everyone thinks they're a poet these days and thank god for that

ellievsbear
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

Kaledo Art

JVL
Show & Tell
No title available
Cosmic Funnies
Game of Thrones Daily
occasionally subtle

JBB: An Artblog!

Love Begins
hello vonnie

Origami Around

★
styofa doing anything
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
One Nice Bug Per Day
Mike Driver
Not today Justin
🪼
seen from Türkiye
seen from Brazil
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Tunisia
seen from Bolivia

seen from Syria

seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from Tunisia
seen from Bangladesh

seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Indonesia
seen from United States
@poeticsoftheheart
everyone thinks they're a poet these days and thank god for that
If things are going bad in your life the most important thing you can do is fixate on a era of your life you can never return to. It is really important to romanticize it and remember it so incorrectly that it’s more of a false idol for worship than a memory. No one has ever successfully returned to the idealized past but you will be the first to succeed. You will succeed you simply must recreate a false and limping facsimile of who you were back then. You must ignore your beautiful opportunities to live your present life. It is important to unbury a peaceful corpse and climb inside it. I promise it will feel just as good as you remember.
I wrote a eulogy
"I wrote a eulogy for my best friend last week. Then I read it to him. At the pub. On a Tuesday."
He was alive, holding a pint, looking at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I have.
I'm Mick. I'm 70. The man across the table was Barry. Seventy-two. Best mate for 46 years. Met on a building site in 1979. He dropped a plank on my foot. I called him something unrepeatable. He bought me a pint after the shift. Haven't gone a week without talking since.
Three months ago we went to a funeral. Bloke we'd worked with. Cancer. The eulogies were beautiful - people saying what he meant to them, things they'd clearly never said to his face. And all I could think was, he can't hear any of this.
Every beautiful sentence. Every "he changed my life." Said to a room of crying people and a box of wood.
I turned to Barry. Whispered, "What a waste."
Drove home. Couldn't sleep. Because I realised, if Barry died tomorrow, I'd stand up and say extraordinary things about this man. Things I've never said in 46 years. And he'd be in the box, missing all of it.
So I wrote them down. Took a week. Harder than expected - not finding the words, but admitting I had them.
Rang him. "Tuesday. The Crown. Need to read you something."
"Have you joined a book club?"
"Just come."
Same corner table. Pint of bitter. Crisps. I pulled out the paper. He saw my hands shake.
"Mick. What's this?"
"Your eulogy. I'm reading it now because I'm not wasting it on a day you can't hear it."
"Have you gone mad?"
"Probably. Shut up and listen."
I read it. In a pub. To a man very much alive and very much uncomfortable.
I told him about the plank and how it was the best injury of my life. About the night he drove forty minutes in rain to help change a tyre. About how he rang every day for three months after my divorce and never once asked "Are you alright?" - just talked about football and weather, because he knew I didn't need a question. I needed a voice.
I told him he was the funniest man I'd ever known and his jokes were terrible and both things were true. That he'd been a better father than he thinks. That his wife's a saint and he knows it. That I'd have been a worse man without him.
He didn't look at me. Stared at his pint. Jaw tight. Doing that thing men do when the feelings arrive and they'd rather swallow glass than show it.
When I finished, long silence. Then he picked up his pint, took a sip, and said,
"You're paying for the next round. And the one after."
That was his answer. Perfect. Because Barry doesn't say "I love you too." He says "you're buying."
But in the car park, he hugged me. Not the quick back-pat. A real one. Thirty seconds. Neither let go first.
And he said quietly into my shoulder, "Don't read that again at the real one. I want new material."
Who would you write a eulogy for - while they're still here?
Don't wait. The flowers can't hear. The box doesn't laugh. Say it now. At the pub. Over a bad cup of tea. You'll feel ridiculous.
They'll look uncomfortable. It'll be the most important thing you've ever done.
Read them the speech while they can still hug you in the car park.”
.
My therapist forgot your name. Here’s hoping one day I can do the same.
still caring about internet friends you lost touch with years ago is so embarrassing. yeah i had a deam we met up irl recently. the last time we spoke was maybe 7-8 years ago. i still wear the laces we randomly decided was a sign of our friendship. i dont know what any of your socials are or if youre even active on any. sometimes i see someones art resemble yours and i wonder for hours. do you still go by that name you chose? whenever i see it i wonder if its you. we couldve passed each other in this vastness a thousand times and not have a clue.
we were lonely kids having fun together. do you remember?
@thatacefrog @luciluck2046
I am so, so happy that I am alive and I get to love everyone I love. My life has never felt brighter
It kind of fucks with me that somebody killed ötzi the iceman because ötzi himself is like whatever but the silent presence of human hands that drew back the string of the bow that shot the arrow that killed him is crazy. the idea that there were various people involved in that situation and while one of them has had his last hours painstakingly reconstructed and studied to no end, the others now only exist insofar that an arrowhead had to get into his shoulder somehow. imagine killing someone and then suddenly your entire existence is only a vague shadow implied by the fact that you killed them. much to consider
Testing the mummified bone marrow of ötzi to figure out his ancestry whole time there’s definitely another person, maybe more than one, standing in the room with us but I can never see or speak to them because I only know them through the assurance that they were there too in the form of one single arrowhead. I hate prehistory so much it’s unreal
I hate it too tbh
sorry for romanticizing the mundane but the fact that laughter is infectious is so incredible to me. like yeah it's just a reaction to stimuli but the way it feels to hear someone laugh and feel yourself compelled to share that joy is really something. and it's so simple and requires no skill but it's so special and important to me.
we've got a life to love living.
advice that has literally saved and improved my life
I used to be so miserable and now I’m not and I think that this, too, is a kind of grief
Molting is painful
I used to be so miserable and now I’m not and I think that this, too, is a kind of grief
also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.
the beauty of life
- // @fairycosmos // ? // - // @cassidyshotchocolate // - // - // elsie de wolfe// @podencos // afternoon on a hill, edna st. vincent millay// rien ne va plus, margarita karapanou, tr. by karen emmerich// - // - // @ annalauraart on instagram// culpable, joy sullivan// - // @ jordanklancaster on instagram// @ niall.breen.comics on instagram// agatha christie// @plasticlove1984 //sweeter than fiction, taylor swift// the summer day, mary oliver
I closed a show today so I need to wax poetic about live theatre for a moment.
We get so good at doing something so specific and then we never do it again. Day in and day out, the same steps to the same dance, going through the motions, changing little to none. And then one day, it just stops. And nothing afterward can ever be the same. We escape the time loop, so to speak. The show ends for the final time. The curtain closes and when it opens again, there’s something else behind it. New faces, new words, a new world to get stuck in. A new story to repeat a hundred times over. Only when it closes do any of the lessons stick.
another show for the history books. goodnight, Echo. what a wild ride it has been.
Be yourself so ppl looking for u can find u