dirty liar

this isn't what it looks like

[buttonpoetry]

Crystal Valentine - “And the News Reporter Says Jesus Is White”. Support the artist, check out the full poem here.

[buttonpoetry]

“My depression is a shapeshifter. One day it’s as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear; the next, it’s the bear.”

— Sabrina Benaim, “Explaining My Depression to My Mother”

[penitralis]

I am thinking of the pictures of his new wife when I strip

Jealousy, Lynn Marie Houston

[ithelpstodream]

[theliteraryjournals]

Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?

Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and Song of Despair

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

She was a beautiful, talented, morbid person. I think she was drunk most of the time.

Kurt Vonnegut, from Mother Night; “Last Full Measure,”

[merulae]

This is a pilgrimage after all, but in reverse. We find erasures and disheartening truths at every stop, evidence everywhere of who or what God abandoned.

Teju Cole, “Two Weeks” in Known and Strange Things

[privatebarb]

Nicki Minaj recites ‘Still I Rise’ by Maya Angelou

[lifeinpoetry]

Now, I demand a love that is stupid and beautiful, like a pilot turning off her engines mid-flight to listen for rain on wings.

Paige Lewis, from “Pavlov was the Son of a Priest” published in Ploughshares 

[nevver]

Nothing forever, Meryl Pataky

[vanish]

“So, do it. Decide. Is this the life you want to live? Is this the person you want to love? Is this the best you can be? Can you be stronger? Kinder? More Compassionate? Decide. Breathe in. Breathe out and decide.”

— Meredith Grey (via perrfectly)

[daedalians]

this is a poem called Anatomy of Grief

[wordsnquotes]

Her philosophy is carpe diem for herself, and laissez-faire for others.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

And yet there is Someone, whose hands / infinitely calm, hold up all this falling.

Rainer Maria Rilke, tr. by Robert Bly, from Selected Poems

[nataliapaints]

[cancerninja]

Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.

Bell Hooks, All About Love - New Visions 

[sometimestuesday-deactivated202]

strange relief

The story begins at the black mouth of a cave and ends with a  strange dog at the door.     With chaos.         A hotel in Tucson.  Yellow curtains on the window.           A love letter written as a question:         IF I KISS YOU, WILL YOU SUFFER?         In the jaundiced light of early morning,                Elvis is in the kitchen singing       we can’t go on together,      and Katie laughs in the porcelain tub,     drops her head under bathwater and baptizes herself.    Says: “Salvation is easy. You just have to die a little.” Same with love, mon amour.         Same with anything dazzling and useless.   The blackness beyond the reach of the lightbulb. The yellow flower patterned sheets.              Our stunned faces, pale with strange relief          when we witnessed the unraveling of all things        beautifully brief:           a love that slow dances. Holds hands when it crosses the street.        Remembers to call home.    A love killed every night.     Resurrected every morning.