that human noise

elyse. i like to write

[supercutting]

i take it as a rule of thumb: nothing will even be all for one. (summer 1/?)

[inkskinned]

i forgot for a while there that you weren’t the moon, that i was, that i have held her on my tongue in wafers before even i came undone, that i called her “my moon” until the name stuck, that my cupped hands only raise in praying for her love - i forgot what i loved was that you brought her out of me, that you amplified the wild of me, that the whole time i was seeing myself, a better version, glowing and black and sleek. don’t worry. it’s all coming back to me.

[yeshecholwa]

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down

Rimbaud (via yeshecholwa)

[redportrait]

from body of love with hands, m. mccoy // [buy my poetry] // don’t delete my caption 

[vesselsofmercy]

The silence goes violet.

Pablo Neruda, from “Five Decades: Poems 1925-1970” (via honeyfleshed)

[extraloved]

mei s

[pigmenting]

august rolls over and yawns. wakes slow and heavy, stretching like a cat. outside, the sound of birds, the smell of grass. august turns over in an empty bed. his eyes feel swollen and tired. on the nightstand, a note from july - no one carries light like you do.

[woodsaddle]

frank o’hara

[vilicity]

words by Allen Ginsberg, a letter to Jack Kerouac 

[ramonameisel]

This is how it starts: swallowed spite from hungry mouths. This is how it starts: boiled anger from voices buried in rage. This is how it starts: sucked poison from lips praying sins. This is how it starts: clenched fists from ichor in their veins. This is how it ends: bloody lips from sharp edges. This is how it ends: broken bones from crashed dreams. This is how it ends: bruised knuckles from holding on too tight. This is how it ends: pulling knives from shattered hearts.

Encore | r.m (via rmeisel)

[wrote-you-a-poem]

[petitepoesiee]

i. i draw mazes around you in my head. even when you’re far from me, i add another corner, another dead end. you never make it to the center.

ii. how many chances are too many? i daydream of you coming back and all that i would have to say to you if you ever did. i tell myself that you never will. 

iii. i sit next to you in your car. the summer air is heavy with the smell of honeysuckles, i think i might drown in it. we talk like old times. i leave feeling like the eighteen year old girl who used to dream of being yours. 

iv. how many chances are too many?

[killedink-deactivated20200913]

my heart, untied hair, and open car windows: tastes like the edge of something great like suns on my skin and scraping burning rubber to untouched asphalt roads beating to the tune of blaring stereos lotto tickets and stick and poke tattoos his touch, gone my footsteps, in sync restless endeavors from the pages of my journal birthed to life in my palms my heart, untied hair, and no restraints

we’re sailing away (me and my body)

[druzy-sunflower]

[larrydomain]

Okay, not to be fake deep or anything, but I told her that I loved her, was not sure if she heard, the roof was pretty windy and she didn’t say a word, party dying downstairs, had nothing left to do, just me, her and the moon.

[inkskinned]

if the light came down the right way it could have shone into the dark places. you said that i was an adventure you couldn’t swallow but you forgot about all the places the floorboards were rotted through. i am nothing but empty bedrooms. people move into me and mention that there’s a feeling of despair. people move into me but they never stay long enough to figure out why it’s there. i’m a haunted house, you see. good for a night and leave the next morning. i’m what gets your heartrate going but you’d never actually be with me long enough to call me a home. i mean for an adventure i feel more like a nightmare. i mean for someone who smiles a lot i’m barely even there.

[prcserpina]

this poem is called moonlight // t.e.