hunger.
They starve. A field made of diamond
is impossible to plow; shovels crumble and fold
like paper animals. So frequent is famine,
that when two people get married,
one gives the other a locket filled with dirt.
That’s the rare thing, the treasured thing, there.
It takes decades to save for,
but the ground beneath them glows,
and people find a way.
On Earth, when my wife is sleeping,
I like to look out at the sky.
I like to watch TV shows about supernovas,
and contemplate things that are endless
like the heavens and, maybe, love.
I can drink coffee and eat apples whenever I want.
Things grow everywhere, and so much is possible,
but on the news tonight: a debate about who
can love each other forever and who cannot.
There was a time when it would’ve been illegal
for my wife to be my wife. Her skin,
my household of privilege. Sometimes,
I wish I could move to another planet.
Sometimes, I wonder what worlds are out there.
I turn off the TV because the news rarely makes
the right decision on its own. But even as the room
goes blacker than the gaps between galaxies,
I can hear the echoes: who is allowed to hold
the ones they wish to hold, who can reach
into the night, who can press his or her
own ear against another’s chest and listen
to a heartbeat telling stories in the dark.
And if someday the uncertainty of this world becomes too overwhelming, I hope you remember that some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved, they’re meant to be lived.
Sundays are the worst