tell the truth, and there will be a witness.

a collection of my fragmented thoughts main acc: thriftdyke

[beguines]

Mark Conway, Any Holy City

[lantern-hill]

oh dorianne laux we're really in it now

[sonnet66]

father figuring

[kink blogs do not interact]

[justkidding12345]

-untitled//scarycountry

[justkidding12345]

-untitled//scarycountry

[justkidding12345]

-ghost//scarycountry

[justkidding12345]

-raw//scarycountry

[justkidding12345]

-untitled//scarycountry

[poemsbymary]

[poemsbymary]

the train tracks

it is dark and there’s a storm coming and you are alone on the road

and the music blares your favorite song and you’re singing and for a moment,

you feel this unstoppable power.

the night sky flashes with electricity, and the thrumming pulse of the rainclouds

matches your own.

you are alive, and just for a second do you feel it, do you catch a glimpse of what that means,

of the gravity that pulls

the matching storm inside you.

and here your turn comes, but you keep driving

straight ahead, foot on the pedal pushing faster, faster

what would happen, you wonder briefly, if you just kept going?

if you chased that pulse in your veins to the ends of the earth,

and just drove,

just rode that impossible road

to freedom

and never came back?

but you’ll turn around at the train tracks, you tell yourself

head back home for the night before the rain comes.

but here are the tracks

and you don’t stop,

just keep pushing

faster and faster you are alive you are alive

you are alive and this is your song

and if life were a song, this is where it would end

with you singing along on the slick wet road

driving into the heart of the storm.

but the truth is, the song didn’t end that way

and the truth is, life never fades to black when it should

with everything perfectly and poetically ambiguous,

did you catch the symbolism of the road?

and the storm, and the song,

what is freedom,

the questions left unanswered,

so poignantly said.

no, the truth is life

is the rough draft you never get to edit,

and the truth is the ending

leaves nothing to the imagination,

and the truth is that

you turned around at the train tracks.

the truth is you do not end where you should and

you made your way back home.

the truth is the song ended

a long time ago.

but you kept going

and you kept going

and you kept going.

[sweet-marie]

franz wright

[weltenwellen]

Audre Lorde, from “A Litany for Survival”, The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde

[exhaled-spirals]

— Pat Schneider, “The Patience of Ordinary Things”, from Another River: New and Selected Poems 

[harunohini]

[text ID: It is a kind of love, is it not? How the cup holds the tea, How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare, How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes Or toes. How soles of feet know Where they’re supposed to be. I’ve been thinking about the patience Of ordinary things, how clothes Wait respectfully in closets And soap dries quietly in the dish, And towels drink the wet From the skin of the back. And the lovely repetition of stairs. And what is more generous than a window? /end ID]

[brutalistarchitecture2]

[wearealsoboats]

Here is what they don’t tell you:

Icarus laughed as he fell. Threw his head back and yelled into the winds, arms spread wide, teeth bared to the world.

(There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring.)

The wax scorched his skin, ran blazing trails down his back, his thighs, his ankles, his feet. Feathers floated like prayers past his fingers, close enough to snatch back. Death breathed burning kisses against his shoulders, where the wings joined the harness. The sun painted everything in shades of gold.

(There is a certain beauty in setting the world on fire and watching from the centre of the flames.)

[goreprofonde]

- Yves Olade, Bloodsport.

[lunchboxpoems]

CAMILLE RANKINE